Part 2
Seiryu and Eliza stood at the center of the stage, surrounded by echoes of the past and under the watchful gaze of the demon of deceit.
Several stones from the ground floated around them, spinning like stone drones ready to attack.
They moved in rhythm with Seiryu's breathing—precise, controlled, obeying his will.
"Let's see how good your act really is," Seiryu said calmly.
With a slight flick of his hand, he shot the stones like blades at Satirus.
But before they could reach him, Seiryu's clone stepped in.
With a movement identical to the original, it raised a distorted energy barrier that absorbed the impact—as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times.
"My apologies," Satirus said smoothly, never dropping his theatrical tone. "The first act does not belong to me."
The stage lights went out in an instant.
Only the spotlights remained, spinning and focusing on the clones... and their originals.
Eliza narrowed her eyes.
The doubles imitated them perfectly—even in their smallest gestures.
"Mirrors that don't know how to reflect what's already broken," she murmured, as she began to gather her floating blood into sharp, rose-shaped blades.
From the high balcony, Yamato continued observing. He didn't move a single muscle.
But his shadow... vibrated subtly.
"Eliza," he said, his voice barely audible. "This demon isn't very strong, but it strikes when you let your guard down. Stay alert."
She nodded without turning around.
"Leave it to me. I'll handle that cheap knockoff," she said, her smile razor-sharp.
Seiryu rose gently, suspended by his telekinesis. His stones orbited him with calculated rhythm, while his clone mirrored every motion perfectly.
Eliza, meanwhile, extended her palm and cut it lightly with a nail. Blood flowed immediately, pooling in a crimson puddle at her feet.
"Come to me..."
From the liquid rose a scythe made entirely of crystallized blood. Its form was irregular, alive—pulsing with each breath of its wielder.
Across from her, her clone mimicked the movement effortlessly. The scythe appeared instantly—perfect, without a single drop spilled.
"Hmph... pathetic," Eliza muttered, narrowing her eyes. "Of course your scythe isn't like mine... after all, you're just a cheap copy."
Her double smiled wickedly.
"Look who's talking... the vampire without a surname. Or did you think I wouldn't notice?"
Eliza's expression cracked slightly. Her eyes shone with subtle, contained fury.
She didn't respond with words.
"Oh, what a chatty little mutt," her clone finally said, launching into attack.
The two scythes clashed violently, generating a shockwave that made the stage tremble.
The sound of liquid metal colliding with its replica filled the air with a deep, resonant echo.
"Aww, such a cute little puppy," the copy whispered, licking her lips. "I'll make you my personal pet."
"Tch... if you're going to imitate me, at least do it with some style. That script is pathetic."
As the scythes clashed with violent echoes at the center of the stage, Seiryu floated silently, surrounded by perfectly suspended spheres of stone.
He wasn't breathing faster.
He showed no tension.
He simply observed.
His clone mimicked him down to the millimeter.
Every movement, every pattern in the rotation of the stones, every tiny gesture... perfectly copied.
Too perfectly.
"Interesting," Seiryu whispered to himself.
He moved one stone with a slightly smaller angle—subtle.
The clone replicated it instantly.
Then, he launched a second feint, and while the clone mimicked the motion, he diverted his actual stone mid-trajectory.
They collided in the air—perfectly.
But the clone didn't react.
"I see... you can only imitate my movements. You have no intelligence of your own... just like your master, I suppose," Seiryu murmured.
He extended his hands and began altering the pattern of his stones.
The orbits shifted in shape and speed—some crossing paths, others repelling each other.
It was controlled chaos—impossible to follow by normal logic.
The clone tried to replicate it.
It faltered.
Two of its stones collided midair and crashed to the ground, breaking the perfect rhythm.
Seiryu looked at it for the first time.
"Just as I thought... vanish, nuisance."
His twelve stones spun with renewed force, each one taking an unpredictable trajectory.
They formed no patterns.
No sequences.
Pure tactical improvisation.
The clone stepped back.
It tried to raise a barrier—but Seiryu had already fired five stones in rapid succession.
The defense shattered with a dry crack, and the impact disintegrated the imitation into a cloud of gray smoke.
Silence returned to the floor.
Seiryu descended smoothly, his feet barely touching the polished wood of the stage.
He said nothing.
