The Perfect Worker’s twisted body, contorted by the Supervisor’s direct intrusion, now loomed over Takeshi. Its limbs were part blackened mass, part ragged office attire—an ungodly fusion of corporate propriety and monstrous wrath. All around them, the warehouse territory shuddered; ceiling beams flickered, walls half-solidified then fell away, and the last few fluorescent lights sputtered overhead. Debris clattered across the uneven floor, colliding with the occasional forming and dissolving cubicle partitions.

“You can’t keep me pinned forever,” the Supervisor’s voice growled through the clone. Its warped features twitched, the jaws widening around a flicker of formless darkness. “All your talk, all your aloofness— it won’t save you from facing judgment!”

Takeshi’s response came in a soft, measured drawl. “Consider me suitably intimidated,” he said, an undercurrent of boredom in his tone, though a more astute listener would sense the fatigue shadowing his voice. He reoriented three of his hovering needles, adjusting their gravitational polarity with quick motions of his fingers. One needle glowed red for repel, while the other two pulsed faintly blue for pull.

His eyes flicked to the ragged shape of the Perfect Worker, reading the lines of tension that raced along its impossible limbs. It’s building up for another lunge, he thought. Perhaps a final, desperate attempt. His posture remained faultless, but perspiration beaded at his hairline. He could not afford to slip; the next few moments would decide everything.

The Supervisor’s half-corporeal arms shifted into elongated, blade-like protrusions. They glistened, as if dipped in ink. Then, with a guttural roar, the creature sprang forward. The entire floor rippled beneath its leap, forcing Takeshi to brace himself. He flung his first red-glowing needle. A shockwave of repulsive force slammed outward, colliding with the monstrous clone in midair.

“Rrraaagh!” The clone rebounded but did not stop. It landed on all fours, claws of distorted suit fabric screeching across the cracked concrete, and propelled itself forward again. Its eyes flashed with raw loathing.

Takeshi guided the two pull needles in a wide arc overhead, sending them into the broken ceiling girders. A swirl of gravitational lines coalesced around the Perfect Worker, halting its momentum. Concrete shards and twisted rebar uprooted from the floor and spun in a whirlwind, drawn by the overlapping gravity wells. The monster howled, trapped in the eddy of swirling debris.

For a moment, Takeshi allowed himself a slight smirk. It appeared as though he had gained the upper hand again. But then a tremor passed through the creature’s body, and, as if spurred by an unholy strength, it tore free from the gravitational pull, the swirling black mass around its torso gnawing at the very force that bound it.

“This territory… still… belongs to me!” the Supervisor barked. Cracks expanded in the floor as new illusions formed. Dilapidated cubicles erupted into monstrous shapes—like giant cubicle partitions with clawed ends. They scrambled around Takeshi in a maddened circle, thrashing at the air.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You cling to illusions, Supervisor. But illusions only matter if one believes in them.”

“Shut your mouth!” The monstrous clone slammed its elongated arms into the ground, forging a jagged ring of half-illusory, half-real metal spikes that circled outward like the teeth of a shark’s maw. They closed in on Takeshi, forcing him to spring backward.

One spike grazed his thigh, slicing through the fabric of his trousers and leaving a thin line of crimson. Takeshi hissed, more irritated by the damage to his impeccable attire than the physical sting.

Umbral materialized by his shoulder in a flurry of dark wisps. “You’re hurt!” it chided, voice low. “And you’re still too cavalier. Don’t let your pride get the better of you.”

Takeshi exhaled through his nose. “Fine advice, dear wraith.” Yet even as he spoke, he deftly flicked his wrist, sending one pull needle careening into the floor near the clone’s side. Another needle zipped in from above, set to repel. Push and pull, overlapping forces—Takeshi’s signature maneuver.

Caught between the opposing gravities, the monstrous clone roared as it was slammed sideways. The ring of cubicle-partition-spikes shattered inward, and shards of twisted metal flew around the clone like a halo of lethal confetti. The swirling illusions faltered again; for several seconds, the entire environment bled color, the edges warping and re-forming.

“You… vile… executive pawn,” the clone spat—its voice layered with bitterness, the Supervisor’s hatred barely contained.

Takeshi didn’t rise to the insult. He seized the moment of disarray to fling another needle across the battlefield. It lodged in a fragment of collapsed wall behind the monster, anchoring a third gravitational field. He shaped his left hand into a conductor’s stance, the runic tattoos on his forearm glowing softly as he willed the lines of force to converge.

In a sudden flash, multiple gravitational zones snapped shut around the Perfect Worker, forming an interlocking cage of distortion. Takeshi’s chest heaved, each breath precise. “There,” he muttered. “Now we see how long you can hold out.”

