Caelan took point, the rest of the squad close behind. Rifles at hand, they moved through the decrepit halls of the ruined mall. With a tense grip at the firearm, his mind kept thinking the worse.

How they would be too late. Or the state they would find the hostages.

Every corner, he prayed to find no cultist. Any altercation could put the VIPs in danger. Orders were clear to engage only if necessary, for every second could be the difference between health and infection.

His thoughts kept going to Sam. Six years after that day at the hospital and not a word exchanged. Gramps visited often, trying to help mend what he broke. He assured him she looked good, but a bit weaker each time.

Because of the cult, she lost her future. And if he failed the operation, twenty-nine more would be shattered.

That idea made his blood boil and step quicken.

They turned a corner and found themselves looking at a massive atrium. Its glass ceiling had long fallen to pieces, exposing the insides to the elements.

From their vantage point on the second floor, they saw the hostages corralled on the ground level. A dozen cultists circled around them, armed to the teeth. All deformed in some way by the crystals.

Scanning the atrium, he marked entry points, possible flanking positions. Not enough cover. Nowhere to run if things went sideways.

The people seemed unharmed and, more important, healthy. They had been covered in thick robes, their mouths and eyes covered. Caelan thought of that day at the square, the vertigo and adrenaline. Even the empty fountain close to them gave him flashbacks of that cursed day.

The moment when you believe you’re about to die. As if the young soldier needed any reason to deny the cult forgiveness.

Once orders were given, each soldier marked a target. They had to be taken down each with one shot. Couldn’t leave any chance for reinforcements to be called. Caelan had his on his sight, a woman with half of her face buried in crystals.

He swallowed hard, breath held. When the order came, he fired, hitting his target right into the heart. Painless, quick. Even if she deserved worse.

“Clear!” Sargeant Chang’s voice came clear through comms. “Secure the hostages until the second group arrives!”

They grappled down to the ground floor, always on the watch. To ensure no other cultists came through, Caelan remained at the fringes. He could hear the people struggling against their bonds as he settled near the fountain.

One of the men must have released the mouth of one of the victims. But what he said next froze the blood in Caelan’s veins. “It’s a trap! They wan…”

Caelan reacted half a second faster than the others. Being closer to the fountain saved him when the explosion erupted.

His brothers and sisters didn’t have that.

Fire and shrapnel tore through the air. The shockwave slammed into Caelan, his ears ringing with a high-pitched whine. He gasped, throat tight with dust and smoke. Through the chaos, screams melded into the mechanical staccato of gunfire.

From the shadows, gunfire rained down upon them all. Regardless of who, soldier and civilian alike felt the lethal shots.

Some tried to fight back, while others scrambled for cover. Caelan called for them to join him at the fountain. In the middle of the chaos, he felt a shiver run down his spine. A figure stepped through the smoke, untouched by the carnage. With a commanding stance, his voice cut through the screams like a blade. Each word a declaration of their insane gospel.

Their eyes met with the young soldier’s. Both filled with the glowing purple of the Rot, no sign of humanity left. And for a moment it felt like his very soul got dissected by the monster.

The way they stared at him—recognition? No. Impossible. But for a moment, the thought took root. A whisper of something Caelan refused to acknowledge.

“Hold!” Voice broke through all the cacophony, bringing it to an end. It exuded authority, like one who is born to bark commands. All while lacking all forms of human warmth. “It appears we have one embraced by the stars among the sheep. Brother, rise, and be welcomed into the light of the stars. Do this, and these infidels shall know mercy.”

Hyperventilating, the young man got a hold of his breathing. He knew who the wolf in human skin meant. Weighing his options, he got to his feet, eyes locked onto the cult leader. Who in turn raised his arms, a massive grin from ear to ear shown.

“Rejoice, for we found another Saint!”

-----

The figure made the first move, going for Sera, who let her poncho fall down in response. Caelan snapped back to reality as the figure split apart. Or rather, as a spectral purple double emerged. Identical in shape, but flickering like an afterimage. It reminded him of Leopold, yet sharper, more solid.

Only the years of combat experience let him deflect the phantom’s blade in time.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

It took him a second to realize he couldn’t last, gut hardening at the idea. His body dragged like dead weight, each movement like wading through molasses. Each strike from his spectral foe came sharp, aimed at his vitals. Caelan used his forearms to redirect the arms coming at him.

He couldn’t keep up with the speed of his assailant. As such, he settled for minimizing damage to vital areas. To let the poncho take the brunt of the slices.

Seraphina had her hands full, trying to survive her own duel. Always shifting, looking for an opening to aid him. But the enemy kept cutting her off. Realization struck him like ice. They weren’t just fighting; they were isolating him.

Her combat style thrived in open spaces, where she could maneuver her weapons. In the confined area of the underground, she held a disadvantage. So bad it had mechanical effects on the game.

If no terrain blocked an area around her, she had bonuses to hit and avoid damage. When the space had those, she had a decrease to those stats. In short, she worked the best when facing multiple enemies as a dodge tank.

Cold mist curled at Seraphina’s feet as she lowered the temperature around her with ease. A side effect of her Glacio essence. With time, she learned how to “turn” her essence into strings she manipulated. Weapons connected to them acted as extensions to her touch.

From the edge of his vision, it felt like a dance. How she jumped back after sticking her knifes on the ground. How she weaved her hands to try and lasso the enemy’s torso. When that failed, she pulled herself in for a kick, sending the figure away after they blocked it. Despite the circumstances, Caelan couldn’t help but feel amazed.

