echoes of Quinn and Brock themselves. Distorted, half-shadow, half-flame. Their own faces, twisted into masks of rage.
"This is what the Cradle does," Harrow said. "It reflects. Tests. You fight to open the gate."
"That's us" Quinn groaned stuttering
The chamber pulsed with an eerie luminescence, the obsidian gate before them throbbing in sync with the air. Quinn's grip tightened around his bat, the shadow tendrils coiling more aggressively as if sensing the impending confrontation. Brock stood beside him, his branded hand glowing faintly reacting to the sight in front of him.
From the shimmering pools scattered across the floor made up of a silvery black color reflecting the light, two figures emerged—twisted reflections of Quinn and Brock. These mimics bore their likenesses but were distorted, their features exaggerated into grotesque parodies. Shadow-Quinn's eyes glowed with a malevolent light, his bat dripping with a dark ichor. Flame-Brock's body radiated an intense heat, the air around him shimmering with the intensity.
Brock took a cautious step forward, eyes locked onto his doppelgänger. "This is what the Cradle does," he murmured. "It reflects."
Without warning, Shadow-Quinn lunged, his bat swinging in a wide arc. Quinn barely managed to parry, but still not being good with his bat he loses his balance and grip of the bat. Falling to the ground and looking up in fear. Using the momentum of the swing bringing it back down towards Quinns skull. With a near miss the impact sent vibrations up his arms. The mimic's laughter echoed, a chilling sound that resonates.
Brocks mimic laughter echoed across the open cathedral-like cavern
Brock engaged his fiery counterpart, their clashes sending sparks flying. Each movement was a mirror, a reflection of his own techniques, but twisted and more aggressive. The mimic anticipated his moves, countering with a ferocity that left little room for error.
Quinn ducked under another swing losing breath every movement "dude I'm not cut out for this" he huffed moving towards the mimic's side. Using his bat he swung to his side very weak. The bat connected, but instead of recoiling, Shadow-Quinn absorbed the blow, his form momentarily rippling like water. "You're not real," Quinn muttered, frustration mounting while he tries to pull out the bat.
"You just realized that!" Brock screamed furiously while still trying to hold off the mimic
"But I am you," the mimic replied, voice dripping with venom. "Every doubt, every fear, every failure. I am the shadow you cast."
Brock, meanwhile, found himself on the defensive. Flame-Brock's attacks were relentless, each strike forcing him to retreat. Drawing upon his inner strength, Brock summoned a burst of energy, pushing the mimic back momentarily. "You're just a reflection," he spat. "A distorted image."
Flame-Brock grinned, flames dancing in his eyes. "Yet I burn with your fire, fueled by your rage."
Quinn, realizing brute force wouldn't suffice, shifted tactics. He began to anticipate the mimic's moves, using its predictability against it. Feinting left, he struck right, catching Shadow-Quinn off guard. The mimic staggered, its form flickering.
Brock followed suit, exploiting the mimic's mirrored nature. By altering his rhythm and introducing unpredictability, he managed to land a solid blow, causing Flame-Brock to fall weaker and still much more powerful than brock.
The tide began to turn. With each successful strike, the mimics' forms destabilized, their features becoming increasingly distorted. Quinn delivered a final, decisive blow, his bat shattering through Shadow-Quinn's chest. The mimic let out a guttural scream before dissipating into a cloud of darkness.
Brock, drawing upon his remaining strength, unleashed a concentrated burst of energy from his palm, engulfing Flame-Brock with a huge burst of light and what looked to be more black tendrils. The mimic writhed, flames consuming it from within, before collapsing into ash.
Silence returned to the chamber, the only sound of their heavy breathing. The obsidian gate before them pulsed once more, a deep, resonant hum that seemed to beckon.
Quinn turned to Brock, sweat dripping from his brow. "We did it."
Brock nodded, eyes fixed on the gate. "But this was just the beginning of this cavern."
From behind, Harrow approached, Star trailing closely. "The path ahead is uncertain," Harrow said, voice grave.
"There's more?" Quinn said moping around through the door
The air settled into oppressive stillness as Harrow's voice faded into the gloom. The obsidian gate throbbed, its resonance like a heartbeat—ominous, insistent. Quinn gathered himself, blood-tinged sweat beading at his temples. Brock's branded hand burned faintly where Flame-Brock had struck him. Silence enveloped them.
Harrow stepped forward, torchlight flickering across his face. "There is another chamber," he said softly, and the word heavy. The gate's hum surge.
Quinn pushed himself upright, muscles trembling. "How many more of those things?"
Harrow's gaze was grim. "Perhaps one more. Both this and the last fight are a reflection of your greatest weakness." He raised a hand. "This trial is almost over."
