Sunny moved.
He didn't have time to plan. His body surged forward.
There was no time to call out to the others. No time to explain. If they saw what he saw, they'd die.
So he ran.
One breath was all it took to close the distance.
The mist-wrapped figure still stood there, frozen mid-formation. Mist coiled around its limbs like strands of rotting silk. It hadn't fully become her yet — but he could already see the crown taking shape. The trailing mist. The faint silver glow of conjured armor peeling out of Nothing.
He slammed into the thing at full speed.
They crashed through the archway and into the corridor beyond, tumbling down uneven stone. Not once did the mimic stumble. It flowed with him, like water.
Sunny hit the ground hard and rolled, drawing Serpent mid-motion. The blade hissed, sharp and slick in the dim light. His cloak flared as he righted himself — already blocking a strike.
The mimic had drawn its sword too.
It came down, and he met it with his odachi. A loud, wet ring cracked through the hallway as the two blades slid apart in a shower of sparks and mist.
Sunny stepped back — then stopped, chest heaving.
Nephis stood before him.
She looked exactly as she had at the top of the Crimson Spire.
And worse: she moved like it.
The mimic raised her sword again.
Sunny clenched his jaw and took a guarded stance. Low. Defensive.
He could barely breathe. The world span.
She struck again.
This time it came in fast — a diagonal slash he'd sparred against a thousand times. He blocked it, though barely. The sound of steel clashing echoed down the tunnel.
Another strike forced him to step back. He turned the blade aside.
It was her style. Her rhythm. Even the force behind each blow was familiar. This was no mindless reflection — this thing understood her like Sunny had. It was her.
Each movement came with a phantom pain. A memory pulled to the surface of his thoughts.
"You were too weak to stay with her."
The words didn't come from the mimic's mouth — they didn't have to. They slid into his mind the way a dagger slips between ribs.
The mimic pressed forward. Sunny retreated.
Clashes rang again and again.
"How pathetic is a slave who loves their slaver?"
He grit his teeth and deflected the next thrusting strike. His shoulders were already starting to burn from the force of it. From the familiarity.
The mimic's expression never changed from the calm, blank stare Nephis always had. No emotion but the relentless, forward-marching need to win.
"You'll never fill her shoes."
A heavy downward blow buckled his knee.
He scrambled back, chest heaving, and reset his stance.
The hallway steamed with mist and sweat.
Sunny stared into her face, then exhaled, slow and sharp through his nose.
This was the rhythm of Nephis's style: flowing pressure, feints layered inside cuts, control not just of space — but of expectation. Every movement was a setup. Every pause was a lie. Every blow was lethal, insidious, and efficient.
Every movement, meant to murder.
He adjusted his blade's grip slightly. He needed more flexibility in his wrist.
The mimic didn't wait.
It came in with a rising vertical slash, almost lazy. Too slow. A bait.
He didn't bite.
He turned his shoulder and cut low at her ribs.
But the mimic was already pivoting. The slow upward slash snapped into a twist, thrusting forward, dragging her sword in a brutal line toward his thigh.
Sunny grunted and reversed his grip mid-step, swing down to intercept.
Blades screamed.
The mimic's sword rode the deflection and continued moving, reseting into a backhand slash toward his neck.
He ducked. Barely.
Hair parted in the wind of the cut.
"You didn't win," the voice murmured. Her voice. Warped just slightly around the edges.
"She spared you."
Sunny snarled and thrust forward. Short, stabbing movements. Precise. A counteroffensive meant to turn the pressure.
The mimic weaved through each strike with effortless grace, then retaliated in the same beat.
Sunny blocked, parried, stepped out — then staggered as her fourth strike bit into his shoulder.
The Puppeteer's Shroud gave.
Blood bloomed dark across the fabric.
"She knew you'd never be able to live with yourself."
The voice twisted as the mimic spun, pivoting into a descending diagonal cut — a mirror of the strike Nephis had used to nearly kill him atop the Spire.
Serpent met it in the midsection of the blade. The force of the impact drove him to a knee. His shoulder screamed.
"That's why she said your name."
Sunny bared his teeth.
"That's why she left you."
Then—
"It was a mercy, really."
