Gasping in the dusty air, Cyrus collapsed into a heap on the ground. Scraps of armour clattered to the floor, bouncing in all directions like frisbees. Straining his arms and legs, he flopped onto his back. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Time ticked by. Hours passed yet the Decanus remained still and unmoving. If not for the rhythmic thump of his heart, any doctor would have deemed him dead long ago.
A storm raged inside of him, unstoppable in its pursuit of death. Self-pity and guilt erupted like a volcano, bursting through the confines of his memories like rabid dogs smelling fresh meat. The spinning tornado of suicide dragged the two ailments into its deadly, pitch-black mist. The clouds grew tainted, bearing traces of red and ocean blue. Steamrolling through the internal organs, into the lungs and up the trachea, the typhoon surged towards the brain.
The lungs were drenched in that tar-like substance, siphoning thin, weak strings of oxygen into the corrupted bloodstream. Cyrus's breathing sped up, growing more and more ragged by the second. A hollow whistle escaped his throat with every breath as if his neck was a tibia. His lungs had seized up.
The black storm clouds cared for nothing but death, craved it like a gladiator addicted to hallucinogens.
Upon reaching the command centre of the body, it sent out its shadowy tendrils to prod and poke the brain, leaving dead flesh wherever they touched. The spinning cone of death flared its tendrils, launching hundreds of thousands of its cirruses at the oversized walnut. The black noodles enclosed Cyrus's brain like a burial shroud upon the deceased. Beneath the black coat, two mirror consciousnesses, one black and one white clashed in a duel of life and death.
Cyrus's eyes fluttered, gazing upon nothing but endless grey. He leapt to his feet in one fluid motion, instinctively drawing his gladius and scutum. He looked at his hands in shock. The familiar weight of steel plating from the Lorica Segmentata gently pressed down on his shoulders. The curved plate fit tightly on his muscles, massaging them, soothing them of their stress and anxiety like the hands of a loving mother. As he bathed in the comfort of familiarity, safety and protection, he heard a voice.
YOUR SOUL IS UNDER THE EFFECTS OF [SOUL TRAP]! -100% Physical Stats -100% intelligence stats until the attack has ceased or succeeded! [NEGATED ~ Character sheet inaccessible!]
YOU ARE UNDER THE EFFECT OF [SOUL DUELLING GROUND]! You gain the usage of your stats and skills! [Due to the inaccessibility of your character sheet, you have been distributed set stats and skill levels based on your memories!]
Turning around, his hands jittered and shook. Sweat dripped down his nose. Cyrus's eyes were two large saucers, almost popping from their sockets.
A Roman centurion stood a dozen meters away, wearing the same armour he had worn on his last day on earth, the same helmet, the same gauntlets and boots. That man was a mirror image of himself yet...it wasn't him. His imposter's eyes were red, casting a demonic glow upon a marred face. The scars of previous battles were there but twisted as if not blood but tar had sealed the wound closed. His mouth gurgled with that same black substance, dribbling down his chin and onto the armour like blood. The centurion's fingertips weren't half circles but elongated triangles with long nails curving down and inwards to form a claw.
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A grainy, jarring "Hello me," spluttered from the demonic mimic, "it's finally good to see you in person!" Cyrus's jaw lowered in shock, "i-i-in p-person?!" "Don't you remember me? I'm wounded," the voice cooed in a sickening tone, "I was the one that organised that organised all your lil' excursions to your past, or my past, I should say... I am the one that ensured your dreams were pleasant and filled with adventure."
The former centurion's face contorted with rage. His vision turned red. All he saw was that twisted monstrosity, envisioning his hand constricting the thing's throat and seeing the spark of life slowly whittle to ashes in its ruby pupils. Cyrus charged.
The nightmare version merely smiled cruelly, a downward arc that surpassed the limits of muscle movement, stretching from ear to ear. A perversion of nature. The grin held no warmth nor joy but a dread born from the depths of the underworld, forged in hellfire and quenched in the river Styx. It was the smile of a sociopath. "Let's dance, I have one last gift to give you!" The devil in human clothing drew his sword in one fluid motion.
There was red. Rage, the solution created from a mixture of hatred and fear, had been spilled all over Cyrus's brain. The roman senselessly charged towards the opponent, uncaring of forms or strategy. The human instincts born from decades of survival were consumed by flames, replaced by the animalistic urge to kill. He went berserk.
You are under the effects of [Berserk]! +50% Stats - 75% Intelligence Stats until effect ceases
Watching the angry bull in roman armour rushing towards him, the evil Cyrus sneered in disdain, "typical!" Using his red shield like a red flag, the monster gently brushed the Decanus aside. The blade winked. Drops of red splattered upon the grey floor. A small cut had been inflicted upon the berserker, the wound a thin red line visible through a slim gap between the armour plates. The rage-filled man rushed in once more, swinging his gladius like a club. Another glimmer of steel. More blood dripped onto the floor.
The sharp pain jolted Cyrus out of his rage state.
[Berserk] status has been removed!
Upon self-realisation, the dungeon core hurriedly resumed a close-guard position with the Scutum facing the enemy, the Gladius perpendicular to the shield height.
Round two had begun.
Marching at a slow but steady pace, Cyrus cautiously approached his corrupted twin. Sweat flooded from his pores, soaking his underclothes. Closer and closer he got. The monster stood still, head cocked to the side as if assessing his worthiness. "Your stance is as perfect as ever," the thing chuckled drily, "a pity it wouldn't save you from death."
The roman's face blanched. All colour fled his face, leaving a pale, bleached white husk. He blustered, "Y-YOU WOULDN'T DARE KILL ME! I AM THE ORIGINAL!" The monster picked his nails casually, not sparing his opponent a single glance, "So? The old is replaced by the new, a divine law that transcends even the gods' reach. Consuls replaced kings. Gladiuses replaced short swords. This is the circle of life." The demon's voice grew dark, slimy and grating.
Prepare to die.
Cyrus's heart stuttered, missing a beat.