He didn't celebrate.
He simply looked ahead.
"One down."
Eliza smiled without breaking her fight.
Her gaze met Seiryu's briefly.
"No doubt you were the sub-boss of this dungeon... but I can't let you outshine me."
Her clone lunged with another strike.
"And what are you waiting for?" the copy taunted with a provocative grin. "Still wasting time? Or are you all talk?"
"You and that clown of an illusionist who calls himself a floor boss... are starting to test my patience."
Eliza lowered her gaze.
The blood puddle she had left earlier was moving—serpentine—across the stage.
"What...?"
The liquid slid with a will of its own, creeping like a predator stalking prey.
It positioned itself directly beneath the clone, silently.
"Disappear, vermin..." Eliza murmured, raising her hand with lethal grace.
"Blood Nightmare!"
The puddle vibrated—and in an instant, it erupted upward.
Deformed, crimson hands burst from the ground, grabbing hold of the imposter's body like ravenous claws.
The fake Eliza struggled to break free—but it was futile.
The limbs coiled around her legs, her torso, her throat—with monstrous precision.
"What is this?!" the clone screamed, thrashing desperately.
"Your end," Eliza said, slowly approaching, her gaze savoring the sight. "Good luck with your next act."
And with a mocking smile, she watched as the copy was dragged into the blood puddle—vanishing completely into a dark, dissolving mass.
Silence fell over the stage.
The lights cut out in an instant.
And only a slow, deep, different laughter echoed from the heights of the theater.
"Bravo!..." Satirus exclaimed, his voice booming across the hall like a fake ovation.
"And now... for my second act."
But Seiryu and Eliza had already turned their backs.
They ignored the theatrics entirely and began walking toward the balcony where Yamato watched—still unmoving.
"What... what are you doing?" Satirus asked, his voice barely masking his irritation.
"We realized you're not worth our time," Eliza said with a disdainful smile. "You're clearly a low-grade demon... the kind that hides behind cheap illusions. I honestly don't even understand how you became a floor boss."
"Tch... you little—"
"It's certainly been a waste of time," Seiryu added, not even glancing back. 'Demon of Lies'? You should've chosen another profession."
The stage trembled.
Satirus gripped his staff tightly, his body tilting slightly—like an invisible crack had begun breaking through his composure.
"Insolent fools! I'm far more powerful than you!"
Seiryu knelt at the foot of the balcony, no urgency, no tension.
"My lord," he said solemnly, "this demon seems weak. I don't believe he is worthy of serving under you. If you allow it... I would like to exterminate him."
Yamato's expression didn't change.
"I see... do as you see fit."
His voice was so calm, it felt like a death sentence.
"Strong words," Satirus growled. "For a couple of lambs at the slaughter..."
The light on the stage distorted.
His shadow began to stretch, twisting into impossible shapes.
His elegant posture remained intact... but something in his presence cracked.
For the first time, his smile was no longer an act.
It was frustration.
"No matter how strong you think you are... this is my theater. And only I decide when the play ends," his voice grew deeper, harsher, carrying a demonic vibration through the air.
"Those clones had one purpose: to collect data. To learn your rhythm, your habits, your limits."
"The real act... begins now."
From the balcony, Yamato sighed.
He rested his fist against his cheek, visibly bored.
"Eliza, Seiryu... Use your full strength. Don't hold back. I'm getting tired of this floor."
Both Heralds nodded, their eyes gleaming faintly.
Eliza cracked her fingers with a grin of pure satisfaction.
"That's more like it... finally, no more holding back."
She locked her gaze onto Satirus, sharp as her scythe.
"And now... I'm going to break your face, you bastard."
"Ha, ha, ha... let's see who breaks whose face," Satirus responded, his distorted laughter echoing from different points around the stage.
With a smooth motion, he drew his sword.
The staff had transformed—now a thin, razor-sharp blade.
As he did, two perfect clones emerged beside him, mirroring his gestures down to the millisecond.
"You don't even realize..." he whispered with a twisted smile, "...you're already dead."
The three Satirus positioned themselves like fencing masters, each adopting a distinct guard.
Elegant.
Deadly.
The stage lights focused on them, bathing them in hues of white, red, and purple—
as if the entire theater had aligned itself for a final duel.
The second act was about to begin.