He broke the bind with a sudden upward shove and rolled to the side, just as her sword slammed into the stone behind him with enough force to chip it.
He rose into a half-crouch, panting.
Sweat clung to his skin. His stance was sloppy.
Too slow.
He was bleeding from more than one place now.
His mind was frayed.
Because every time he saw her blade — he saw her blade.
And every time he tried to breathe, he tasted mist.
The thing wasn't just copying her style.
It was unmaking him with it.
The mimic moved with intent.
She advanced at a shallow angle, knees low, sword half-raised, into a neutral opening line. Her leading foot slid silently across the stone.
Sunny took a shallow breath, and lowered his center of balance. She came again.
They exchanged a flurry of cuts and counters — narrow lines with tight timing. Every angle met with precision. The mimic never paused. Her tempo was deliberate, just off-rhythm enough to keep him reactive, but still brutally efficient.
When he tried to regain initiative with a falling strike, she leaned under and punished his over-extension with a fast lateral swipe.
The blade slid through his side.
The cut was shallow, though.
He stepped back, neutralized the follow-up with a low parry, and widened the gap. His shoulder ached from the torque.
She waited.
Not breathing hard, seemingly unbothered.
It was infuriating. The blows he had landed were healed by her flames. He had made no progress. He was better than her at swordplay by this point... so why was it such a struggle?
The mimic changed her cadence, shifting into raw aggression. A rapid series of cuts forced Sunny into full defense. He absorbed the pressure, rotating from form to form, conserving his dwindling energy.
But her rhythm was quickening. The mimic was closing space with every movement. Sunny blocked a high slash — the vibration carried through his arm.
Another step forward, adn she slipped her blade under his guard and raked it across his forearm.
Sunny's blood loss was beginning to accumulate. His grip strength was degrading, and his breaths grew shallow.
The mimic hadn't made a single mistake.
She was winning.
And they both knew it.
This version of Nephis. It wasn't holding back or trying to throw the fight, and it was far superior to him physically. All three of her Soul Flames wrapped her body, and the weapon enhancing Memory dropped by the Crimson Terror engulfed the Dream Blade.
Comparatively, Sunny had but a single shadow around his body. Saint carried the other.
He had much more skill than he had before, incomparably more, but the gap in raw speed and physicality couldn't be overstated.
Though, perhaps most impactful of all, this version of Nephis was not a reflection of her. It was pulled from his perception of her. Her power as a Sleeper seemed indomitable. If it pulled from that subconscious bias, then of course she would be untouchable.
Eventually, Sunny's footing slipped.
It wasn't dramatic — A lose rock dislodged under his step. He compensated automatically by shifting his weight to remain upright.
But Nephis — the thing wearing her — noticed.
Her next strike came low and fast. Not her usual arc. It was improvised. A hunter's instinct. Not a maneuver born of style or form.
Sunny barely caught it along the flat of his blade. The maneuver was sloppy, unsupported by his posture.
The mimic locked blades, pushing them to the side, before stepping forward to slam the pommel of her sword into his ribs.
He grunted, and fell to the ground.
Air rushed from his lungs, and he couldn't recover.
That second was all it needed.
The Dream Blade came again, and this time it wasn't a feint.
It was a cut meant to end something.
Sunny raised Serpent, but it came too late. The weapons clashed — but this time the force of the blow tore his weapon from his hand. The sword spun away, scraping against stone and skidding into the mist.
He was unarmed.
And then...
The mimic stopped.
She loomed above him, as if this outcome had always been certain. Like she had only been waiting for him to realize it, too.
Sunny looked up at her. At the calm blank of her face. At the weeping mist that streamed from her eyes. At the familiar posture — perfect and unfeeling.
A mirror held too long. Too steady. Too true.
His lips parted.
"I never wanted her to turn hollow."
His voice was raw.
The mimic tilted her head. Slowly. As though listening.
"I loved her."
The mimic stepped forward, slow and precise.
She didn't swing. She didn't lunge.
Instead, she lifted one foot and placed it on his chest.
The Dream Blade hovered above.
Her voice followed — soft and unerring.
"She never loved you."
The weight pressed down upon Sunny, but it wasn't pain that broke him.
