The Ouroboros Duel

Torik’s eyes had undergone a complete transformation; the previous approachability was now replaced by something far more chilling and eerie, almost unnatural.
"You never once died…" Erel mumbled under his breath, his gaze locked onto Torik’s, as if merely looking into those eyes sent an ice-cold shiver cascading down his spine.
"I see…" As soon as the words left his mouth, Erel was hurled backwards by an invisible force. The wind around him howled, cutting against his skin; the impact rattled his body as he tumbled violently across the floor.
As he looked around, his eyes widened in utter bewilderment. All around him, a consuming darkness seemed to creep forward, the figures of the soldiers, their formations, the entire stationed army dissolving beneath its onslaught as if they had never existed. The very ground, too, seemed to liquefy under the presence of liquid shadows, the entire surroundings whooshing away completely, replaced by an almost void-like emptiness.
Torik still stood, a few steps away, arms wide and expression serene, as the darkness embraced him, almost as if he were relishing the moment.
'It was all a lie.'
The entire battlefield, all the soldiers, all the abominations, the very place he had died countless times, had suffered brutally, had fought until his arms gave out; it was all gone now, as if it had never existed to begin with. The only thing visible to Erel at that moment was Torik’s crazed smile hovering a few steps away, relishing his disbelief.
"Who the fuck are you?" Erel demanded, his voice snapping like a whip, his arms quivering with suppressed rage. He pointed the sword’s tip towards Torik, barely repressing the urge to lunge immediately.
"Me… I am merely a manifestation of the serpent within you, here to discern if you are truly worthy," Torik slithered, his tongue flicking across his lips in crazed relish.
Extending his arm, Torik’s gaze settled on Erel. A steel sword, exactly like his own, materialised within Torik’s grasp out of the thin, dark air.
"Come at me. Show me you deserve it. And understand," Torik probed, bringing the sword before him, mirroring Erel’s exact posture, "if you perish by my hand, you die truly, no second chances."
Erel’s eyes narrowed with fierce focus as he steadied his breathing. He knew it now: he had to defeat him to finish the trial, the goal from the very beginning. He knew if he lost, death was final; he could feel it, the connection to his Cycle of Rebirth lay dormant, unresponsive. Yet, instead of panic, a blazing clarity filled him, ignited by a newfound purpose: the sheer, desperate desire to overcome him.
Around their figures, something seemed to rise in a wide circle, inscribing them within a ring formed of what appeared to be a colossal serpent coiling around the boundary, its scales glimmering faintly even within the suffocating darkness.
Erel hesitated not at all. He gave Torik no time to reposition, launching himself forward in the first move. As he moved, the serpent coiled through his body, flowing down his arm to twist itself around the blade, turning it pitch-black, like obsidian. With a clean, lethal arc, he aimed for Torik’s midsection.
What knocked him off balance was how Torik simply stood there, observing him with a wide smirk, waiting. And Erel finally saw why. A similar serpent, like the one on his own neck, slithered across Torik’s form, coating his blade in an identical, dark hue.
'What the hell?'
Just that sight was enough to shatter Erel’s composure for a split second, and that sliver of time was precisely what Torik exploited. He brought his blade up in a sharp parry, side-stepping deftly to deflect Erel’s momentum to the opposite side.
Torik wasted no time, gave Erel no chance to recover, as he followed through the deflection, taking a clean step towards Erel’s unguarded back.
Erel gritted his teeth, twisting to deflect the attack. But as his blade swept towards the perceived trajectory, he noticed it: the footing was wrong.
'A feint!'
He was too late. Torik, with a flick of his wrist, altered the blade’s path mere inches before impact, manoeuvring it below Erel’s desperate guard and bringing it up in one vicious, clean swipe, an attack Erel had no choice but to face head-on.
The blade met no resistance as it sliced through Erel’s unguarded thigh, the serpentine scales parting fabric and flesh with ease. Blood splattered onto the cold, dark marble-like floor.
Erel hissed with pain, stumbling back. Heat flared up his leg as cold blood oozed from the wound, yet he wasted no time in creating distance, desperately seeking a moment’s reprieve.
In that agonising instant, Erel realised Torik’s fighting style mirrored the exact moves Lyra had drilled into him, the same attacks, the same parries.
Then it struck him: what if he used the form he’d developed against the abominations?
To him, it seemed madness at first. After all, those chaotic movements, serpentine strikes, the relentless whirlwind he’d employed on the battlefield served one brutal purpose: to wreak maximum havoc when swarmed from all sides. To harness momentum, to let his body drive the blade in wide, sweeping arcs designed purely for efficiency in slaughter. But could he adapt that raw, brutal form here? Could he truly master it? Could he forge it into his own sword art?
'Why am I even questioning it? If I don’t, I die anyway.'
Instead of holding the blade defensively before him, he raised it high above his head until it hovered horizontally, almost like a crescent moon. He lowered his body, coiling like a spring, his left arm extended for balance.
From a distance, his silhouette almost resembled a serpent poised to strike.
Torik’s eyes widened slightly, a knowing smirk settling on his face. This time, he moved first, rushing towards Erel with cold certainty.
Erel surged to meet him, his blade now flowing with his movement rather than dictating it. With a roar of effort, he brought the steel down in a devastating overhead slash, carrying enough momentum to shatter stone.
Torik managed to bring his own blade up just in time, deflecting the blow slightly. The obsidian edge still grazed his shoulder, yet his face showed no flicker of pain, only a maniacal smile as he instantly converted his parry into a vicious horizontal arc aimed to cleave Erel in two.
