High above, unseen and untouched, Lancelot watched as Taiyor use his sword to cut the four clones that recently attacked.
His eyes glowed faintly it was so fast if he wasn't paying attention to the battlefield he wouldn't know how the clones fade into air.
The battlefield exhaled.
Stonecliff's narrow streets lay broken under flickering arcs of electricity, fragments of stone still rolling from shattered walls. Smoke drifted lazily upward, illuminated now and then by dying sparks that crackled before fading into nothingness.
High above it all, Lancelot hovered in silence.
His cloak fluttered gently, untouched by the chaos below. His eyes glowed faintly, pupils reflecting dozens of overlapping scenes transmitted from his clones angles, distances, reactions, movements. Every heartbeat fed him more data.
They reacted faster than expected.
Below, the first wave had already ended.
Four clones elite constructs infused with condensed lightning had attacked in flawless synchronization. They struck from left, right, above, and behind, a formation calculated to overwhelm even veteran knights.
Yet they were gone.
Taiyor stood where they had fallen, sword humming softly in his grip. Wisps of electricity dissipated around his boots as the last fragments of clone essence vanished into the air.
Lancelot narrowed his eyes.
Weapon spirit fusion a weapon that controls the body "impressive" .
Taiyor had not merely blocked or countered. He had adapted mid-strike. The moment spirit essence flooded his weapon, the sword ceased to be steel it became an extension of his will.
"Captain," Taiyor said calmly, rotating his wrist as the blade subtly changed shape again, thinning along the edge. "These constructs aren't illusions. They're autonomous."
"I know," Captain Aisha replied.
She stood several steps behind him, one hand raised slightly. The air around her shimmered, heat warping space itself. Even without visible flames, the pressure radiating from her spirit essence bent light and repelled debris.
Aisha lifted her gaze.
"He's watching."
Yoma's eyes flickered, pupils reflecting faint distortions invisible to ordinary sight. "Not just watching," she said softly. "He's gauging our strength."
Above them, rooftops groaned.
The air screamed.
Lightning tore through the sky as the first wave truly descended.
Not four.
Not ten.
Thirty clones fell at once.
They dropped like spears, bodies wrapped in roaring blue-white electricity. The ground shattered on impact as they landed across the streets, rooftops, and alleys surrounding the Nigerians, cutting off every path of retreat.
Stone exploded.
Windows shattered.
Clones moved.
They didn't hesitate. They didn't speak. Each one accelerated instantly, lightning bursting beneath their feet as they closed in with terrifying speed.
Taiyor stepped forward.
His sword liquefied.
Steel flowed like water, reshaping itself into a long, curved blade optimized for wide, sweeping arcs. Spirit essence surged from his core, flooding the weapon until it hummed violently.
He struck.
The blade cut through three clones in a single motion.
Their bodies didn't bleed. They fractured electricity discharging violently as their forms collapsed into sparks that scorched the ground.
Another clone lunged.
Taiyor pivoted. The blade shortened mid-swing, transforming into a stabbing weapon that pierced straight through the clone's chest. Before the body could dissolve, Taiyor twisted his wrist the weapon reshaped again.
A blunt hammerhead formed at the hilt.
He smashed downward.
The clone detonated against the stone road.
"Adaptive fusion confirmed," Aisha said quietly.
High above, Lancelot's fingers twitched.
He's not choosing weapons consciously.
That realization sent a ripple through Lancelot's thoughts.
He's letting instinct dictate form.
That was rare. Dangerous. Fighters like that didn't rely on rigid styles. They flowed with combat itself.
Still not enough.
More clones surged forward.
This time, they came from below.
The stone beneath the Nigerians cracked open as invisible clones erupted from the earth, their forms perfectly concealed until the moment of attack. Lightning-coated fists shot upward, aiming for vitals, joints, spines.
Taiyor reacted instantly.
His blade thinned into a wire-like edge, slicing backward without him even turning fully. Two invisible clones split apart mid-strike, their forms unraveling as lightning scattered into the ground.
A third invisible clone nearly reached Yoma.
Before it could strike the air twisted.
The clone's hand passed through her body.
An illusion.
The real Yoma stood three steps to the left, eyes glowing faintly as her spirit essence pulsed. Reality around her fractured subtly, overlapping layers of false positions, false movements, false intentions.
Clones hesitated.
That hesitation was fatal.
Lightning blades slashed through afterimages. Clones collided with one another, mistaking allies for targets. Others struck empty air, their attacks phasing through illusions that dissolved like mist.
Yoma's voice was calm.
High above, Lancelot frowned.
Illusion layered over spatial distortion…
Troublesome.
Still he escalated.
Second wave.
The sky lit up.
This time, clones didn't fall.
They flew.
Dozens of aerial clones surged forward, electricity roaring as they accelerated, wings of compressed wind and lightning carrying them like living bolts. At the same time, more invisible clones rose from beneath the ground, while others clung to walls and ceilings, perfectly still.
A three-dimensional assault.
Taiyor's breathing deepened.
"So," he muttered, "he's serious now."
He stepped forward instead of retreating.
His sword split.
The weapon separated into multiple segmented blades connected by flowing spirit essence. Each segment moved independently, snapping and striking like a living serpent.
He spun.
Blades lashed outward in all directions.
Flying clones were cut down mid-air, their bodies breaking apart in flashes of blue light. Grounded clones were severed at joints before they could even react.
But numbers pressed in.
A clone broke through the illusion field.
It landed near the side of the barrier close to the carriage.
Princess Emilia stirred.
Her eyelashes fluttered.
"Lan… ce… lot…"
Her voice was weak. Fragile.
For a fraction of a second.Yoma's concentration wavered.
Aisha didn't hesitate.
She struck once.