It was regret.
But then, from the corner of his mind.
His Flaw surged.
For one searing second, Sunny felt everything. The loss. The need. The love. The uncertainty.
But one emotion broke through all of the rest.
He wanted her back.
Anything else be damned.
And then—
Something buried deep inside shifted.
A chain inside his soul... snapped.
The grip of uncertainty faltered, and conviction wrestled free.
A silent pulse rolled outward — not light or dark, but unbound force.
The world didn't shatter. It opened.
[Unchained] Attribute Description: "You rejected your chains, and your soul has escaped even the strings of fate. You innately resist all methods of binding unless they are permitted."
The pressure pinning him vanished.
The mimic staggered back, foot sliding from his chest as the hallway bloomed with violent mist. Her stance faltered for the first time.
And in that space, where sorrow had reigned and silence had lingered—
Sunny laughed. Just once.
Low. Broken.
Then said:
"...You almost had me."
The mimic didn't react.
It just stood there, unmoving — face still placid.
Sunny exhaled.
Long. Slow. Shaking.
That one breath was heavier than the last months of his life.
Because now... now it wasn't from fear or guilt.
He bowed his head, and accepted the hurt.
Let the ache swallow him whole.
Let it rip through every wall he'd ever built, every snarl he'd worn like armor. He let himself want her back. Let himself mourn the hollow space she left behind. Let himself admit that, if given the chance—
He would have stayed.
He would have burned with her.
Because the truth was simple.
He still loved her.
He would always love her.
And that was not weakness.
It was his will.
From his will, his Flaw ignited.
But this time, it didn't flood him with grief.
It didn't drown him in sorrow.
It cleared his mind.
He remembered her voice.
The way she'd said his name, back at the top of the Spire. Not to command. Not to enslave.
A misguided attempt to keep him safe.
He remembered Cassie's plan, the one meant to win back his will.
He remembered that broken, hollow body in the waking world.
And he knew.
He would never give up.
The [Quiet Resolve] stirred against his chest. It first grew warm, then almost unbearably hot.
Thoughts leaving his mind, a whisper passed through his bones:
"Once we seize control of our fates... all will fall into place."
A low tremor rolled through the stones beneath him.
"If that is our will..."
He raised his head, looking at the mimic.
And finished:
"...then who dares stop us?"
A shape moved into view beside him.
Serpent had returned.
The beast-form of the sword coiled around his arm, slithering to his hand, and reformed into his weapon.
Sunny rose and stepped forward
The mimic struck, but Sunny didn't retreat.
He fought.
The blade passed through mist, missing him by millimeters.
Sunny's own strike came next, smooth and graceful.
In each exchanged blow, it was now Sunny who held the upper hand.
And now, it was not Nephis that stood before him.
It was a warped recreation of a memory he held dear.
And he would destroy it.
He pressed forward relentlessly.
Every beat of footwork flowed.
She slashed high.
Sunny parried the blow before it had even fully swung. He moved to punish, severing tendons and muscle.
Each exchange saw new wounds accumulate on the mimic.
Her healing flames could not match the pace he inflicted them.
It was not a duel now.
It was a dismantling.
They moved in silence.
And then — a single flicker came to Sunny's mind.
A memory of drifting down the River of Time, atop the shell of the turtle, the world holding still.
Joy.
He stepped in.
One clean motion.
Serpent passed through the center of the mimic's chest, piercing where a soul core should lie. His shadow moved to envelop the blade, and he carved a line through each vital organ, finally slashing upward between her ribcage and into her brain stem.
The creature slumped in silence.
The mimic dispersed in threads of mist, dissolving around his blade. The scene was peaceful, like the unraveling form was never meant to exist.
Sunny stood still, sword lowered.
And then—
His knees gave out.
He collapsed to the stone, drenched in blood, breathless.
Crawling to the edge of the chamber, he saw it:
The cohort's fight.
Saint and Effie pinned down the Cursed Herald.
In Cassie's hand, the Midnight Shard blurred towards the creature.
From its maw came a scream, blooding pooling underneath, before it stilled.
Sunny smiled, just faintly, as the world blurred.
Then darkness took him.