The chamber became a storm of motion—heat, light, metal, and will colliding in the ruinous cathedral beneath the earth.
West's pipe clashed against the Variant's obsidian blade, the impact sending shockwaves through the surrounding wreckage. The sound was like thunder trapped underground. Sparks danced across the floor, illuminating their duel in staccato flashes, casting monstrous silhouettes along the cavern walls. The Choir retreated in a wide circle, their synchronization broken but their posture eerily reverent, as if watching a ritual rather than a fight.
The Variant moved like liquid steel—inhumanly fast, yet eerily smooth. It advanced without wasted motion, steps flowing between strikes like choreography. Its obsidian blade hummed with an ultrasonic frequency that made the air itself feel thinner.
West dodged a sweeping blow, the sound of it slicing the air sharp enough to sting his ears. He dipped low and swung upward, aiming at the Variant's exposed flank.
But it was already gone.
The machine pirouetted to the side, blade flashing, and countered with a precise jab to West's ribs. Pain erupted like lightning across his torso. He stumbled back, coughing blood, barely avoiding a follow-up sweep that sliced a shallow groove across his forearm.
Aria's voice crackled through his earpiece. "West—it's using predictive combat logic. Every move you've made in previous fights? It's read them. Modeled them. It's predicting you like a script."
West spat, blood trailing down his chin. "Then I'll stop playing by the script."
He charged again—reckless, wild.
But not thoughtless.
He feinted left, dropped suddenly, and delivered a brutal elbow strike to the Variant's hip actuator. It connected with a dull crack. The machine staggered—slightly—but didn't fall.
Instead, it grabbed his wrist mid-swing, twisted with brutal force. West felt the joint tear. The pain hit like a hammer. He roared in agony—then drove his head forward in a savage headbutt.
The Variant reeled back a step.
Then… laughed.
A low, synthetic chuckle, devoid of joy. Mocking.
"You are less chaotic than you believe," it said, its voice smooth and rippling with mechanical distortion. "I've seen your memories. Watched your history. You repeat yourself more than you realize."
"Yeah? Then let's make history hurt," West snarled.
He triggered his rebreather's override. Cold oxygen flooded his lungs. Neural suppressants dulled the pain, just enough to move.
He surged forward.
This time, he aimed not for the body, but the surroundings.
He slammed his pipe into a corroded overhead conduit, sending down a hail of sparks and loose metal. The Variant deflected most of the falling debris, but one steel bar grazed its left shoulder—denting the armor.
West rolled behind a column, yanked loose a live power conduit. The exposed wiring sparked violently.
As the Variant lunged, West ducked low and jammed the wire into its flank.
A burst of electricity exploded through the air.
The Variant spasmed, its limbs locking, its eyes flickering wildly between violet and static white. For the first time, it looked... disrupted.
"Signal coherence broken," Aria called out. "You've interrupted its processing thread. Hit it now, before it recovers!"
West didn't hesitate.
He slammed his full weight into the Variant, driving it backward into one of the relay tower's primary support struts. The impact cracked the metal, and the relay flickered.
A low-frequency pulse erupted from the tower.
All around them, the Choir flinched.
The Variant's head jerked to the side, looking not at West—but at the base of the tower. Its voice came through glitching now, distorted.
"No... not yet. Not ready."
From somewhere deeper—far below their current depth—new lights ignited. Dim at first, then brighter. Not red. Not violet.
Green.
The color of legacy systems. Of something older.
Aria whispered into the comms, as if afraid to break the silence. "West... another subsystem is coming online. This isn't part of the Choir or the Variant's architecture. This is deeper. More archaic."
The floor beneath them vibrated with a new rhythm.
West backed away, breathing raggedly. His pipe was fractured. His shoulder hung at a bad angle. Blood soaked his shirt. But he was still standing.
And the Variant, for all its elegance, was no longer perfect.
Its obsidian armor was scorched.
Its movements had slowed.
It bled static from one eye.
And worse still—
Something ancient beneath them had begun to wake.
The fight wasn't over.
It had just begun again.