With that, the shimmering pools along the floor began to ripple, silver-black waves curling outward. From each shimmering surface, a new pair of figures emerged—wraithlike copies, each more twisted than the last. Gone were the clear echoes this time not brock or quinn but tall figure with what looks to be a wife beater long blqck hair to the shoulders but covered in sludge, black tar. "Thats nny" and to the left the other figure emerged it was Star but inverted his brown hair was converted to tendrils his limbs long and way taller star being shorter than average its a good 10 inches taller making him taller than harrow
Star looking horrified backs up falling to the floor with a thud silenced by the sound of rapid breathing as something shines out of the corner of his eye "guys" he muttered but unheard "guys" he said a bit louder still quiet "guys!" He screamed catching everyone off guard even his shadow version
"Dude was that you" Quinn said in shock "so your not that quiet huh" Brock said laughing a little as he walks over. Brock helps him get up
Brock inhaled sharply. "We fight until the gate opens. That's the only way forward."
Quinn flexed his fingers. "Then let's do this."
Second Wave: The Shadows Within
First to move was a silent Shade shaped like Brock's self‑doubt: gaunt, eyes hollow, flames flickering but dying at the edges. Quinn rolled forward, bat in hand, striking upward. The mimic absorbed the hit, flame sputtering, and staggered—then vanished in cinders. Quinn exhaled, chest pounding.
Brock faced his counterpart—a Scorch who reflected not his physical fire, but self-resentment, the flame brittle and brittle in form. Each strike from Brock fractured it further, until it crumbled, ashes swirling at his feet. He looked to Quinn. "One down," he said, huffing.
Quinn wiped ash from his bat. "Feels like there's a dozen more." His voice wavered.
But the next two mimics lunged simultaneously—one at Quinn, one at Brock. They moved like riddles—unpredictable, echoing but misaligned. Quinn barely dodged a slash that carved air beside him; Brock twisted away from a strike that scorched the ground.
Driven now by necessity, Quinn began to time breaths, watch rhythms. When Shadow‑Quinn swung, he feinted, stepping into a gap, striking hard. The mimic shattered like obsidian glass. For the first time, Quinn felt shards of confidence.
Brock, inspired, changed tempo mid‑fight—alternating explosive bursts with still pauses. Each shift warped Flame‑Brock's flow, breaking its rhythm. When he landed a palm strike—pure, concentrated energy—the mimic's form melted into flickering embers.
Rising Stakes: Internal Battleground
With two reflections gone, the remaining pairs quivered, distortion spreading like static. Quinn braced himself—heart racing—in the hush before the next onslaught. Brock's breathing steadied; they shared a silent nod.
As mimics charged again, faster now, the chamber seemed to shrink—the gate's hum pounding like a drum. Each strike took more from Brock: agonized breaths, furious roars, but with each hit he carved cracks into the mimic's armor of fiery rage.
Quinn, on the other side, fought differently. Lethargy and insecurity roared within his mirror self; he mirrored it for a moment, allowing the mimic to think it had him. Then he slammed forward—bat burying in its chest. The figure dissolved in rippling darkness.
At the final moment, Brock unleashed everything he had—hand blazing, body slamming into Flame‑Brock. The mimic flickered violently, the flame collapsing inward. With a blinding flash and rending of black tendrils, it exploded in radiant ash.
The Gate's Final Call
Silence fell again, deeper than before. The pools stilled. Quinn leaned on his bat, shaking. Brock collapsed to one knee, fingers pressed into scorched stone. Together, they stared at the looming gate.
It pulsed once more—slower, deliberate. And then, mercifully, it began to open: a yawning void of pure obsidian swallowed by shifting light.
Harrow, Star, and their faint torchlight joined them at the threshold. Star's eyes gleamed with cautious respect. "You unraveled it," Harrow said softly. "Each reflection drawn from your insecurities—and each destroyed by confronting them."
Quinn swallowed, throat raw. "So"—he paused—"this is like… facing ourselves?"
Brock managed a tired grin. "Exactly. Only by standing firm against our own darkness could we open the path."
They rose slowly, shoulders aching, hearts pounding. Beyond the gate lay an abyssal corridor—black stone walls pulsing with rhythmic runes. The air was dense, alive. Harrow stepped forward, torch held high. "This next section will not mirror shadows—it will tempt them."
Quinn clenched his bat anew, eyes narrowed. "Let's walk through it."
Brock exhaled, glowing faintly. "Together."
Side by side, they crossed the threshold. The gate's hum faded behind them; ahead, the path began—the beginning not just of more danger, but of remaking themselves.