Pain was an old friend, but this was a fresh, biting agony that made my vision swim. My crystal replica stood over me, a monument to my own self-doubt, its staff raised for the final blow. It thought it had won. It thought that by breaking my body, it had broken my spirit.
How little it knew me.
"See?" it whispered, its voice my own, but cold and victorious. "In the end, even you can break yourself."
A low, guttural laugh escaped my lips, a sound that was half-sob, half-snarl. "Break me?" I spat, pushing myself up on one elbow, my shattered knee screaming in protest. "You stupid, perfect little doll. You can't break what was never whole."
Its empty, faceted eyes widened in confusion. It had expected tears, surrender. It had expected the broken girl from the orphanage. It hadn't expected the monster.
My madness, the beautiful, chaotic storm that the labyrinth had tried to use against me, was not a weakness. It was my greatest weapon. And a logical, perfect copy of me could never truly understand the power of pure, unadulterated insanity.
With a roar that was torn from the depths of my soul, I lunged forward, not with my staff, but with my body. I ignored the blinding pain in my leg and threw myself at my crystal twin, wrapping my arms around its torso. It tried to bring its staff down, but I was too close. We tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
"If I'm going down," I screamed into its impassive face, "I'm taking you with me!"
I did the one thing it would never predict. I opened my mouth and sank my teeth into its crystalline shoulder.
It was like biting into a diamond. A starburst of pain exploded in my jaw, but I didn't let go. I bit down harder, my rage and madness giving me a strength that defied logic. A crack, fine as a spider's thread, appeared in the crystal. Then another.
My replica shrieked, a sound of pure, synthetic panic. It dropped its staff and tried to push me away, but I held on, my teeth grinding, the taste of ozone and my own blood filling my mouth. It was a perfect copy of my strength, but it could not replicate my capacity for self-destruction. It was programmed for victory, for survival. I was programmed for chaos.
With a final, desperate surge of strength, I twisted my head. The crystal of its shoulder gave way with a sound like a thousand tiny bells shattering at once. The replica screamed again as its arm detached, dissolving into a cloud of glittering dust.
I scrambled back, spitting out crystal shards and blood. My replica stared in horror at its empty shoulder socket, its perfect form now violated, broken. Its composure shattered. It was no longer a mirror. It was just a broken toy.
I snatched my staff from the floor. Using it as a crutch, I dragged myself to my feet, my broken leg screaming. I stood over my cowering, one-armed twin, a wild, bloody grin spreading across my face.
"My turn," I whispered.
I raised the staff high and brought it down, again and again, smashing the beautiful, perfect thing into a million glittering pieces until nothing was left but a pile of sparkling dust.
The invisible walls of my cage dissolved with a final, soft chime. I was free. I stood there, panting, leaning heavily on my staff, my body a symphony of pain. But I was victorious. I looked around. The others were still trapped, fighting their own battles. Dante was locked in a silent, deadly dance with his own shadow-wielding copy. Erica was a raging inferno, trying to burn down her own reflection.
How boring.
I was the first one done. Of course, I was. I was the strongest. A wave of profound, weary boredom washed over me. Now what? I couldn't interfere. I couldn't help Dante. I could only watch. I limped over to a quiet corner of the chamber, sat down with my back against a crystal tree, and began to idly trace patterns in the pile of dust that used to be my other self. The waiting was always the worst part.
[Dante's Pov]
My duplicate was a perfect opponent. It stood opposite me, its face a mask of cold, analytical calm that I knew so well. When I summoned my puppets, it summoned its own. A crystal Orc Champion met my shadowy one, their blows shaking the very floor of our cage. A crystal Derek, wreathed in a shimmering, rainbow light, clashed with my crimson-tinged Juggernaut. Our Guardians raised their shields, our Deceivers filled the space with phantom images, and our Corruptors began to seep their spectral poisons.
It was a perfect stalemate. Every command I gave, it countered. Every strategy I employed, it predicted. It was like playing chess against a mirror. For every piece I sacrificed, it sacrificed its own, maintaining a perfect, infuriating equilibrium. We were locked in a battle of attrition, and since we shared the same mana pool, it was a battle that could last for eternity.
But my replica had a fatal flaw. It was a perfect copy of me, yes. But it was a copy of the me who had entered the labyrinth. It possessed my knowledge, my memories, my ruthless logic. But it did not possess the Ring of the Maelstrom.
That was my ace.
I let the stalemate continue, my mind racing, searching for the perfect moment. The crystal me was focused entirely on the battle of our puppets, on the grand, necromantic strategy. It was a battle of intellect, and it expected me to fight it on those terms. It did not expect me to cheat.
I sacrificed my Guardian. I sent it on a suicidal charge, drawing the attention of the crystal Orc Champion and the crystal Derek. My replica, following the cold logic of a favorable trade, pressed the advantage, sending its own Juggernaut to help finish my puppet. For a brief moment, three of its most powerful pieces were clustered together, focused on a single point.
That was the opening.
I didn't give a verbal command. I simply touched the ring on my finger. I didn't try to create a massive whirlpool. I didn't need one. I focused on a single point on the crystal floor, directly beneath the three clustered crystal puppets. I poured a small, focused burst of mana into the ring, not to create water, but to create a violent, explosive vortex of pure kinetic force.
The crystal floor erupted. A miniature, invisible maelstrom of pure power, no bigger than a shield, tore upward. It was not an attack my replica could have predicted, because it was not an attack born of my necromancy. It was born of a tool my replica did not possess.
The three crystal puppets, caught completely by surprise, were thrown into the air. Their crystalline forms, rigid and brittle, could not withstand the violent, twisting force. They shattered in mid-air, dissolving into a cloud of glittering dust before they even hit the ground.
My replica stared, its analytical calm finally breaking. It had lost three of its most powerful assets in an instant, to a move it could not comprehend. Its perfect strategy was in ruins.
"An unforeseen variable," I said, a cold smile touching my lips. "It is always the key to victory."
The rest was a simple, brutal cleanup. My remaining puppets, now outnumbering his, tore through his last two summons. I stood back and watched as my Orc Champion, my Juggernaut, and my Corruptor cornered the crystal Dante. It tried to fight, but it was a commander without an army. My Orc Champion's shadow axe came down, and my perfect, logical twin was reduced to a pile of shimmering fragments.
The walls of my cage dissolved. I stood alone, panting from the mental exertion. I looked around. The other cages were still shimmering. Erica was still fighting. Talia was still a blur of motion. Edgar was locked in a desperate struggle.
I was the first.
A surge of pure, unadulterated pride washed over me. I had faced myself and won, not through brute force, but through superior intellect and the cunning use of my assets. I was the one who had solved the puzzle first. The wish, the ultimate prize, felt closer than ever. I was the one who deserved it.
Just as I was savoring my victory, another cage dissolved. I turned to see Edgar stumble out, clutching his arm. His crystal replica lay in shattered pieces behind him. He was bleeding from a deep gash on his forehead and his breathing was ragged, but he was alive. He had won.
He looked over at me, his eyes wide with relief and pain. He saw me standing there, unharmed, victorious. A look of pure, reverent awe spread across his face.
"Dante," he breathed. "You… you finished already?"
I looked at him. I looked at his wounds, at his exhaustion, at the unwavering, pathetic loyalty in his eyes. He was a good soldier. A good tool. And now, he was a wounded one. Vulnerable.
A great, genuine smile spread across my face. How wonderfully convenient.