"Who are you?" the master demanded, his voice firm and unwavering. "And what is the purpose of this place?"
The figure tilted its head slightly, the motion eerily fluid. "Who I am matters little. What matters is what you’ve seen—what you’ve fought." It took a slow step forward, the corrupted essence swirling faintly around its form. "Tell me, master—what did you think of the copies? Did they remind you of anyone?"
The master’s gaze hardened. "They were poor imitations. Flawed and hollow."
A dry chuckle escaped the figure’s lips.
The master moved without hesitation, closing the distance between them in a single, powerful leap. His body twisted mid-air, delivering a spinning kick aimed directly at the cultist’s head. The figure barely managed to evade, tilting its body backward with unnatural fluidity. The force of the kick whipped through the air, its power evident even as it missed.
As the master landed, balanced and poised, the cultist straightened, its hood slipping back slightly to reveal a face as pale and gaunt as a corpse. "Impressive," it rasped, a flicker of amusement in its tone. "The stories of your prowess do not exaggerate. I see now why they call you a master."
The master responded with silence, his focus sharp and unwavering. His feet shifted subtly, his body preparing for the next attack. In a sudden burst of speed, he launched a rapid series of strikes—low kicks to unbalance, followed by precise blows aimed to disable. The cultist twisted and contorted unnaturally, dodging with an agility that seemed to defy human anatomy.
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But it wasn’t enough. The master’s movements were relentless, his strikes growing sharper, faster, forcing the cultist onto the defensive. A sharp crescent kick caught the edge of the cultist’s shoulder, sending it stumbling back with a grunt. The master pressed the advantage, closing the distance with a spinning low sweep. This time, the cultist couldn’t evade. The strike hit its legs cleanly, toppling it to the ground.
"You’ve fought well enough," the master said, his voice calm yet commanding as he stepped forward. "But this ends now."
The cultist scrambled back, raising a hand. A pulse of corrupted essence erupted from its palm, forming a jagged arc of crimson energy that surged toward the master. With flawless precision, the master sidestepped, the energy carving a scorched path into the stone behind him.
"Such precision," the cultist muttered, its voice laced with frustration and awe. It lashed out again, this time with a wide, desperate sweep of energy, but the master evaded each attack effortlessly. He advanced methodically, closing the gap with each step, until the cultist found itself cornered against the chamber’s wall.
"You think you can stop this?" the cultist spat, its voice trembling with both fear and defiance.
The master didn’t answer. He struck with blinding speed, a calculated blow aimed to incapacitate. His fist was mere inches from its target when the air shifted—a sudden, suffocating wave of corrupted essence swept through the room, halting his momentum.
From the shadows behind the cultist, a figure stepped forward. The corrupted essence seemed to gather and condense around it, forming a menacing aura that pulsed like a heartbeat. The master’s sharp eyes narrowed as the figure’s outline became clear—tall, broad, and unmistakably familiar.