The first few moments had been pure survival, every breath a struggle. But then—between desperate parries and the burning in his arms—he saw it.

The clone moved wrong. A fraction too stiff. A half-second too slow. Not a mirror, but a poor reflection.

The clone moved like a faulty combat program—no adaptability, no fluidity.

An exploitable weakness.

Realizing it let Caelan fare better. Not by much, as he still had to use every fiber of his being to survive. An idea popped into his mind, as the burn from his heavy breathing turned overwhelming. He held down, a defensive stance to wait for the perfect chance.

When the copy stepped back to avoid a strike from his axe, Caelan acted. The executor’s ponchos had a way to come off easy. This way you could drop them before a fight with haste. Like Sera did. The soldier did the same, only instead of letting it drop, he held the fabric.

Before throwing it at the figure, covering it with the clothing.

It felt like a wild gamble. He had no doubt the original would dodge—but the imperfect copy?

Please, let it work.

He offered a silent prayer when it got entangled in the improvised trap.

A thought crossed his mind. What if it doesn’t need vision? Could its creator control them? Regardless, Caelan used the window provided by the confusion all the same.

Grabbing the copy’s arm, he twisted it. His body rotated, sending the echo to the ground. In the same motion, he aimed and threw the axe at Seraphina’s opponent.

Of course, they slapped it away. At that point Caelan had no power left in his shaking arm. But the half-second he distracted proved to be enough.

For the woman managed to hit the enemy’s torso. Not enough to break his protective aura. But long enough so she glued the knife to him by freezing the area around.

He watched as she fickled the wrist, essence string in hand. A wave of vibrations went through it, reaching the enemy.

Before it exploded in frost energy, slamming them on the wall, into the next room.

The displaced couldn’t celebrate, as the copy began to get up. He placed it into a chokehold, leveraging his weight to keep it on the ground. At least my size gave me one advantage.

He could hear the fight going on somewhere at his back. But the office desk blocked all vision he could have. Not that it mattered, for all his attention went into making sure the specter couldn’t gut him. Come on, Seraphina, finish him off already!

Her gasp froze his blood in his veins. From his limited view, he saw her crash into the wall, then fall on the ground. Every nerve in his body screamed as he noticed the figure loomed over him, knife aimed at his throat.

Instinct kicked in. He twisted, yanking the copy between himself and the blade. But the moment steel should have met the clone, it vanished into nothing.

A surge of pain, their knife through his left arm. At least not on his neck. A kick to the stomach created some distance. No thought, only instinct. Got up, but slow enough for them to attack again.

He shifted his torso enough to survive. Still too slow to prevent injury. Blade buried itself in his shoulder.

Eyes met. The accursed purple mocking him, a reminder of his failures. Why can’t I escape the Rot even here? Time crawled to a halt, Caelan’s mind at full speed. He could watch every detail around him, down to the dust particles coming down.

He knew death came for him at last.

Another knife pulled from their belt, the figure reeled back to strike. Caelan thought of Sam and Gramps. At least he would see them again. And all the pain would go away, at least.

A cockroach flew straight into the assailant’s eye.

Perfect aim. Too perfect. But Caelan had no time to question it.

Mind cleared, Caelan’s body scorched from within. He berated himself for giving up, not fight to the very end. All that molten anger ignited something deep inside him. He got into an orthodox boxing stance, like a thousand times before.

Like how Gramps showed him.

His left arm burned with every motion, but he forced two quick jabs forward. Sloppy, weak—but a setup for the real hit. A massive body blow, straight into the chest.

Right before it connected, he felt like lightning spread from his heart to the arm. A familiar sensation, one he wished never to feel again. But at that moment, part of him felt nothing but gratitude.

For it enhanced his strength to send the attacker flying away. Right before an intense pain covered his right arm. The enemy crashed once again beside the door, slamming into the concrete.

Caelan and the figure both came to the ground. His arm snapped under the force of his own strike. The figure doubled over, wracked by a dry cough. Caelan heard hurried footsteps before Seraphina appeared. Knives flashing as she hurled them at their foe.

Before they could hit, another clone appeared, taking the strike. It pulled at the strings, unbalancing the executor. Another copy showed up, carrying the attacker to the door.

Caelan tried to rise, but his body finally betrayed him. Nausea overtook him, bile rising in his throat. He crawled, desperate to reach the figure before it was too late. “Don’t… let him get away!”

Seraphina’s attempts at reaching the door only met frustration. Right before they went out the door, two more clones materialized. They lacked details compared to the original. Closer to silhouettes than perfect mirrors.

The woman’s semblance grow more and more flustered the longer they blocked her. When she finally found herself out of the room, Caelan knew it would be too late.

Next time, makes sure he won’t run away. He already had an idea Needed to go back to the workshop to work on it.

He fought back the pain and desire to vomit. He turned, back against the floor, edges of vision going dark. Lost too much blood. Won’t stay awake for long.

A bug had saved him. He could see its corpse not too far away. Dumb luck or… something else?

He swore a voice came far in the distance. Seraphina, coming back after failing to catch up? A blurred figure loomed over him, gesturing like a maniac. He let his eyes slip shut, too drained to care.

Before consciousness faded, Caelan thanked the cockroach for its valiant sacrifice. He swore, for the briefest second, the cockroach had turned toward him. As if acknowledging his thanks.

Oh, I’m delirious. How great.