Takeshi perched on a high ledge, gun leveled at the spot where he was certain his opponent would appear. When he saw the Perfect Worker sprinting straight at him—seemingly guided by some sixth sense—he fired a charged bullet, all or nothing. It was the same mindset he used whenever he gambled or bought a new company: go big or go home. The bullet tore through the air, hurtling toward its target. But just as it reached him, the Perfect Worker vanished, replaced by a bland, beige wall.
Spatial distortion? Takeshi wondered.
A wraithlike voice hissed through his mind: More like spatial control.
Regardless, the shot smashed into the wall with stunning force, reducing it to debris that sprayed outward. Takeshi had to shield his eyes from the flying rubble. Even though his opponent had dodged the bullet, Takeshi allowed himself a brief smile—he was delighted by the damage he could inflict, and the potential of what could have been.
His self-satisfied moment didn’t last. The Perfect Worker appeared behind him in an instant, as if calmly inspecting the destruction. Takeshi spun, but it was both too late and just in time. Too late, because he couldn’t react before the Perfect Worker’s blow landed—hard. Just in time, because he managed to use a negative charge and his release technique, repelling most of the force and softening his crash to the ground. Even so, he left a sizable crater.
Groaning, Takeshi stood, hand rubbing the back of his head.
“Ouch,” he muttered.
A wraithlike being shimmered into view. “Keep your head in the game, Takeshi,” it scolded softly.
Takeshi shrugged off his jacket, revealing a fitted vest underneath. “Umbral, become my crucible,” he called out, a trace of embarrassment in his voice. He recalled how Hiroki used to call out his own forge with triumphant pride. Things were different for Takeshi, though. He was a Conductor, not a Forger, but K9 had taught him basic forgery techniques—enough to push his conduction abilities to the limit.
In response, Umbral bowed, then morphed into a crucible pot. From its depths rose eight obsidian needles, which shot outward in all directions. Takeshi closed his eyes, lifted his chin, and emptied himself of all arcane energy in a full release. In that instant, he felt weightless.
Across the battlefield, the Perfect Worker cocked his head. What’s he up to? he seemed to wonder. But before he could react, Takeshi vanished and reappeared behind him, delivering a powerful spinning kick. The Perfect Worker responded by switching places with a metal pole at the last second, leaving Takeshi’s blow to smash through the pole until it buckled and broke beneath his force.
A few yards away, the Perfect Worke—heaved a piece of furniture at Takeshi. But Takeshi had already placed three pins above him. The projectile, ensnared by the gravitational pull of the pins, veered off its course. Another set of pins hovered behind Takeshi and the Perfect Worker, creating a push-and-pull dynamic. In a flash, both fighters were drawn together. The Perfect Worker attempted another spatial swap, but one of the pins had already marked him, so Takeshi closed the distance regardless, fist coiled. The punch connected with bone-crunching force, sending the Perfect Worker crashing to the ground.
At last, Takeshi felt it: a growing command of his powers.
He surveyed the ruined corridor with his characteristic composure, the swirling dust and curling smoke doing little to ruffle his perfectly pressed shirt. His black needles—eight in total—hovered around him in a loose orbit, each etched with subtle spiral engravings denoting gravitational polarity. Broken slabs of concrete littered the floor from earlier clashes. Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered in and out, half the fixtures dangling by twisted metal threads.
Across the battlefield, the Perfect Worker clone slowly rose from a crater in the collapsed wall. Something about its posture conveyed both diligence and mechanical detachment, as though it were clocking in for a shift at an office. Yet the flicker in its eyes betrayed far more cunning than any typical worker.
The entire warehouse environment belonged to it, subject to its will: shifting floors, conjured walls, sudden illusions. That was its ability.
Taking a single, measured breath, Takeshi lifted his chin. He was, beneath his veneer of aloof elegance, exhausted. Still, his stance remained impeccable—like a gentleman prepared for a formal duel rather than a life-or-death skirmish. He would not allow so much as a slouch to reveal the tension in his muscles.