Seeing the blade glimmer as it sliced through the air, Erel ducked beneath it, feeling the lethal edge shear through the air mere inches above his hair. With a swift, desperate move, he swept his leg low, trying to catch Torik off guard.
His boot was barely inches from connecting when Torik leapt backward, landing unsteadily but maintaining his balance, taking several quick steps to reposition.
The furious exchange had lasted mere seconds, but one thing was searingly clear to Erel: his nascent sword art, the chaotic form he’d just invoked, was far from perfected. Yet, he could feel it, the subtle tingling in his fingers, the electric shiver across his skin, the fierce euphoria flooding him as he committed to the attacks. It felt innate, like a missing part slotting into place, his very soul recognising it as its destined inheritance.
Torik, too, seemed genuinely surprised; the unorthodox, savage attacks caught him unprepared. He knew, with chilling certainty, that if Erel continued like this, it was only a matter of time before a blow landed true.
They circled within the serpentine ring, eyes locked in lethal intensity. Then, simultaneously, they converged upon the centre, diving into a menacing dance of thrusts, slashes, and parries, the only sound the relentless, high-pitched ringing and clanging of clashing steel.
With a powerful swing, Erel attacked in a wide, looping arc. He let the tip drop suddenly before snapping it upward in a whipping motion, his wrist screaming in protest at the unnatural angle, yet he executed it perfectly. The blade grazed past empty air, splitting the wind with its abrupt change.
Torik barely managed to parry his sword in time, narrowly avoiding the strike. Erel pressed his assault relentlessly, his blade now slithering around Torik’s defences like a viper striking from impossible angles. Executing a sweeping horizontal cut aimed squarely at Torik’s torso, Erel forced his opponent back. He never let the blade pause, allowing momentum to build, then converted the slash with a sudden, brutal flick of his wrist. The obsidian edge sliced through Torik’s ear, grazing it deeply. Dark blood spilt, stark against the floor.
Torik finally hissed, stumbling back, one hand clapped to his bleeding ear. His face hardened into a mask of fury as he spat, “Not bad. But I am far from finished.”
Suddenly, before Erel’s eyes, Torik’s form flickered, splintering into countless ghastly afterimages.
Erel’s mind blanked for a split, terrifying second before clawing back to clarity.
His eyes darted frantically as the figures multiplied endlessly. They were perfect replicas of Torik: one lunging from his left flank, another circling behind, a third plunging its sword downward in a killing overhead strike.
Erel’s senses screamed under the assault of converging threats. The serpent coiled around his own blade pulsed violently, rattling the steel in his grip.
'Not all are real.' He could feel it, only one held substance, but identifying which one was impossible.
As the first strike descended from the left, he brought his blade up to block.
His eyes widened in utter bewilderment as the attacking figure dissolved into black mist, the blade passing harmlessly through.
'Fuck, from above!'
He had barely an instant to react, wrenching his blade upward just in time to catch the real slash. The force of the impact rattled his arms, jarring his hands violently, nearly tearing the sword from his grasp.
Torik refused to relent, intensifying his onslaught, only now, there were four of him.
A slash erupted towards Erel’s right thigh; at the last moment, as Erel moved to parry, it dissolved into smoke. The real attack came from the right, Torik’s blade grazing past Erel’s shoulder, biting deep into raw flesh.
Erel’s arms screamed with numbness; his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped beast.
He knew, with chilling certainty, he needed a solution, or the next few strikes would be his end. But how?
As Erel stumbled back a few paces, frantically trying to steady his rattled blade, Torik also stepped back. With a contemptuous sweep of his arm, he hurled his sword away; it plunged into the surrounding darkness and vanished.
What Torik did next, however, sent pure, unadulterated dread coursing through Erel’s spine.
Torik stretched out his right arm. The serpent coiled around his pale skin writhed, coalescing in his fingers, materialising not as steel, but as liquid darkness itself. It rippled, extended, and solidified into the form of a sword.
The weapon was utterly pitch-black, its surface shimmering with faintly luminous serpent scales that seemed not to reflect light, but to consume it from the nothingness around them. Merely looking at the blade filled Erel with a deadly premonition, a certainty that deflecting it was impossible. If it cut him, he would simply die.
Torik lunged. The dark blade slashed through the air in a vicious diagonal arc.
Erel’s mind reeled as he threw himself backward. The attack tore through the tunic covering his chest, ripping it apart, the lethal edge missing his skin by a hair’s breadth.
But before Erel could even gasp for breath, the countless images were already upon him.
One surged from the right, another from the left, a third thrusting straight towards his heart.
'Fuck me!'
Erel twisted to evade the attack from his right, only for it to dissolve into smoke. He wasted no motion, shifting instantly to counter the slash from the left.
But even that proved a feint. The serpent coiled around his own sword pulsed violently, screaming danger from directly ahead.
The blade, inches from his chest, seemed to whip, elongating like a rope rather than rigid steel, bending at an unnatural angle to cleave through him. Erel contorted his body desperately.
This time, the obsidian edge grazed his side. Blood welled instantly, sending blinding agony coursing through his body as he choked on curses.
Torik’s smile widened into a grin. He decided to end it. His blade dangled beside him, warping, bending unnaturally like a living whip, yet radiating a sharpness that promised to cut anything it touched.
This time, however, Erel didn't observe. He simply closed his eyes, refusing to let the multiplying illusions sway him further.
He had realised the only option left was the desperate gamble to trust the serpent coiled around his sword, rather than his own sight.
Only then did he have the faintest of a chance to survive.

Chapter end