Iskar stared, shock freezing him for a critical second. The door hadn't led to an escape; it had swung open to release… him.
'What is this? Witchcraft?'
It was a perfect copy. The same face, the same build, even the same calculating coldness in its eyes as they darted from Iskar to the scattered weapons and back.
The moment of analysis was a luxury Iskar didn't have. His doppelganger lunged for the weapons pile without hesitation.
Instinct took over. Iskar sprinted after it.
The double snatched a sword, its movement fluid, and immediately spun, delivering a fast horizontal slash aimed at Iskar's throat.
There was no time to sidestep. Iskar dropped, throwing his weight backward and sliding forward on his knees as the blade hissed inches above his head. He felt the sharp tug as the tip severed a lock of his hair.
He skidded to a halt near the weapons, his hand closing around the rough wooden handle of a hand-axe, the closest available tool.
A presence loomed behind him. He rolled forward, coming up with the axe held defensively in front of him just as the double's sword came down in a brutal overhead chop.
CRACK.
The blade slammed into the axe's wooden haft, splintering it clean in half. Iskar staggered back from the impact, now holding little more than a useless stick.
He scrambled backward, putting distance between them, his mind racing as his opponent advanced with murderous intent.
Iskar stood up, backing away with careful steps. Each one put more distance between him and the scattered weapons, which now lay behind his advancing double.
Iskar's mind raced. 'The way it holds the sword… it's how I would if i was handed a sword. So it has my skills, my knowledge.'
The realization was chilling. This wouldn't be a fight against a monster; it would be a fight against himself. But that also meant a critical weakness: neither of them were truly skilled swordsmen. This would be a brawl of instincts, not a duel of masters.
The double broke into a run. Iskar saw he was nearly against the arena wall. He ran forward to meet the charge. This time, he wouldn't slide. Knowing his own right-handed bias, he feinted left before darting sharply to the right.
The double reacted exactly as Iskar predicted, but its slash wasn't a simple vertical chop. It curved horizontally, anticipating the dodge. Iskar twisted, but not fast enough.
The tip of the blade caught his side, slicing through his shirt and opening a shallow, stinging gash.
He gritted his teeth against the pain, using the momentum of the near-miss to bolt past his opponent toward the weapons pile.
The sound of his double's footsteps pounded behind him. He had no time to choose. His eyes locked on a sword. He snatched it, spinning on his heel just in time to parry a vicious downward strike. The impact jarred his arm, the hilt grinding painfully against his unprepared fingers, but he held on.
Fueled by adrenaline, he countered with a wild slash aimed at the double's sword hand. The copy sidestepped neatly and drove a hard kick into Iskar's gut.
The air rushed from his lungs, and he stumbled back. The double pressed the advantage, slashing again.
Iskar sidestepped this time, crashing in close before the blade could retract.
He bullied his way inside the double's guard, smashing his forehead into its nose. A satisfying crunch echoed. He followed with a sharp knee to the stomach.
The doppelganger grunted, but fought back with intensity, grabbing a fistful of Iskar's shirt to drag him off balance.
The fight was a brutal stalemate. Blows were traded, each man mirroring the other's movements with uncanny precision.
They were both bleeding, breathing in ragged gasps, their faces swollen and bruised. In the chaotic scuffle, their swords were knocked from their hands, skittering across the sandy floor.
They were down to hand-to-hand combat. Iskar had initially thought this would be better than fumbling with unfamiliar weapons, but he instantly regretted it.
He was now trapped in a perfect, exhausting feedback loop of his own instincts. Every strike he threw was met with the exact counter he would have used.
Suddenly, Iskar saw an opening. He drove an elbow into the doppelganger's face, the impact snapping its head back.
Before it could recover, he followed with a brutal kick to the gut, sending it sprawling. It hit the ground hard, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop, groaning and clutching its stomach.
Breathing heavily, Iskar staggered to the sword that lay nearby. He grabbed it, as he approached the downed double.
It was finished. He had to end this now. The fight had dragged on too long, sapping his strength and resolve.
He raised the sword high, the blade catching the light as he prepared to plunge it into the doppelganger's chest.
But then... agony.
A searing pain exploded in his crotch. He looked down, shock and disbelief flooding him as he saw the doppelganger's foot driving into him with.
His legs buckled, the sword slipping from his grasp. He tried to stifle the reaction, to push through the pain, but it was too much.
The doppelganger moved fast, faster than Iskar could recover. It surged to its feet, a dagger gleaming in its hand. Iskar barely had time to blink before the blade plunged into his throat. He choked, blood bubbling in his mouth as the dagger was yanked out and driven into his chest. Again. And again.
Iskar collapsed to his knees, then onto his back. His vision blurred as blood pooled in his mouth, spilling down his chin.
He tried to speak, but only a garbled, wet sound escaped. The doppelganger stood over him, cold and unflinching, the dagger dripping with his blood.
[You Have Lost!]
The words echoed in his mind as darkness crept in, swallowing him whole. His final thought was a bitter acknowledgment of the irony, he had been defeated by himself.
Iskar gasped, his hands flying to his throat. The phantom sensation of the dagger being ripped out was still there, a cold echo in his nerves.
He was whole again, standing on the cool, silent stone of the temple. The Unnamed stood before him, its star-strewn visage offering no comfort.
"You lost," the Speaker stated, its voice a calm, cosmic fact. "You will spend your time serving the Limbo. You may try again after some time." It began to fade, its form dissolving into the ambient light. "Do take caution. The more you learn, the more your opponent learns as well. Unless you outsmart him, he will keep doing so."
"What does serving the Limbo entail?" Iskar called out, but the words hit empty air. The Unnamed was gone.
He was alone. Truly alone. The temple floated in a void, a silent, unchanging monument.
And then, the waiting began.
To be fair, he had no true recollection of time. There was no sun, no moon, no hunger or thirst to mark the days. But he could feel them passing. A slow, grinding procession of nothing. Days bled into weeks, into months, into years. Years and years.
Nothing happened.
He was left there, in the floating temple, to do nothing.