Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

Elysia’s clone did not pause. Her sword came again, and this time the lightning around it changed. White. Silent. Deadly.

Nero barely saw the strike coming. His body moved on instinct, his own lightning flaring, but the white blade passed through his guard and opened a gash across his ribs before he could react. No sound. No warning. Just pain, sudden and deep.

He retreated, his hand pressing against the wound, blood hot between his fingers. The clone’s eyes were empty, her sword already rising for another strike. She had been holding back. Now she was not.

White lightning gathered at the edge of her blade, pale as bone, quiet as a held breath. She moved, and this time Nero was ready. He did not try to block. He could not hear the strike, could not track it by sound. He watched her shoulder, the subtle shift of weight, the angle of her wrist. He moved before the blade came, his own golden lightning carrying him sideways.

Her sword cut air. His answered, aimed at her side. She was already gone, white lightning carrying her behind him. He spun, his blade catching hers at the last instant. The impact sent shockwaves through his arms, but there was no sound, no crash of steel, just the silent pressure of her strength against his.

She pressed harder. His arms shook. Blood dripped from his ribs onto the white stone. He could feel his strength ebbing, his reactions slowing. She was pushing him, wearing him down, and there was no roar of thunder to announce her attacks, no crackle to warn him. Just silence, and then steel.

He broke away, gasping. She followed, relentless. Her sword became a blur of white light, each stroke faster than the last, each one aimed at a vital point. Throat. Heart. Spine. He blocked, dodged, twisted, but she was always there, always cutting.

A line of fire opened across his cheek. Another across his thigh. A deep gash in his forearm that made his grip falter. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds now, his clothes soaked, his breath ragged. She was untouched.

His back hit the edge of the platform. The void yawned behind him, endless and gray. She stood before him, her sword raised, white lightning blazing along its edge. Her face was still empty, her eyes still fixed on his throat. She would not stop. She could not.

Nero looked at her, at this perfect copy of the woman who wanted to own him, break him, make him her tool. He thought of the pavilion, of her lightning pressing him to his knees. He thought of Khione’s hand in his, of the promise they had made. He thought of the storm coming, and the gray-eyed woman waiting.

He would not fall here. Not to a memory. Not to a ghost.

He stopped retreating.

His sword came up, gold lightning blazing along its length, and he met her next strike head-on. White and gold clashed in the space between them, silent and terrible. The platform cracked beneath their feet. The void beyond seemed to shudder.

He pushed. She pushed back. For an instant, they were frozen, blade against blade, eyes locked. Her face was empty. His was not. His eyes burned red, his teeth bared, his whole body straining against hers.

He saw it then—the pattern he had been seeking. A flicker in her stance, a hesitation where there should have been none. She was a copy, perfect in every way, but she was not the original. She could not adapt. She could only repeat what had been recorded.

He had been fighting her on her terms, matching her speed, her technique, her rhythm. Now he changed.

His sword dropped, opening his guard. She struck, her blade aimed at his heart. He did not block. He twisted, letting her sword pass through his side, feeling it cut deep, feeling the white lightning burn through his flesh. The pain was white, blinding, perfect.

His hand closed on her wrist.

She could not pull away. His grip was iron, his fingers locked around the bones of her arm. Her eyes, for the first time, showed something—a flicker of surprise, of confusion. Her sword was buried in his side, his blood pouring down her blade, and he was holding her, holding her still.

His sword came up. Gold lightning gathered along its edge, brighter than before, brighter than anything he had summoned in this tower. He did not swing. He thrust, driving the blade through her chest, through the perfect copy of Elysia Raizen, through the lightning that had nearly killed him.

She froze. Her sword fell from his side. Her eyes, those empty golden eyes, looked at him, and for a moment, he thought he saw something there. Recognition. Respect. Something else.

Then she dissolved into light, and he was alone.

He stood on the edge of the platform, his side torn open, his blood pooling at his feet. His sword hung from his hand, dripping with light that was not blood. He was swaying, his vision fading at the edges.

The notification appeared, soft blue against the gray.

Stage One complete. Proceed to fourth floor to receive reward.

Nero did not move. He stood there, breathing in shallow gasps, his hand pressed against the wound in his side. It was deep. He had let her cut him, had used his body as a trap, and it had worked. It had nearly killed him. Well, he couldn’t even if he wanted anyway. He had paid only for the first 3 floors.

He was learning. Not just swordsmanship, not just lightning. He was learning what it meant to fight someone who was better than him. To bleed, to break, to find a way through when power was not enough.

His blue lightning flickered around the wound, soft and gentle, beginning its work. He would heal. He would rise. He would face the next floor, and the next, until he had learned everything this tower could teach him.

He looked at the platform where the clone had stood, at the empty space where a memory had nearly ended him. He thought of the real Elysia, waiting for him in the academy, waiting for their inevitable clash.

She would be stronger than this copy. Faster. More cunning. She would not fall to the same trick twice.

He smiled, despite the pain. He would be stronger too.

He turned from the edge and walked toward the light, leaving his blood on the white stone, carrying his lessons with him. The fight was over. He had to prepare thoroughly if not a certain defeat await him. It wouldn’t be easy at all he was well aware of this fact but this didn’t mean he had to run away, he didn’t have choice, he had to win, it was inevitable.