Rain slicked the rooftops again—just like the first night Hoshiro ever wore the mask. But this time, something was off. The clouds didn't just rumble—they *listened*, as if waiting for a name to be spoken.
Kazuki pointed to the city's edge. "Sector 12 went dark. No signals. Just… static."
Ayame unsheathed her blade. "He's here."
They arrived at the blackout zone—an abandoned warehouse complex near the old rift site. Every light had shattered. The walls bent inward, like gravity had been rewritten.
And at the center stood *him*.
The double.
Identical in build. Same cloak. Same mask. Same eyes.
But where Hoshiro's gaze burned with purpose, this one shimmered with emptiness—like a reflection with no soul.
"I'm what was left behind," it said calmly. "Your fear, your power, your *doubt*. I remembered everything… and became *better*."
Hoshiro stepped forward. "You're not me."
"I *was*."
The clone flicked its wrist—and the First Blade appeared.
Ayame's eyes widened. "That's not possible—only the original—"
"Can wield it?" the echo asked. "Guess I'm original enough."
—
The blades clashed. Not with sparks—but with *memories*. Every strike revealed a flash: Hoshiro's past, twisted. Friends lost. Fights failed. Moments he never told anyone about.
This was no ordinary battle.
He was fighting *himself*.
—