The impact of my blade hitting the nexus was like striking the bedrock of the world. The mirror-me didn’t just look irritated; he shrieked—a sound of tearing metal and broken glass—as the heartbeat of Ivearona bit deep into the bioluminescent core.
He recoiled, his entire form glitching like a dying projection. The smooth, perfect mimicry of my face fractured, revealing a hollow, swirling void underneath. It wasn't just a lack of features; it was a hungry, infinite space, a vacuum where a soul should have been.
"You don't know what you're doing!" he hissed, his voice overlapping with a dozen different tones—the voice of a child, an old man, a static-filled frequency. He lunged, not with a weapon, but with a desperate, clawing grip, trying to shove his fingers into the wound I’d opened in