A hiss of static flickered across the Perfect Worker’s face, as though invisible code were running behind its eyes. Then, in a crisp, businesslike tone, it began to speak:
“Employee Number T-024. You have violated protocol:
1. Destruction of corporate property.
2. Excessive collateral damage within a restricted zone.
3. Failure to comply with mandated evacuation orders.”
Its expression was eerily detached, flicking between mechanical recitation and almost-human scorn. Where it was drawing these ‘violations’ from, Takeshi couldn’t be certain—some vestige of the territory’s bizarre corporate theming, perhaps. Or maybe the Supervisor behind the scenes had twisted the clone’s personality to reflect the environment’s intangible rules.
Takeshi arched an eyebrow and countered in a politely barbed tone, “I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong executive, friend. I’ve never been one to respect bureaucratic formalities. Now, be a dear and stand still.”
He flexed his left hand, and in response, two needles zipped forward with a metallic hum. The Perfect Worker attempted to vanish behind a newly forming wall—an entire cubicle sprang up in a blink—but Takeshi anticipated this. He angled the second needle’s polarity to repel, driving it into the half-materialized cubicle partition. At once, the wall exploded outwards from the repulsive force, fragments of fiberboard and plastic hurtling in all directions.
A chunk of debris whizzed past Takeshi’s cheek, close enough to stir a lock of dark hair. Unfazed, he placed a single foot forward, pivoting with aristocratic grace. The swirling office furniture parted like water before him, propelled by carefully angled gravitational fields. Yet the Perfect Worker emerged again on his flank, brandishing a twisted steel rod that used to be part of a file cabinet.
Takeshi resisted the urge to sigh; these illusions of infinite office furniture were tedious, though not altogether ineffective. The Perfect Worker jabbed, aiming for Takeshi’s midsection, and while Takeshi’s reflexes were sharp, the rod caught him off-guard enough to force him to dodge with a backward leap. He directed a needle to pull behind him, creating a localized gravitational funnel that yanked his body out of harm’s way. The rod’s tip scraped across his vest, leaving a faint tear in the fabric.
“Now, that,” Takeshi said in a low, dangerous voice, “is a true corporate violation.”
A swirl of dust cut his vision. When it cleared, the Perfect Worker was gone—but not truly gone; Using Echo, Takeshi could feel its presence in the shudder of the environment. The entire floor quivered, rippling like a disturbed pond. Rows of desks, each topped with disorganized piles of papers, manifested in a grand ring around Takeshi. They began to spin, an office maelstrom circling him. Overhead, fluorescent light fixtures twisted into bizarre shapes, humming with the promise of being forcibly turned into makeshift weapons.
Takeshi tensed. He recognized this tactic: the Perfect Worker was trying to disorient him, boxing him in with illusions and forcibly altered reality. In another corner of the territory, Abeni was fighting the real Supervisor who orchestrated these illusions—and likely, Takeshi surmised, fueling the Perfect Worker clone with powers of spatial manipulation. But something feels off, he thought, noticing an occasional flicker in the clone’s otherwise seamless illusions.
He felt a tug at the edge of his mind. Umbral. The wraithlike spirit within him, currently melded into the crucible form, whispered: Their illusions are becoming unstable. Perhaps your friend Abeni’s conflict is interfering with them.
Takeshi’s lips curved into a tight smile. “First of all she’s not my friend. But also I should probably press the advantage.” He tapped one of the needles. Immediately, a faint blue pulse radiated from it, marking it as pull polarity. Then, he threw it high. It lodged itself in a twisting light fixture. Instantly, the ring of rotating desks began to lurch and crash together, drawn toward the new gravitational center overhead. Metal and wood collided in a cacophonous din, splinters raining down.
Amid that turmoil, the Perfect Worker reappeared, lunging with outstretched fingers, as if trying to clutch Takeshi by the throat. Its expression was stony, blank—but in the corner of its eye, a flicker of something else lurked. Takeshi ducked the initial strike and slammed the palm of his hand onto the floor. The moment his skin touched concrete, he released a charge from a second needle pinned in the ground. A shockwave of gravitational force rippled outward, sending the Perfect Worker skidding back.
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“You are in violation of Code 118-A,” it droned, standing to full height again. “All destructive engagement must be sanctioned by upper management. Your repeated transgressions will be met with immediate termination.”
“How polite,” Takeshi remarked dryly. “Though I was never hired by your precious corporation. Termination? Good luck.”