A precise chop to the side of the princess's neck.
Emilia collapsed, unconscious before fear could reach her eyes.
High above Lancelot felt it.
That faint disturbance in the battlefield.
His focus sharpened.
She moved.
His spirit core pulsed slightly.
More clones surged forward.
Aisha raised her arm.
Heat exploded outward.
Not flames—pressure.
The air itself became an invisible wall. Clones slammed into it and vaporized, their lightning dispersing harmlessly against the barrier.
"Containment confirmed," Aisha said. "He's escalating in response to resistance."
She looked up, eyes meeting the empty sky.
"Is the knights of Britainna planning to hide forever."
The pressure intensified.
Lancelot sent fifty clones at once.
Their individual strength dropped, but numbers compensated. They charged relentlessly, sacrificing durability for saturation.
Taiyor's movements grew sharper.
His blade reshaped constantly—spear, sword, axe, whip—never remaining the same for more than a heartbeat. Each form was perfect for its moment.
Yet even he began to feel it.
Pressure.
Attrition.
Yoma's illusions thickened, bending space, multiplying targets, rewriting angles. Entire streets appeared where none existed. Clones struck walls that weren't there. Others vanished into false alleys.
But illusions demanded focus.
Yoma's breathing slowed.
Sweat beaded at her temple.
Aisha noticed.
"We end this phase," she said quietly.
Her spirit essence surged.
The heat barrier expanded outward violently, forcing clones back, crushing them into the ground as the air itself pressed down like a collapsing ceiling.
High above, Lancelot stiffened.
Heat-pressure domain… sustained.
Impressive.
Then it happened.
Blood splattered the ground.
Screams echoed.
The carriage split apart in an explosion of force.
Princess Emilia's body collapsed onto the stone road, unmoving.
From above Lancelot's heart clenched.
…No.
His clones froze.
For a single, dangerous moment, his spirit core fluctuated.
He descended.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
The battlefield was quiet.
Bodies lay scattered—clones dissolving, Nigerians motionless, the princess still.
Hollow.
Wrong.
Lancelot landed beside the body.
He reached out.
His hand trembled.
Behind layers of illusion far below the streets Mausa slammed both palms into the ground.
Stone softened.
Earth parted.
A tunnel formed, spiraling downward at impossible speed.
The heat barrier collapsed.
Illusions vanished.
The battlefield emptied.
Above, Lancelot stood alone.
Silence answered him.
…They're gone?
He felt depressed. I couldn't protect her, i have lost everything, his victory felt incomplete.
Unconvincing.
Stonecliff did not sleep.
Even after the streets emptied and the echoes of battle faded, the city remained tense—walls cracked, rooftops scorched, the air still faintly charged with residual lightning and heat.
High above the ruined district, Lancelot hovered once more.
His descent had halted the moment the battlefield dissolved into emptiness. No enemies. No carriage. No princess.
Only fading traces of spirit essence, like footprints washed away by the tide.
His eyes narrowed.
An illusion… no—multiple layered deceptions.
His clones had confirmed death. His senses had felt the cessation of resistance. And yet, something lingered an aftertaste of misdirection.
Still.
He did not pursue.
Not yet.
Instead, Lancelot raised one hand slowly.
His spirit essence covered with electricity flowed through the ground.
The fallen clones every fragment of dispersed lightning, every remaining spark embedded in the stones of Stonecliff—answered his call.
They flowed back toward him like mist being inhaled.
Data flooded his mind.
Movements. Reactions. Heat tolerances. Weapon morph rates. Illusion delay thresholds.
And at the center of it all—
Taiyor.
Subject exhibits continuous weapon restructuring without loss of efficiency.
That alone was enough to earn Lancelot's full attention.
Most warriors chose weapons.
Taiyor did not he became a weapon.
Far below the surface, in a tunnel carved through compacted stone and reinforced by Mausa's spirit essence, the Nigerians moved quickly.
The walls pulsed faintly, earth reshaping itself to accommodate their passage. No loose gravel. No collapse. Every step was calculated.
Taiyor walked at the front.
His sword had returned to a neutral form—a simple, straight blade—but the weapon vibrated faintly, as if dissatisfied with stillness.
Yoma glanced at it.
"It doesn't like being idle," she observed.
Taiyor smirked faintly. "Neither do I."
Behind them, Captain Aisha kept one hand raised, palm glowing with restrained heat. She wasn't generating pressure now—only enough warmth to distort lingering traces and confuse any sensory pursuit.
"They didn't follow," Mausa said, his voice low. "Yet."
Aisha nodded.
Taiyor looked back.
She slowed her pace slightly. "You noticed it too. The clones adapted after every exchange."
Taiyor's grip tightened.
"They weren't just attacking," he said. "They were learning he is using us for pratice."
Above ground, Lancelot finally moved.
He did not chase the retreating elites.
Instead, he extended his awareness outward.
Stonecliff responded.
Lightning crawled along walls, seeped into alleyways, traced rooftops like veins of light. His spirit essence did not manifest as clones this time but as observation.
Weapon fusion…
Lancelot replayed the battle through shared clone memories.
Taiyor's sword had not merely changed shape. It had altered density, edge behavior, mass distribution, and vibrational frequency in response to the clones' attack vectors.
When facing multiple enemies—wide arcs.
When dealing with speed—narrow thrusts.
When striking invisible targets—blunt force to disrupt distortion.
He's not copying weapons, Lancelot realized.
He's responding to threats.
That distinction mattered.
Most adaptive fighters relied on pre-learned forms.
Taiyor's adaptation was reactive, almost instinctive guided by spirit essence merging seamlessly with physical matter.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous but i will use this strength of his as a weapon to defeat him.
Lancelot lowered his hand.
"Again," he murmured.
The air screamed.