The figure moved with a calm, deliberate poise, its every step exuding authority. Though its body shimmered with the same crimson corruption as the others, its movements were unnervingly precise, carrying a weight that the earlier copies lacked.

"Eryndar," the master murmured, his voice low and guarded. He recognized the posture, the fluidity in the way it adjusted its stance. But this wasn’t truly Eryndar. It was another hollow copy, yet its presence was undeniable—a shadow of the legend.

The cultist let out a dry, joyless laugh as it slid away from the master’s reach, retreating into the darker edges of the chamber. "You were getting too close to ending this, master," it rasped. "But let’s see how you fare against a legend reborn."

The master shifted his stance, his muscles tensing as he prepared for the inevitable confrontation. The corrupted Eryndar raised its hand, its essence flaring with an intensity that made the air hum.

The true battle was about to begin.

The master stood poised, his body attuned to the shifting energies of the room. The air was thick with corrupted essence, but his focus remained razor-sharp. His eyes locked on the corrupted Eryndar, whose posture was a haunting echo of the true master.

Eryndar’s movements were precise, every shift and adjustment a mirror of his own. There was no hesitation in its steps, no wavering in its intent. It was as though the corrupted essence had perfectly captured Eryndar’s fluidity, his controlled strikes, and his mastery over his own power.

The corrupted Eryndar stepped forward, its eyes—dark and hollow—locked onto the master. Without a sound, it lunged, a perfect replica of Eryndar's opening stance, a strike aimed directly at the master’s torso.

The master’s instincts kicked in, and he twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding the attack, his movements smooth and practiced. The corrupted Eryndar adjusted in an instant, following through with a series of lightning-fast jabs, forcing the master into a defensive position. Every punch, every kick came with the same precision as the true Eryndar’s, and the master found himself momentarily matching his opponent’s rhythm.

But the master had seen this before.

He ducked under a sharp elbow aimed at his head and countered with a rising kick, a move that should have struck with lethal force. Yet the corrupted Eryndar mirrored it perfectly, using its own leg to intercept. The force of their legs clashing created a shockwave, sending a ripple of corrupted essence through the air. The master’s eyes narrowed—this would not be an easy battle.

Their movements became a whirlwind of strikes and counters, each blow reverberating with the weight of their shared mastery over essence. The corrupted Eryndar’s fist moved like a blur, striking with the intent of the original Eryndar, each punch layered with controlled essence to break through defenses. The master dodged and weaved, his body moving as if the very shadows guided him. Every strike from the corrupted Eryndar came with the cold certainty of mimicry, but the master was quicker, his experience in fluidity and timing giving him an edge.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

As the corrupted Eryndar launched a spinning roundhouse kick, the master sidestepped with an ease that was almost effortless. He darted in, aiming a precise punch to its ribs, but the corrupted version parried the strike, turning it into an open palm that sent the master flying backward with a pulse of concentrated essence. His body crashed into a stone pillar, but he quickly regained his footing, unfazed.

It was clear now—the corrupted Eryndar wasn’t just mimicking movements. It was analyzing and adapting to the master’s style, evolving its own technique in real-time. For the first time in years, the master felt the weight of real danger. This was not a mere imitation; this was an adversary that had learned to read his every move, just as Eryndar himself would.

The master inhaled deeply, centering his essence. He focused, pushing out his energy in a pulse, just enough to sense the flow around him. The corrupted Eryndar mirrored the exact same motion, its own essence flaring in response. The clash of their energies created a burst of force, scattering the dust and debris in the room, and for a moment, everything was silent.

In that brief pause, the master launched himself forward with incredible speed, his body flowing like water. He twisted midair, spinning to deliver a low sweep aimed at the corrupted Eryndar’s legs. The corrupted Eryndar moved with equal fluidity, anticipating the strike, and countered with a spinning heel kick that met the master’s leg before it could land.

The impact sent both fighters skidding across the ground, their feet carving grooves into the stone. They sprang to their feet almost simultaneously, their eyes locked in an unspoken understanding: this fight would be a test of endurance, of control, and of essence.

The corrupted Eryndar advanced first, its movement a fluid, rhythmic dance of precise strikes, flowing with such grace that it was almost indistinguishable from the true Eryndar’s style. It sent a barrage of palm strikes at the master’s chest, each one radiating controlled essence that threatened to overwhelm him. The master parried and blocked, moving seamlessly between each attack. His body flowed like water, but his strikes began to come faster, more aggressive.

The corrupted Eryndar reacted, its arms moving in perfect synchronization with the master’s strikes, its feet shifting as if predicting every motion. Their attacks became a blur—a violent clash of light and shadow, essence and power. The corrupted Eryndar’s attacks were an exact mirror of the master’s own style, but there was a coldness to them, a lack of the emotional connection that made the master’s movements feel so alive.

In the midst of the flurry, the master’s foot snapped out in a swift, powerful kick, aimed at the corrupted Eryndar’s midsection. The strike landed with enough force to knock the wind from its chest, but the corrupted Eryndar recovered in a flash, rolling backward and launching into a series of rapid strikes designed to break the master’s rhythm.

The master blocked and dodged, his body fluidly reacting to the onslaught, but the intensity of the attack began to wear him down. The corrupted Eryndar was relentless, attacking with no emotion or hesitation, a cold, efficient copy of the true master. Yet, despite its speed and precision, the master held his ground, countering each blow with an equal measure of control and power.

Finally, the master saw an opening. The corrupted Eryndar’s foot swept too far, leaving a brief gap in its defense. The master seized the opportunity, pivoting on his heel and delivering a devastating roundhouse kick to its head, using the full force of his essence. The corrupted Eryndar staggered back, its form flickering as the corrupted essence struggled to hold its shape.

But just as the master prepared to deliver the final blow, the corrupted Eryndar’s eyes flashed with a burst of intense crimson essence, its body surging forward with newfound energy. It had adapted again, learning from the master’s strike. The corrupted Eryndar’s speed and power had grown to match the master’s, and now, the battle was truly on the edge of a knife.

The master grinned inwardly, his heart racing. It had been a long time since he had faced an opponent that could push him to this point. And if things keep going like this, the fight was going to be far from over.