“I will… hold out… forever,” came the savage reply. The monstrous shape flexed, pushing its spined arms against the invisible cage. The air sizzled as gravitational lines crackled like lightning. Chunk by chunk, the illusions swirling around them fell away—half-finished desk shapes collapsed into piles of ephemeral dust. In the darkness beyond, the real warehouse structure started to show through, battered but intact.

Umbral’s eyes glowed faintly. “Takeshi, it’s losing control. You can end this now.”

Takeshi’s face was expressionless. “Supervisor. You spoke of your mother’s exploitation, of how this place took her life and used her up until she was a husk. Noble. But your solution—killing countless innocents, entrapping the living in this labyrinth—is no better.” He paused, letting a single note of actual sympathy slip into his voice. “Vengeance is a blunt tool. It might shatter the chain that bound you, but it also breaks everything else in the process.”

The Supervisor’s fury reverberated in the clone’s voice. “Don’t you lecture me! You, of all people! You claim no sympathy for us, the exploited. You just sneer from your high seat, above it all!”

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Takeshi’s lips tightened. A flicker of memory flashed across his mind—his own mother, a servant within the Kurogane household. He suppressed the memory with well-practiced stoicism. “It’s true that I’m no champion of the downtrodden,” he said. “The system either stands on its own merits or falls by its own failings. I simply don’t care enough to mourn its downfall if it’s built on exploitation.”

Umbral let out a pained sigh. “Takeshi, at least pretend you have some empathy. You know you do, somewhere in that guarded heart.”

“Don’t mock me, wraith,” the Supervisor snarled. “He doesn’t care. I can see it in his eyes. He hasn’t learned a thing.”

For a moment, Takeshi’s expression softened—barely. An eye might catch the faint twist of regret. “Supervisor,” he said quietly, “I know what it feels like to have the one you love get ground up to fine dust by the cruel system just so that they can take care of…’” Takeshi scratched his head, there was more he wanted to say, but he knew then,more than anyone, that if he had continued, he would be no more than a hypocrite so all he said was that innocents were being drawn into the crossfire, a statement that only made him think of Hiroki at the moment.

The monstrous figure slammed its arms into the invisible cage again, cracks of space rippling outward. “I don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. That’s the nature of a war for justice.”

Takeshi’s eyes glinted, cold. “Then you leave me no choice.”

Shoring up his own resolve, he directed a surge of energy through his network of needles. The overlapping gravitational fields tightened like a slowly closing fist. The Perfect Worker’s monstrous body buckled under the pressure, its elongated limbs thrashing wildly. For an instant, the illusions that formed the territory fluttered, as if failing altogether. But with a final, desperate cry, the Supervisor unleashed another wave of distortion.

All at once, the walls around them soared upward, morphing the environment into something reminiscent of a massive factory floor—endless conveyor belts and forging machines. Grimy smoke plumed from half-real chimneys, and shadows danced across the high metal rafters. The entire scene crackled with residual arcane power, as if the Supervisor were trying to show Takeshi exactly what had once crushed its mother’s life.

“See it!” the Supervisor roared, its voice echoing off the rafters. “See the place that devoured her heart and spit her out! Now you’ll be devoured, too!”

Takeshi’s gaze swept over the conjured machinery. Stamping presses, conveyor belts stacked with half-assembled gadgets, endless lines of workers—ghostly silhouettes in the gloom—slaving away. The illusions were heartbreakingly vivid, an echo of real suffering. For the first time, Takeshi’s features shifted in genuine empathy. So this is the factory that killed his mother…

But he steeled himself, refusing to be swayed. “Vivid illusions,” he said softly. “But illusions all the same.”

The monstrous clone raised a hideous claw, pointing at Takeshi. Beneath it, spectral workers turned with blank, hollow eyes—judging him, accusing him. A whirlwind of shame and sorrow battered the air. Even Umbral seemed momentarily unsettled, flickering at Takeshi’s side.

“Let them judge you,” the Supervisor hissed. “If you’ll show no kindness, let them show you how deep this pain goes.”

A wave of ghostly workers rushed at Takeshi, arms outstretched. Some had shackles around their wrists; others bore brand marks on their skin. Their moans filled the gloom, an almost tangible weight in the air. Takeshi’s breath caught.

With a start, he realized his gravitational fields were faltering—the illusions gnawed at his concentration. “Enough,” he whispered. Then more firmly, “Enough!”

In a fluid motion, he withdrew all eight needles, drawing them back to orbit around him in a close, protective sphere. Using tension he poured a greater portion of his remaining arcane energy into them, every last ounce he could muster without collapsing. The runic lines on his arms blazed, and Umbral gave a hiss of alarm.

“Takeshi, be careful—!” the wraith warned.

But Takeshi was resolved. He ignored the rushing illusions, the wave of ghostly workers bearing down, and advanced straight for the monstrous clone. With each step, the gravitational thrumming from the needles grew louder, resonating like a vast engine spinning up. The illusions trembled under the pressure. The ghostly workers flickered, some losing cohesion.