He gestured, and four needles shot from behind him in a carefully orchestrated fan. Each soared on separate trajectories to box in the Perfect Worker from multiple angles. He angled them: two set to pull, two to repel, creating a swirling gravitational crossfire that tore at the Very Floor beneath the clone’s feet. The Perfect Worker tensed, flickered, and tried to shift away—but the illusions around it began to waver. For a split second, the entire office environment gave a trembling cough, as though it couldn’t maintain shape.
“Impossible,” the Perfect Worker spat, or was it the Supervisor’s voice layering behind it? “This environment is under corporate jurisdiction. You are breaching—”
The environment stuttered again, and the Perfect Worker’s body distorted. Its spine cracked audibly, lengthening, and its shoulders twisted at unnatural angles. “Corporate… property… violation…” it rasped, but the voice sounded half-choked. The neat lines of its suit began to tear at the seams, as though whatever was inside was no longer strictly human—or even humanoid.
Takeshi grimaced, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. Something was interfering with the clone’s stability. Abeni must be doing more damage than we anticipated. As if on cue, Umbral’s voice whispered in the back of his mind: The Supervisor is trying to hijack this clone directly. Be wary—it might be more dangerous in this state.
With an audible crunch, the clone’s face elongated, fusing with the collar of its shredded suit. Limbs stretched into grotesque shapes, half flesh, half swirling black mass that reeked of arcane influence. The suit’s tie whipped about like an angry tail.
Still, Takeshi remained outwardly composed, though the corners of his mouth drew tighter. This is what they’ve done with the factory’s power? he thought, recalling how the territory had been fashioned to trap them.
A bestial roar erupted from the clone. It sprang forward with terrifying speed, arms elongated into razor-sharp edges of swirling black distortion. Takeshi quickly pivoted, activating a repel field from the nearest needle to shove the monstrosity back. But this time, the clone didn’t so much as flinch. It ripped right through the force, the swirling black edges of its arms biting into the gravitational field and fracturing it in places.
Takeshi’s eyes narrowed. “Tch. Adaptation,” he murmured. “Let’s see you handle more than one.”
He pulled back his left sleeve, revealing a slender array of runic tattoos—marks of his training as a Conductor, each line representing channels where his arcane energy flowed. He snapped his fingers, focusing on the interplay of the eight needles. In that moment, gravitational lines crisscrossed overhead, an invisible web.
Just as the monstrous clone lunged again, Takeshi triggered the lines in quick succession. One needle flared in pull mode, yanking the creature mid-leap off its trajectory. Another needle, set to repel, slammed it sideways into a half-crumbled support column. The Perfect Worker hissed, thrashing with disproportionate limbs that cracked the concrete around it.
Before Takeshi could press the advantage, the clone’s chest lurched, contorting grotesquely. The swirling blackness around its torso parted like a mouth. And then came a voice—a different voice—emanating from within that darkness. The resonance was deeper, older, brimming with simmering hatred and righteous anger:
“Takeshi Kurogane,” it hissed, syllables twisting with unnatural echoes. “How quaint to find you so unfeeling in your destruction. You understand so little of what’s truly happening in this territory.”
Takeshi’s lips thinned. “Supervisor,” he acknowledged. It had to be the entity controlling the Perfect Worker from afar—no doubt the one Abeni faced. He kept a polite distance, not letting his guard down even for a moment. “If you wish to parlay, you might choose a more pleasant form than this.”
The monstrous clone let out a jagged laugh. More of the corporate illusions around them—walls, desks, overhead lamps—sputtered, some collapsing into shapeless lumps of arcane matter. It was as if the Supervisor’s direct tampering was overriding the original clone’s neat illusions. The floor sagged, forming a shallow depression beneath the creature’s feet.
“I only did what I had to,” the Supervisor said through the warped voice of the clone. “They forced me into impossible quotas, demanded productivity beyond reason, never caring how many lives it cost. My mother gave her final breath to this wretched place.”
The mention of a mother’s death, sacrificed to some exploitative system, caused a slight tension in Takeshi’s stance. Yet outwardly he remained stony. “Tragic,” he intoned, though the empathy in his voice was veiled beneath a veneer of aristocratic coolness. “But you speak as though you’re the only one who has ever suffered. We’ve all endured our share of tragedy. I assure you, you’ll find no special sympathy from me just because your cause is righteous.”
