Mirai staggered to his feet, his limbs heavy, his vision blurred by the steady stream of blood trickling down from his temple. His body screamed in protest, but he gripped his sword tighter, bracing himself against each brutal clash of steel. Every impact drove his heels deeper into the loose, uneven soil, anchoring him as he fought to keep his balance. Around him, his enemies formed a ruthless circle—no escape, nowhere to hide. Only the hulking figure before him filled his vision.
"Where the hell is he–" Mirai hissed under his breath, his eyes darting around, seeking a gap, any gap, as he shuffled back to create space.
The man before him smirked, his steps unhurried yet deliberate as he drew closer, a soft chuckle rumbling from his throat. "Tired already?" he taunted, his voice laced with contempt. "Or are you just trying to buy time?"
Mirai's jaw clenched at the remark, his grip tightening on his blade until the faint squeal of metal on leather filled his ears. But before he could even ready himself, the man vanished in a blur—a flash step too fast to follow—and then, a sharp, punishing crack as the back edge of his katana struck Mirai's chin. His head snapped back, and he tasted copper. Staggering, he fought to stay upright, even as he realized his opponent was toying with him, savoring every second of his suffering.
"Well then, let's make this interesting!" The man's laughter rang out, harsh and mocking. "Show me your true self, if you have one! I dare you!"
Mirai fought to keep his vision from blurring, his mind swimming from the force of the blow. His opponent's voice echoed around him, each word heavy with scorn. "What an unfortunate soul you are," the man sneered. "Wielding such a weak demon blade that even a boundless can break!"
The man lunged forward, his katana slicing through the air with deadly precision. Mirai barely managed to raise his own blade in time, and the two swords met with a thunderous clash.
Sparks ignited between them, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning metal, as if the blades themselves were angry. The force sent Mirai stumbling back, feet dragging through the dirt, and before he could recover, a sharp knee drove into his gut. Pain exploded through his core, his breath snatched from his lungs. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his pupils blown wide from the shock.
"That's it–" The man's voice was laced with dark delight as he grabbed a fistful of Mirai's hair, yanking him close, forcing him to meet his cold, gleeful stare. "Go on—call for help. Cry out if you must."
Dizzy and numb from pain, Mirai forced his blade up, flipping it in his trembling grip. He slashed upward with a desperate surge of strength, the last he could muster. But his opponent sidestepped, dodging with a chilling ease, leaving Mirai's stomach churning. The sheer force of the strike, however, tore through the air itself, a tempest unleashed.
The wind howled as it spiraled outward, cutting down the soldiers who encircled them in a gruesome display, as if his desperation had given the wind itself a bloodlust.
Mirai's knees gave way, and he crumpled to the ground, his vision swimming in and out, each breath shallow and ragged. His body slumped forward as he tried, futilely, to push himself up, the crushing weight of his injuries rendering him immobile, pinned by agony.
"Are you at your limit?" the man sneered, looming over Mirai like a predator savoring the end. He lowered his blade, ready to strike. "Get up, or would you rather die like a dog at my heel?"
Mirai looked up, eyes bleary, and tried to brace himself. His arms shook, knees weak, but every attempt to stand was met with his own collapse, body failing him over and over. His opponent watched with a sneer of contempt as Mirai clawed pathetically at the ground, his fingers trembling as he struggled to rise, only to fall back again in a helpless display of defiance that drained him further.
"Very well then," the man taunted, drawing his sword back, eyes gleaming with the thrill of his impending victory. "It's clear that you can't go on any longer."
The crowd of onlookers couldn't bear to watch. Faces turned away, eyes shut tightly, unwilling to witness the blade's descent upon their broken hero.
But then—clang! The ring of clashing steel pierced the air, followed by a sudden, fierce gust as flames erupted across the battlefield. The man staggered back, his eyes wide, surprised—and exhilarated. He grinned as he looked up, his gaze locking on the figure above.
Hovering mid-air in a swirl of flames and smoke was Mirai, his eyes cold and unyielding, his face stripped of hesitation. His very presence seemed to burn as fiercely as the fires around him. In one fluid motion, he landed, stepping before his fallen self, the shattered remnants of his opponent's blade at his feet. His own sword gleamed, unbroken, radiating a formidable aura.
Mirai's gaze flickered with a fierce resolve as he locked eyes with his clone, a being of his own essence and determination. The clone's presence was more than a shadow; it pulsed with a distinct aura, emanating a quiet strength that mirrored Mirai's own. The two stood side by side, their blades gleaming with a dark, potent energy, as if even the weapons understood the gravity of the impending clash.
The samurai surrounding them tightened their stances, sensing the lethal harmony between Mirai and his clone. The murmurs of the onlookers grew tense and uncertain, their gazes fixed on the uncanny double, on Mirai's unwavering expression. His body hummed with power, his muscles coiled and ready as he took a step forward, signaling the start of the fight.
Without a word, Mirai and his clone charged, their movements synchronized with an eerie precision. They moved like two halves of a single, unstoppable force, weaving through the ring of samurai in a dance of seamless strikes. Their blades cut through the air with lethal grace, each swing carrying the weight of Mirai's will. Together, they became a storm, an unstoppable force crashing through the ranks of their foes.
One samurai lunged at Mirai's back, his blade aimed with deadly intent, but before he could land a strike, the clone intercepted, blocking the attack with a fierce upward slash. The clone's blade met the enemy's with a resounding clash, and with a swift, brutal twist, it forced the enemy's weapon to the ground, leaving the samurai defenseless. Mirai followed up with a precise thrust, ending the fight with a single, decisive blow.
Around them, the remaining samurai hesitated, their confidence faltering. Mirai's clone spun to face the next wave, meeting each enemy head-on, its vitality unwavering as it mirrored Mirai's every move. They struck with brutal efficiency, never wasting a movement, each step a calculated advance that left no room for counterattack. Blood splattered the ground, mingling with the dust kicked up by their relentless assault.
One of the enemy warriors, trembling as he watched his comrades fall, took a cautious step back. But before he could retreat, Mirai's clone flickered into existence right before him, blocking his escape. A single, powerful swing, and the warrior crumpled to the ground, his blade shattered. The onlookers gasped, realizing there was no safe distance from Mirai or his clone; they would hunt down every last opponent within that circle.