Dawn was a fleeting promise on the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the bandit hideout. Mark, his hand tightening around his sword hilt, led his clones into the heart of the enemy stronghold. Every muscle hummed with anticipation; this was the culmination of weeks of training, a test of their collective strength.

The air crackled with nervous energy as they breached the main gate. But instead of the expected bandit rabble, a figure materialized from the shadows, its form cloaked in an unnatural darkness. It exuded an aura that chilled Mark's bones – a sense of power tinged with something far more sinister.

Before Mark could even react, the figure spoke, its voice a raspy whisper that seemed to slither into his mind. "Clones," it sneered, a single word dripping with disdain. "Predictable, expendable."

A wave of dread washed over Mark. In what seemed like an instant, the Harbinger, as he called himself, raised a hand. Tendrils of dark energy lashed out, bypassing the clones with chilling precision. They stumbled, confusion clouding their eyes.

Mark watched in horror as the Harbinger's power surged, effortlessly tearing through his clones. One by one, they crumpled to the ground, their energy fading. Panic clawed at him, his mind reeling. These weren't just tools; they were his comrades, his team.

Desperate screams ripped through the air. Elara, ever the strategist, threw herself forward, engaging the Harbinger in a ferocious exchange of swordsmanship. Her every move was a desperate attempt to buy time, to create a sliver of an opening.

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But the Harbinger, his dark magic swirling around him, proved too powerful. A single, brutal blow sent Elara crashing into a wall, her chest heaving, her face contorted in pain. Despair threatened to consume Mark, but amidst the growing darkness, Elara's sacrifice ignited a spark of defiance within him.

He had to adapt. Brute force wouldn't win this battle. This enemy saw through the clones' connection, exploiting their very essence. Mark needed a new strategy, a way to utilize their remaining strengths, their honed skills.

A new plan blossomed in his mind. He barked orders, directing the scout clone to utilize his knowledge of the hideout's layout to create a diversion, a chaotic dance of shadows and light. The remaining clones, each a specialist in their field, launched themselves at the Harbinger in a flurry of attacks – the blacksmith's heavy hammer, the alchemist's concoction of pungent smoke, all aimed at overwhelming his senses, breaking his focus.

The Harbinger, momentarily surprised by the shift in tactics, faltered. A desperate gasp escaped the scholar clone's lips as he stumbled forward, clutching an ancient scroll. "Mark!" he yelled, his voice hoarse. "A weakness! The inscriptions… dark magic… vulnerable to…"

Hope flared within Mark. This was their chance. He lunged forward, channeling everything within him into a single, powerful strike. The success of their mission, the future of his clones, hung in the balance.

The outcome, however, remained shrouded in uncertainty. As the clang of his sword echoed through the chamber, the scene dissolved into a haze of dark energy and raw determination. Would their combined efforts be enough to overcome this formidable foe? Would Elara's sacrifice pave the way for victory, or would they succumb to the Harbinger's overwhelming power? Only time would tell.