A noxious wave of miasma slammed into Hiroki mid-sprint, turning his graceful dash through the warehouse into a brutal tumble. His momentum betrayed him – what started as a stumble became an uncontrolled fall, ending with his face crashing against the cold concrete. Blood pounded in his ears as his vision swam.

"Get up, kid! Now!" The urgent voice of his wraith, Arkan, cut through the haze. "Release your essence before it's too late!"

Still dazed, Hiroki didn't hesitate. Even before he could push himself fully upright, he called forth his arcane essence. Crimson energy bloomed around him, forming a protective shroud. As his vision cleared, the reason for Arkan's desperate warning became terrifyingly apparent.

Before him stood a 'Perfect Worker' clone – a grotesque parody of corporate excellence. His blonde hair was immaculately slicked back without a single strand out of place, gleaming under the warehouse lights like polished brass. His features seemed carved from marble by an obsessive sculptor: symmetrical to an unsettling degree, with a jaw so sharp it could file paperwork. The clone's pressed white shirt stretched across his broad shoulders without a single wrinkle, each sleeve meticulously folded to the exact same length. His khakis bore knife-edge creases that seemed sharp enough to cut. What disturbed Hiroki most was the smile – perfect white teeth arranged in a flawless customer service grin that never quite reached those empty, bright blue eyes. Everything about him screamed 'model employee' cranked up to such an extreme it crossed into the uncanny valley.

The Perfect Worker tilted his head at a precise 45-degree angle, maintaining that plastic smile. "Employee #4261, you have accumulated quite the list of infractions." His voice carried the artificial cheer of a corporate training video. "Running in the workplace – violation of safety code 3.12. Unauthorized presence in restricted areas – section 7.9 of the employee handbook. Destruction of company property during your previous... altercations. And most seriously," his smile widened impossibly further, "your current attendance record shows five consecutive days of unexcused absences. This falls severely below our expected 98% attendance metric."

Hiroki shifted into a fighting stance, trying to ignore how his bruised face throbbed. "Yeah, well, I was never cut out for the nine-to-five grind anyway."

"Actually," Arkan's voice echoed in his mind, tinged with what sounded suspiciously like amusement, "you're still technically employed at that convenience store. You know, the one you haven't shown up to since this whole mess started?"

Hiroki's combat-ready posture faltered for a moment. "Wait, shit – I haven't called in since last Thursday? Mr. Tanaka's going to kill me if I survive this." The realization that he might get fired from his actual job hit him almost as hard as his recent face-plant. "Though I guess fighting warehouse monsters is a pretty solid excuse for missing work..."

"Perhaps you'd like to file the proper time-off request forms?" the Perfect Worker suggested, his pristine shoes clicking against the concrete as he advanced. "We have a very efficient HR department."

"Not a fan of HR," Hiroki spat, settling back into his stance. "They always ask too many questions."

"Hiroki," Arkan's voice held an edge of concern, "that wave of nausea earlier – it's connected to his abilities. The way it hit you... this isn't some mindless construct. He's got precise control over whatever power he's wielding."

A pause, then: "Have you mastered Echo yet?"

Hiroki's face twisted into a grimace. "You can't be serious."

"When else?" Arkan's voice thundered in his mind. "If not now, when?"

The memory surfaced unbidden – their training sessions, Arkan's patient guidance as they explored Echo. The technique that let one perceive the world's arcane resonance, a way of seeing without sight. "Listen to the sound of reality itself," Arkan had said. "Let the arcane energy show you what your eyes cannot."

"I can't," Hiroki protested. "Not against someone like this—"

"You can," Arkan cut him off. "I wouldn't ask this of just anyone. It's dangerous, yes – but you have the talent. You're ready. Focus!"

Hiroki drew in a sharp breath, closed his eyes, and reached out with his essence. At first, nothing. Then – like tuning an old radio – something clicked. When he opened his eyes again, the world had changed. A ghostly grey aura surrounded the Perfect Worker, rippling like disturbed water. The aura wasn't contained; it spread outward, filling the warehouse space around them in a perfect sphere of influence. Each ripple, each wave in that ethereal field moved with mechanical precision. No wasted energy, no fluctuations – absolute control.

The realization hit Hiroki like another face-plant into concrete. He'd done it – he'd managed to use Echo, even if just barely. But his achievement brought little comfort. Because now he could see exactly what he was up against, and it made his stomach sink all over again.

"Oh shit," he whispered.

The Perfect Worker's smile hadn't wavered. "Shall we discuss your performance review?"

"Don't let fear cloud you now," Arkan's voice steadied him. "Look closer at that aura. It's draining – siphoning energy and vitality from everything it touches. That wave that hit you? Just a taste. I'd bet my essence he's using that stolen energy to fuel himself."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Hiroki wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, mind racing. Getting close would be suicide – he needed distance, needed to stay out of that consuming field. His eyes narrowed, calculations running through his head as he watched those perfectly controlled ripples of grey energy pulse outward.

Drawing deep into his inner forge – that blazing core of arcane power where he stored his manifested weapons – Hiroki reached for something specific. Energy coalesced in his hand, spinning, taking shape. The Blazing Chakram materialized in his grip, its circular form radiating white-hot intensity. The weapon hummed with barely contained power, casting harsh shadows across his face and sending waves of heat rippling through the air.

