The double vanished.

One heartbeat he was there—smiling that mocking smile, eyes identical to Lian’s own void stare.

The next heartbeat—gone.

Lian tensed every ruined muscle, waiting for the kick, the punch, the invisible spear.

Nothing.

Silence pressed in again, thicker than before.

He exhaled—wet, ragged—blood bubbling on his cracked lips.

His good hand pressed against the sand, trying to lever himself higher.

That was when the fist arrived.

Not from behind.

Not from the side.

From inside.

It felt like his own stomach had turned against him—muscles clenching, then something much harder, much colder, driving upward from within.

He looked down.

The double’s fist was buried wrist-deep in his abdomen.

No blood on the outside at first.

Just the impossible sight of his own arm—identical skin, identical scars—protruding from his own body.

Then the pain caught up.

A wet crunch.

Something vital gave way.

Blood surged up his throat in a hot gush.

He collapsed forward, knees hitting sand, hands clutching uselessly at the arm that wasn’t supposed to be there.

The double laughed—low, delighted—as he twisted.

Lian’s vision whited.

He vomited blood across the sand—thick ropes of it, dark and arterial.

The fist withdrew slowly.

Deliberately.

Leaving a gaping hole that should have killed him.

Didn’t.

The double stepped back, shaking blood from his hand like it was rainwater.

“Look at you,” he said.

Voice still Lian’s.

But colder.

Emptier.

“I’ve been watching you from within. Observing. Every breath. Every hesitation. Every pathetic little promise you whisper to yourself in the dark.”

He crouched down.

Face inches from Lian’s.

“You’re always distracted.”

The double tilted his head.

“By the blacksmith and his hammer songs.”

“By Elara and her quiet waiting.”

“By the ghost of an old man who coughed blood on a metal floor and told you tomorrow would be better.”

Lian tried to speak.

Only blood came out.

The double smiled wider.

“Pathetic.”

He stood.

Raised one hand.

Fingers snapped.

The air shimmered.

And Elara appeared.

Not real.

Not flesh.

A perfect illusion—standing ten paces away.

Alloy body gleaming under the faint silver thread.

Blue cyber eyes soft.

Curved black blade sheathed at her hip.

She looked at Lian the way she always had—silent, steady, unafraid.

Lian’s heart lurched.

He dragged himself forward—broken leg trailing, shattered ribs grinding, hole in his stomach leaking.

“Elara...”

The double laughed again.

Soft.

Amused.

“She’s not here, of course.”

He walked toward the illusion.

Casual.

Relaxed.

“But she might as well be.”

He drew his own blade—identical to Lian’s hammer-blade, but cleaner, sharper.

The illusion Elara didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just watched.

The double plunged the blade straight through her chest plate.

No sound.

No resistance.

The alloy parted like paper.

Blue cyber eyes widened.

A synthetic scream—high, mechanical, terrible—ripped from her throat.

Lian screamed too.

Raw.

Animal.

He clawed across the sand.

Broken fingers digging furrows.

Leg dragging useless.

Blood trail behind him.

The double twisted the blade.

Pulled it free.

Stabbed again.

And again.

Each thrust precise.

Each withdrawal slow.

Illusion blood—too real—spilled blue and red.

Elara’s body jerked with every strike.

Alloy cracked.

Circuits sparked.

She didn’t fight back.

Just looked at Lian.

Eyes dimming.

The double laughed louder.

Reached down.

Fingers hooked under her eyelids.

Pulled.

Eyes came free—wet, glowing blue orbs trailing optic cables.

Elara’s scream became a broken electronic wail.

Lian reached them.

Hand outstretched.

“Stop...”

Voice shredded.

“Please...”

The double dropped the eyes.

They rolled across the sand toward Lian.

Still glowing faintly.

Still watching him.

He lunged—broken body screaming—trying to shield her.

The double kicked him in the chest.

Sternum cracked wider.

Lian flew back.

Landed hard.

Breath exploded out.

He crawled anyway.

Sand and blood mixing under his palms.

The double knelt beside the illusion.

Blade flashed.

Sliced through the aug legs at the hip joints.

Alloy parted clean.

Legs clattered to the ground—pistons hissing, cables sparking.

Elara’s upper body dropped.

She caught herself on shaking arms.

Looked at Lian.

Mouth open.

No sound now.

Just silent pleading.

The double stood over her.

Blade dripping.

Turned to Lian.

Grinned.

Lian dragged himself another inch.

Hand reaching.

Tears mixing with blood on his face.

“Please...”

Voice barely a whisper.

“Stop...”

The double raised the blade high.

Elara’s blue eyes—still attached to cables—watched Lian.

Silent.

Waiting.

Lian screamed again—hoarse, broken.

“Please!”

The blade began its descent.