A rumble of protest came from Umbral. The wraithlike presence materialized near Takeshi’s shoulder in the shape of a faintly glowing silhouette. “Takeshi,” it whispered, “are you not even going to acknowledge the burden this Supervisor carries? You can be callous, but this is borderline cruelty.”
Takeshi smoothed back his hair. He shot Umbral a sidelong, irritated glance. “I’m merely stating a fact. If capitalism cannot survive without exploiting its labor force, perhaps it will deserve to crumble. But I am not here to champion it. I’m here for my own goals. If the Supervisor wants to lay blame at the feet of corporate overlords, that’s its prerogative.”
The monstrous shape in front of him snarled. For a fleeting instant, the once-human features of the Perfect Worker clone twitched, attempting to speak with its own lips—but the Supervisor’s will subdued it. “You see,” the Supervisor said, voice rolling with bitterness, “this factory wrung every last drop from my mother’s life. And when she collapsed, they replaced her with another warm body. That is the cruelty of this system you so casually dismiss.”
Takeshi pressed his lips into a thin line. He was hardly oblivious to the system’s injustices—he had grown up a bastard heir, well-acquainted with the travesties of certain economic structures. Yet, as always, he wore his indifference like fine armor. “I’m sure you find some satisfaction in your revenge,” he said dryly, “though you also seem perfectly willing to sacrifice any and all in the path of your vengeance—my companions and me included. Tell me, the people who had wandered into the territory unaware, were they involved in the exploitation of you and your mother?”
The floor rumbled again, interrupting them. The monstrous clone lurched forward, black mass swirling around its arms, morphing them into something like twin scythes. “I will not stand idle while you destroy what’s left of my domain,” the Supervisor growled. “No matter your lofty ideals, I will keep this territory intact. All of it.”
Takeshi braced himself. “Needles,” he commanded softly, and at once, the black spires circled him in a tight formation, humming with gravitational potential. Subtly, he glanced at Umbral. “Satisfied? I offered some measure of commentary on the Supervisor’s plight.”
“You could try feeling something,” Umbral chided, but Takeshi ignored the wraith.
Slivers of black energy whipped out from the clone’s scythe-like arms, raking across the concrete. Sparks flew where the edges met the floor. The gravitational field around Takeshi shuddered, disrupted by this new assault. He was forced to shift his stance, the soles of his polished shoes grinding against rubble.
He hurled one needle at the monster’s left flank. It glowed red—repel—and collided with the black mass, knocking one scythe aside with a sharp crack. The monster lurched backward, losing balance. Another needle soared in from behind, charged in pull mode, dragging it forward again like a marionette on strings.
“I’ll end this quickly,” Takeshi murmured. His tone held a hint of annoyance—he truly did not wish to endure more corporate sermonizing from the Supervisor. The Perfect Worker, or what was left of it, let out a guttural roar, thrashing in the gravitational crossfire.
Yet even as Takeshi seemed poised to deliver a decisive blow, black tendrils erupted from the monster’s torso, hooking themselves into the ground for leverage. With monstrous strength, it began to pull itself free of the conflicting gravity fields, inch by inch. The air crackled with the reek of raw dimensional power. Bits of the environment flickered in and out: the ceiling overhead momentarily vanished, replaced by swirling night sky, then snapped back into place. A testament to the Supervisor’s desperation.
Takeshi’s eyes narrowed. “So you can wrestle free. Color me impressed,” he said, even as he mentally calculated his next move.
He strode in a slow circle, needles drifting around him in a deliberate pattern. The tension in the air mounted. Dust swirled across the ruined corridor. Overhead, the flickering fluorescent lights buzzed, threatening to go out altogether.
The Supervisor spoke again through the creature’s twisted mouth, pained yet defiant: “I’ll not yield. My mother’s memory—my vengeance—none of it will die here. If I must carve your black heart from your chest, I will.”
At that, Takeshi allowed a small, humorless smile. “If that’s the only vocabulary you have left, then so be it. We end this soon.” Inside, a pang of something like regret flickered through him. But his sense of purpose—his desire to free himself, Abeni, and Hiroki from this cursed place—overrode any compassion he might’ve shown.
Still, as the monstrous clone tore free and lunged again, Umbral’s disapproving tone echoed in Takeshi’s head. You could have shown a sliver more empathy. Takeshi made no response.
Instead, he prepared for another exchange, determined to subdue this twisted avatar of the Supervisor’s wrath—once and for all.