“Stop!” the Supervisor bellowed, eyes wide with desperation.

Takeshi stepped inside the range of the creature’s flailing limbs. His voice, for once, carried a sliver of warmth beneath the icy politeness: “I… acknowledge your suffering. Your mother’s death is a tragedy. However, your vengeance has greatly inconvenienced me. So I put an end to it here.”

“No!” the Supervisor howled, swinging a scythe-like arm to cleave him in two.

But Takeshi had already unleashed the final alignment: four needles in pull mode, forming a crushing gravity well around the creature’s center, and four in repel mode, angled to slam into it from all sides. The dual assault compressed and shattered the illusions, forcing them to collapse in a swirling maelstrom of debris and ephemeral faces. The monstrous clone howled, pinned in place—its body twisting under the contradictory push-pull until the arcs of black matter began to tear.

Takeshi’s voice was low: “This ends now.”

He clenched his fist, packed with tension. A thunderous wave of gravitational energy burst outward from the eight needles, colliding with the Perfect Worker at point-blank range. The monstrous creature convulsed, howling as shards of blackness tore away like molten flakes. The illusions of the factory floor cracked and fell away in shards of arcane matter. The entire territory reeled from the impact, beams collapsing overhead, the flicker of overhead lights dying into darkness.

With one final shriek, the Perfect Worker’s twisted form imploded in a swirl of black mass and static, the Supervisor’s voice vanishing on the tail of a tortured wail. Debris clattered to the ground. Silence followed—heavy, oppressive. Then the illusions peeled back fully, revealing the real warehouse once more. The damage was extensive, but at least it was no longer shifting or warping.

Takeshi stood there, breathing raggedly, knees threatening to buckle. His neat hair was disheveled, his vest bloodstained and torn, and one pant leg ripped around the thigh wound he’d sustained earlier. Yet his back remained characteristically straight. Slowly, he recalled each of the eight needles. They hovered, flickering with faint arcs of leftover energy, then spiraled down into his crucible pot—Umbral’s half-manifested form.

For a long moment, Takeshi said nothing, letting the silence stretch. Then Umbral spoke in a low hiss, “I know you too well. You felt something there, didn’t you?”

Takeshi let out a soft, tired chuckle, uncommonly vulnerable. “I suppose I did,” he murmured, remembering the illusions of the factory. Remembering his own mother, the injustice she had endured. “But it changes nothing. My path remains the same. We survive, we move on.”

Umbral gave him a reproachful look. “You might find it in you to care at least a bit about others who suffer.”

With a subdued sigh, Takeshi started to walk away from the spot where the clone had been annihilated. “No more lectures, please, Umbral. I’m not entirely heartless.”

He paused, letting one gloved hand rest against the battered warehouse wall for support. The swirl of dust cleared enough that he could see down the corridor. Far off, there was the muffled echo of another battle—no doubt Hiroki’s or Abeni’s.

“I’ve had enough of moral dilemmas for one day,” Takeshi said quietly. Then, gathering his breath, he drew himself upright again, forcing any hint of weakness from his posture. The lonely ache in his chest lingered—he was tired of these illusions, tired of being left to wrestle with ghosts. But that was his burden, and he bore it behind impeccable manners and regal poise.

He glanced at the cratered floor where the Perfect Worker had fallen, half-expecting something to stir, but there was only inert rubble. The fight was over. No doubt the Supervisor’s consciousness had snapped back to where Abeni was, reeling from the feedback of losing its clone. Perhaps Abeni has the advantage now, Takeshi thought.

With a final flick of his wrist, he dispelled the lingering gravitational fields. The air seemed to settle, as if exhaling relief. Then he turned on his heel, ignoring the pain in his thigh, and strode into the corridor. Each step was careful and deliberate, the confident pace of someone who refused to show weakness—even with blood staining his pant leg.

“Come, Umbral,” he murmured. “We have to find the others. I’d rather not tarry in this wretched place a moment longer than necessary.”

Behind him, Umbral hovered like a silent shade, then drifted forward to match Takeshi’s stride.

Takeshi cast a glance at the wraith, faint amusement in his gaze. “You really enjoy probing at me, don’t you?”

“I live for it,” Umbral replied, voice almost smiling.

“And perhaps,” Takeshi added in a quiet voice, as though granting a tiny concession to his spirit, “I hope the Supervisor can find some measure of peace. As misguided as he is…”

Umbral inclined its head, contented. They walked on, navigating the debris-strewn hallway toward the next fight, perhaps meeting up with Hiroki or helping Abeni—. But despite everything, the subtle set of his shoulders betrayed a single truth: in that final clash, he had glimpsed the painful cost of someone else’s suffering. And maybe, just maybe, it had stirred something inside him that was not entirely cold.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking, since Takeshi had his own grand ambitions, laced with embittered emotions and wishes of revenge. A path, whose road also began at the corpse of his dead mother.