Outside the core chamber, deep within the shifting hellscape of the dungeon’s final zone, chaos reigned.
The heat was blistering.
The air vibrated with pulses of ambient mana so thick it felt like swimming through syrup.
Smoke wafted in curling sheets along shattered stone corridors, and above them, the sky—a simulated projection of so otherworldly sun—bled red as if mirroring the fate of the dungeon.
Four silhouettes stood surrounded by debris and glowing cracks in the earth: Zhark the Thunder, Fraven the Telekinetic, Keith the Strategist, and Shania the Phantom Blade.
And they were struggling.
In front of them floated a figure both familiar and uncanny—the clone of Elius, manifested again. It was silent. Faceless. And yet, it radiated the sa aura as before: detached cruelty, endless precision, and maddening pressure.
It floated two feet off the ground, utterly still.
But five swords hovered around it in a deadly orbit—the sa sword-controlling technique Elius had used during the entrance ceremony—and they moved like reapers.
Their edges glimred with cold bloodlust.
They sliced through the air with a high-pitched screech, weaving intricate and horrifying patterns around the group.
"Dammit!" Zhark roared, lightning crackling across his fists, only to leap backward as one of the flying swords narrowly missed cleaving off his arm. "It’s like this thing got stronger!"
"No," Keith grunted, his eyes narrowed behind cracked glasses. "It’s just not holding back this ti."
Fraven’s hands glowed violet as he hurled a massive boulder toward the clone, telekinetically compressed from nearby rubble. It was fast, spinning like a disc. But one of the swords instantly intercepted it—CRACK—splitting the massive stone chunk into two with a lazy swipe.
The clone didn’t even move.
The three others ducked, scattered, dodged. The swords adjusted with terrifying coordination.
"Cover !" Shania shouted, lting into smoke just before a blade passed through where she had stood. She reappeared behind the clone—silent, fast—but the sword closest to her changed course mid-spin, forcing her back into mist.
She cursed and regrouped.
"There’s no end to this," she hissed. "It’s not even fighting like a person. It’s... more like a machine."
And it was.
The clone, unlike before, was now clearly programd—an artificial consciousness left behind. A defense chanism. Its job: prevent anyone from activating the cube gates that led out of the dungeon.
It wasn’t trying to kill them.
Just stop them.
But that didn’t an it wasn’t dangerous.
It was—imnsely.
The longer they fought, the clearer it beca.
Every movent was more efficient than the last. Every dodge they made was logged. Every power they used, analyzed. The clone was learning. Evolving. Each mistake punished. Every attempt to reach the control cube—intercepted.
Zhark charged again, lightning bursting from his arms, launching a devastating Thunderstep Punch. His entire body blurred, leaving afterimages as he went for a direct strike to the clone’s chest.
CLANG—!!!
He hit.
Or thought he did.
But the mont his fist made contact, three of the clone’s swords rotated in perfect sequence—one blocked the blow, one slashed his arm, and the third nearly impaled his thigh.
Zhark crashed backward, blood spraying, his breath ragged.
Keith cursed and leapt forward, throwing three miniature crystals to the ground. They exploded in a flash of light and sound—deception runes—and he instantly took on the appearance of Fraven, floating several inches above the ground with violet energy tendrils.
The clone’s attention flickered.
Fraven, real Fraven, took the cue.
His eyes glowed with a powerful radiance as he raised both arms, gravity intensifying in all directions. Massive telekinetic force swept the floor, hurling debris, dead swords, broken columns—all toward the clone like a hurricane of destruction.
But again—
SHNK—SHNK—SHNK—!!!
The clone sliced through everything. Even the columns were cut in half as if they were butter.
Fraven paled. "Nothing’s working!"
"That’s not true," Keith said, voice low. "I think it can’t track illusions. Not perfectly."
Shania’s eyes lit up.
And then—plan.
They moved as one.
Shania vanished. In her place, a dozen illusionary versions of herself flickered into the air—so visible, so distorted, so layered with thick shadow magic. They darted around the battlefield like haunting spirits, each one bearing her signature twin knives.
The clone’s swords hesitated.
For the first ti, the orbit faltered.
Now was the mont.
Keith, still wearing Fraven’s appearance, charged from the front with reckless abandon, shouting a war cry that wasn’t his style at all. The clone focused instantly on the fake Fraven—calculating that his gravity control might pose a threat.
Three swords moved to intercept.
That was the bait.
The real Fraven, from the right side, lifted every loose stone in a fifty-foot radius. The debris hovered, trembling, forming a massive hamrhead. With a violent scream, he hurled it forward.
The swords intercepted again—two blades slicing the rock hamr into powder.
But this ti...
That’s what they wanted.
From beneath the dust—Keith, now unrecognizable under a projection of Shania’s appearance, leapt up.
His fist ignited with shockwave bracers and kinetic qi.
And punched.
Directly into the clone’s face.
The crack was monuntal.
The clone’s head tilted back. Its body spun violently, crashing into a wall. Two of its flying swords lost orbit for half a second.
And that—was all they needed.
"THE CUBE—NOW!" Keith shouted.
Fraven slamd his hand into the stone pedestal just behind the clone, where the control crystal glowed with dormant energy.
His telekinesis surged, activating the ancient glyphs.
The dungeon shook.
A blast of light exploded from the control panel, and the cube at its core pulsed with golden runes—fluttering with complex symbols, spinning and locking into place.
BZZZZZZZTTTTTT—!!
The dinsional gate opened.
The path to exit.
And behind them, the clone twitched—its faceless head realigning as if ready to rise again.
Too late.
The activation process surged, light devouring the room.
And then—
a seal descended.
An enormous barrier of shimring geotric lines locked around the clone, holding it in place. Its floating swords clashed against the barrier—but they couldn’t pass. The seal had been designed only for it.
And within the dinsional realm—
Elius was now trapped.
The four stood panting, exhausted, bruised, but alive.
Zhark fell to one knee, holding his gashed side.
Keith leaned against the cube’s pedestal, breathing hard.
Shania returned to physical form, sweat dripping from her brow.
Fraven wiped blood from his lip, looking down at his trembling hands.
"...We did it," he whispered.
For now, the clone was sealed.
The exit open.
And Elius, inside the core of the dungeon... was now cut off from them—isolated with whatever horror the Pantheon had sent to destroy him.
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