Lucia stood in front of the divine mirror, her heart thundering in her chest. Every swing of Kyle’s blade, every pulse of his overwhelming mana, chipped away at her certainty.
The cold, composed goddess she had always been was crumbling under the weight of old memories and emotions she had buried long ago.
Her hand rose before she realized it—drawn toward the mirror, toward him. Her feet shifted forward instinctively, as if her body longed to reach out.
Just as she was about to step beyond her barrier, a cold, porcelain hand landed silently on her shoulder. It belonged to the puppet—the one fashioned in her own image as a failsafe.
Its lifeless eyes stared blankly ahead, but the touch was enough. Lucia’s daze shattered like glass.
She flinched and yanked herself back.
"What am I doing...?"
She whispered, her voice trembling.
Then came the anger. Hot and blinding.
"I’ve had enough of this. Of him. He has infected my thoughts, again. As if nothing has changed. As if the past means anything now."
She hissed, her divine aura twisting into something jagged and dark.
Her fingers curled, and the divine light around her condensed like a storm.
"I won’t falter again."
With a cold glare fixed on the mirror, she extended both hands. From the divine mana, she summoned two forms—tall, imposing, radiant and cruel.
One bore the elegant and wrathful features of Goddess Charrin. The other towered behind, twisted and armored, resembling the brutal form of God Tirakos.
"These were the gods you thought you killed. Then let their shadows destroy you."
Lucia whispered, voice brittle with hate and fear.
The two puppets stood motionless for a second—then their eyes snapped open, glowing with Lucia’s power. They moved, stepping through the void toward Kyle with monstrous speed.
Lucia watched, jaw tight and heart pounding.
"Die, you stranger. And take the illusion of who I used to be with you."
Kyle narrowed his eyes as two divine presences exploded into the space around him.
Though he stood in a realm where time was twisted and air tasted of death and memory, the battlefield shifted into clarity. From the thick mists that blanketed the realm, two figures emerged.
Goddess Charrin. God Tirakos.
Or rather... puppets molded in their image.
Kyle recognized them instantly—the echo of their former selves burned into his memories.
Charrin, draped in blinding light and flowing threads of divine silk, held a staff that once commanded heavenly flames.
Tirakos, all sharp edges and thunder, radiated brute force and dominance. Yet Kyle’s gaze was calm. Focused.
"These aren’t the real ones."
He muttered under his breath.
The aura was there, yes, but something was missing. Their presences were hollow.
Divine mana moved around them like puppeteer strings, not flowing from a core of faith or conviction. Kyle could feel it—the absence of will. Of identity.
Still, they struck first.
Charrin raised her hand, and radiant spears of light rained down from above. A thousand piercing bolts screamed through the skies, aiming to skewer Kyle from every direction.
Tirakos charged with a guttural roar, his massive blade cleaving through the ground with every swing.
He spun his body low and forward, sliding across the broken ground with supernatural grace.
One hand extended, and a barrier of mana erupted around him, absorbing the light spears with ease. His other hand grasped the hilt of his blade—smooth and silent.
With a flicker of motion, Kyle vanished.
He reappeared above Charrin’s head, his blade glowing with layered mana.
"You should have stayed dead."
His sword came down, shattering the space between them with a single strike.
Charrin raised her staff to block, but it was futile. Her puppet body couldn’t withstand the weight behind Kyle’s blow.
Her defense shattered like brittle glass, and the divine puppet was sent crashing to the ground, cracking a deep crater into the terrain below.
Tirakos roared and rushed in to avenge her, his massive arms swinging the greatsword toward Kyle’s exposed side.
But Kyle anticipated the move. He twisted in midair and caught the descending blade with his own.
Mana shrieked as the two weapons clashed, sparks and pressure waves exploding outward.
Tirakos pressed down, trying to overpower him—but Kyle’s footing didn’t budge.
With a grunt, Kyle surged upward with a burst of mana-enhanced strength and threw the massive puppet off-balance. Then, he struck.
A rapid series of strikes, sharp and clean, each aimed with surgical precision at the joints and weak points of the puppet’s armor. Kyle’s movements blurred—an elegant, brutal dance.
Tirakos reeled back, his frame now leaking divine mana from a dozen shallow wounds.
Before he could recover, Kyle pushed off the ground and delivered a flying knee directly to the puppet’s chest.
The impact cracked the armored breastplate and sent the puppet hurtling through the air like a meteor.
Charrin was already back on her feet, her eyes glowing bright as she called on divine flames.
A wreath of golden fire surrounded her as she summoned a phoenix of light, screeching through the realm with wings wide enough to blanket the sky.
Kyle faced it without fear.
He raised his sword and let his mana surge outward, wrapping him in a sphere of violent wind and force.
As the phoenix descended, he launched himself into the air and slashed horizontally. His mana tore through the heavens like a storm wave.
The phoenix shattered into fragments.
Charrin’s eyes widened—too slow to dodge. Kyle’s follow-up attack reached her in the blink of an eye.
The puppet’s divine form crumpled into the earth once more, the explosion of mana tossing debris for miles.
Tirakos leapt toward Kyle again, howling with false rage—but it didn’t matter. Kyle spun, his eyes glowing cold.
"No emotions. No instincts. Just a puppet swinging a blade."
His voice was low, disappointed.
With one hand raised, Kyle condensed his mana into a single glowing orb of violent pressure. Then he launched it.
It slammed into Tirakos’s chest and detonated.
The shockwave ripped through the battlefield, carving out a crater that swallowed the puppet whole. The fake god fell—its body limp, divine aura flickering like a candle about to die.
Kyle landed, breathing calmly. Not a single scratch on him.
Charrin staggered back to her feet, clearly damaged beyond repair. Cracks had spread across her limbs, her chest, her face.
Her glowing eyes dimmed. But she raised her staff for a final, desperate strike.
Kyle didn’t even let her finish the motion.
He appeared before her like a ghost, blade already mid-swing.
The puppet’s head slid from its shoulders and tumbled to the ground.
Both puppets—gods in image but not in spirit—were destroyed.
Kyle stood tall amidst the chaos, divine particles drifting through the air like ash. His sword lowered slowly, and his eyes hardened.
"You insult their memory by sending me shadows,."
He muttered, addressing the space around him.
He could feel her—Lucia—watching.
"Try harder next time."
He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat.
He simply turned his back on the destruction and walked away from the dead bodies and where Lucia was waiting. He could feel her presence even more strongly now.