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