The forest breathed.
He stood where he had almost died, but the air now felt different—heavier. Waiting.
The trees still bore the scars of Echidna's rampage: burnt roots, cracked stones, blood blackening the broken leaves.
Michael flexed his hand.
Power thrummed beneath his skin—raw, layered, alive.
He focused.
Thought: Split.
A haze peeled from his form, smoke drifting into the stillness.
And a shape appeared beside him.
A clone—perfect, down to every thread of his coat. Not physical. Not tangible. But there.
He stepped forward—and his body blinked out, sliding through the illusion like slipping into another skin.
"Teleportation... between fakes."
He tested again. Another split. Another blink.
He moved like wind.
Then he raised his hand—and the mist obeyed. Thick, swirling fog crept from his feet, coiling outward like a living thing.
He shaped it with thought: trees twisted into stone; a second sun ignited behind distant leaves.
But the edges trembled—fragile, unstable.
Too large. Too complex.
The images unraveled.
Michael exhaled slowly.
There are limits.
Still, it was more than enough.
He turned, his steps silent against the dirt, and moved deeper into the forest.
Toward her.
She was still there—coiled in the ruinous grove, her massive body draped across the shattered stones, struggling to heal.
Echidna.
Weaker now. Her once-majestic wings drooped like broken branches. Deep black scars split her scales, marks of the fire that had devoured her.
She lifted her head as he emerged from the mist.
"Still alive?" she hissed, voice fraying at the edges.
Michael said nothing.
He raised his hand.
The mist answered.
It rolled across the ground, ghosting over the stones, encircling her in a shifting ring.
Echidna's eyes narrowed. "More tricks?"
Michael vanished.
A clone appeared behind her.
She struck, vines whipping forward—only to shred empty mist.
Michael reappeared at her side and slashed deep into her flank.
Her scream tore the silence.
More clones. More flickers. Each time she attacked, she struck nothing but smoke. Each time he moved, he cut her down.
"You little ghost!" she shrieked, lashing vines in every direction. "You cheat!"
Michael appeared midair above her—Ashen Mercy gripped tight—and brought the blade down across her back.
Echidna crashed to the earth, writhing in pain.
The mist thickened.
Now full of false Michaels circling her, breathing as one.
Silence fell.
Echidna crawled forward, barely able to lift her head. Her flawless mask cracked, revealing what lay beneath.
"Please... wait..." she gasped.
Michael stepped through the fog, calm, blade steady.
Her face, half-dissolved, lifted to meet his gaze. "I was once... more. I remember... light. A name."
He didn't blink.
"You chose what you are."
Her breath hitched.
"So did I."
He drove the blade down.
A burst of flame—red and gold—consumed her, burning away everything until only smoke and shattered stone remained.
Later – Same Grove
Michael stood alone.
No illusions. No battle. Just the steady beat of his heart and the weight of his blade at his side.
He looked to the cracked stone where Echidna had fallen.
Then to the mist now fading back into the trees.
So this is the power they hide. This is what those crystals carry.
His hand clenched.
And then he remembered.
The dream—or memory—from before. The woman cloaked in darkness. The broken throne. Her eyes.
Who was she?
The image refused to fade. It clung to him, stubborn and sharp, like something half-remembered and half-inherited.
He didn't know which possibility unsettled him more.
Michael turned back toward the path winding through the trees.
"I need answers," he muttered. "And I need to stay alive long enough to find them."
The forest swayed around him, breathing.
And Michael disappeared into the mist.