"Let's see how perfect you stay when I'm throwing this at your head," Hiroki muttered, adjusting his grip on the chakram. Its familiar weight centered him, even as the Perfect Worker's aura pulsed ominously before him. If he could maintain his distance, keep mobile, maybe he could—

"Projectile weapons in the workplace?" The Perfect Worker's voice carried the disappointed tone of a manager who'd caught someone playing phone games during a meeting. "I'm afraid that's another violation of safety protocols."

The chakram trembled in Hiroki's grip as he poured more essence into it, the weapon drinking in his power like a desert absorbing rain. This was the true gift of forgers – their unique ability to craft weapons that could channel the full depth of their arcane essence without shattering. Under his power, the chakram's edges began to sing, a high-pitched keen that made the air itself vibrate. White-hot energy cascaded off it in waves, casting stark shadows that danced across the warehouse walls.

The Perfect Worker shifted his stance – a movement so precise it looked choreographed, like a martial arts demonstration video played at half-speed. His polished shoes squeaked against the concrete as he settled into position, that unsettling smile never wavering.

Time seemed to crystallize in that moment. The warehouse air grew thick with tension, heavy enough to choke on. Neither combatant moved. A bead of sweat formed on Hiroki's forehead, tracking a slow path down his face. Past his temple. Along his cheek. It hung suspended from his chin for what felt like an eternity – a perfect droplet reflecting the chakram's burning light.

The drop fell.

In the microsecond it took to hit the floor, Hiroki's arm was already in motion. The chakram left his hand like a comet breaking orbit, trailing streamers of white fire as it screamed through the air.

The chakram blazed through the air like a miniature sun gone rogue, its passing leaving heat-ripples that distorted the warehouse atmosphere. The Perfect Worker moved with mechanical grace, his body flowing like liquid mercury as he sidestepped the initial strike. His perfect smile widened as he launched forward, khakis somehow still crisp as he closed the distance toward Hiroki.

Then came the telltale whistle behind him – the chakram arcing back like a heat-seeking meteor. The Perfect Worker's eyes narrowed a fraction, his movement shifting without hesitation. He sprang upward, one manicured hand catching a hanging pipe with gymnastic precision. The chakram howled beneath him, its burning edge missing him by inches before returning to Hiroki's waiting grip.

But the Perfect Worker didn't descend. Instead, he flowed across the ceiling infrastructure with spider-like agility, darting between ventilation ducts and support beams. His movements were too smooth, too calculated – each step placing him exactly where he needed to be until suddenly... he vanished. His essence signature dimmed to nearly nothing, leaving Hiroki spinning in place, chakram raised defensively as he scanned the shadows above.

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of industrial fans.

Then – movement. A massive presence materialized beside Hiroki, and with it came that soul-crushing aura. It hit like a wave of spiritual novocaine, turning Hiroki's razor-sharp reflexes to mud. His muscles refused to respond, his essence sputtering like a candle in a storm. Through dulled senses, he saw the Perfect Worker's pristine form coil like an industrial piston.

"This will be noted in your performance evaluation," the Perfect Worker said pleasantly, right before his fist crashed into Hiroki with mechanically perfect form. The impact launched Hiroki through the air like a ragdoll, his body carving a Hiroki-shaped dent into the warehouse wall.

Hiroki peeled himself from the wall's crater, his body trembling despite the negative charge he'd managed to throw up at the last second. A clever trick – using his essence to repel against the impact – but it had only softened the blow, not negated it. His hand shook as he held it up before his face, and not just from the impact.

For the first time since this madness began, true fear gripped him. Just weeks ago, his biggest concern had been making it through another mindless shift at the convenience store, trying to shake off the grey fog of depression that had clouded his life. Now here he was, trading blows with something that had stepped straight out of a nightmare dressed in business casual. The absurdity of it all hit him harder than the Perfect Worker's fist.

And then, like a switch being flipped, the fear crystallized into something else – a wild, almost manic excitement that made his heart race. He laughed, a short, sharp sound that echoed through the warehouse.

With a thought, he reached into his inner forge, pulling the chakram back into existence. The weapon split at his command, forming two curved blades that hummed with barely contained energy. They fit his grip like they'd always belonged there, these deadly half-moons of blazing light.

"Long range isn't working," he muttered to Arkan. "Not against something this fast."

"Agreed," his wraith replied. "But before we try anything truly reckless – and believe me, I have an idea that definitely qualifies – let's test something. Keep your distance for now, but let's add some... complexity to our approach."

The warehouse erupted into a lightshow of deadly beauty. Hiroki's essence-charged legs launched him through the space like a pinball, each leap precise and purposeful. His twin chakrams left trails of fire in his wake, turning the dark warehouse into a three-dimensional web of blazing light. From above, it would have looked like an intricate dance of flame – arcs of white-hot energy crisscrossing through the air, intersecting and overlapping, creating a deadly geometrical pattern with Hiroki as its ever-moving center.

The Perfect Worker moved through this deadly lattice of light and fire with inhuman precision, his perfectly pressed clothes somehow remaining immaculate as he weaved between the burning projectiles. Each dodge was calculated, each movement exact – but for the first time, his smile showed the slightest strain. He pursued Hiroki's afterimages, always a step behind, finding nothing but trailing embers where his target had been moments before.

Then came the trap.