MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Beep.

"The sixty minute countdown has commenced"

The restriction bracelets emitted a faint tremor, signaling their activation.

Anthony's eyes narrowed, settling on the slime before him.

Before him stood a figure, identical in every way.

Same height.

Same cold eyes.

Same sword at his hip.

No words.

No emotion.

It was him, stripped of humanity, driven only by perfect execution and efficiency

It didn't moved.

'It won't attack unless it senses a killing intent, will it?'

Anthony pondered, observing the creature intently.

'How extensive is its ability to replicate?'

He let the thought linger for a moment before making his decision.

'Simply standing here won't yield any answers'

With a subtle shift of his will, a wisp of killing intent surged toward 'Anthony'

As 'Anthony' sensed the killing intent, 'he' moved.

A blur.

A whisper of metal through air.

'Anthony' closed the gap in an instant, katana flashing toward Anthony's throat with such precision and velocity that the air screamed.

Anthony's own blade rose in a flawless parry, deflecting the strike at the precise angle needed to redirect the momentum.

The shock of the clash sent a rippling gust outward, scattering loose dirt and snapping a thin branch from a nearby tree.

Their blades disengaged, only to reengage in less than a heartbeat.

'Anthony' advanced with mechanical elegance, each swing calculated, each step a perfect blend of offense and defense.

Anthony matched him, step for step, strike for strike, two masters locked in a dance without rhythm, where each movement could mean death.

Steel rang against steel, their katanas meeting at angles so precise the contact points sparked.

'Anthony' twisted his wrist mid swing, sending the blade sweeping toward Anthony's temple.

Anthony dipped his head, pivoted on the ball of his foot, and allowed the katana to graze past, then responded with a sweeping counter aimed at 'Anthony's' ribs.

The fake read the movement, shifting his body just enough to avoid contact.

The counterstrike missed by a fraction of an inch, the wind pressure from the arc tearing the bark clean off a nearby tree.

Bark and splinters exploded behind them as they moved again.

They struck simultaneously.

Anthony's blade came low, a knee level cut meant to slice through tendon.

'Anthony's' katana came high, an overhead descent meant to bisect the skull.

At the last possible instant, both redirected.

The blades met with a thunderous clang, vibrating violently in their hands, but neither faltered.

Neither wavered.

Their stances remained balanced.

Their breathing silent.

'Anthony' stepped in with barely a whisper on the ground, thrusting toward Anthony's solar plexus.

Anthony rotated his upper body, letting the thrust pass by his side, and brought his blade upward in a flick toward the neck.

'Anthony's' katana snapped upward in response, steel catching steel with frightening speed.

The deflection shot sparks in all directions, igniting dry leaves nearby.

They separated for a half-second.

Then closed again.

Their katanas moved in flawless arcs, each swing a study in economy of motion, with no wasted effort.

Slashes came from impossible angles, parries were executed with the edge of the blade instead of the flat, minimizing movement, maximizing momentum.

Their footwork barely disturbed the soil beneath them, yet the force behind every movement left grooves in the earth, pressure cracks forming under the clash of enhanced muscle and refined swordplay.

'Anthony' executed a rapid triple feint, thrust, draw back, horizontal slash, each movement flowing into the next, blindingly fast.

Anthony reacted instantly.

He leaned away from the first, lifted his blade to intercept the second, and ducked under the third.

In that breath between heartbeats, he swept in with a reverse grip slash meant to gut his opponent.

But 'Anthony' spun away, his katana held low behind him in a mirrored grip.

Without looking, he slashed backward, aiming at Anthony's abdomen.

Anthony jumped back, his foot landing on a slanted rock that cracked beneath his weight, sending stone fragments scattering like shrapnel.

The terrain around them had become a battlefield in every sense.

Trees were marked by gashes inches deep.

Fallen leaves burned faintly from the sheer heat of the blade pressure.

Rocks were split, earth disturbed in lines where their strikes had narrowly missed and carved into the soil.

Yet neither man bore a scratch.

Neither panted.

Neither sweat.

They were machines made flesh.

'Anthony' lunged again, this time at an upward diagonal meant to cleave from hip to shoulder.

Anthony stepped into the attack rather than away, blade horizontal to intercept.

Sparks burst from the collision, and the shockwave knocked branches loose from nearby trees.

In the same motion, Anthony shifted his weight and brought the hilt of his katana toward 'Anthony's' jaw.

The fake ducked, returning with a low thrust aimed at Anthony's thigh.

Anthony deflected the thrust with the edge of his blade and used the recoil to spring back, flipping in the air once before landing, feet perfectly spaced, stance completely intact.

The two stood still for the briefest of moments, eyes locked, minds calculating.

No words passed.

There was nothing to say.

Then aura bloomed.

It burst from their bodies like wildfire.

The pressure folded the earth around them.

Cracks spiderwebbed across the ground, trees tilted, and loose stones were hurled away as though repelled by magnetic force.

The air itself distorted around them, as if unable to remain stable in the presence of their clashing power.

They launched into each other once more, now augmented by reinforced physicality.

Strikes that once dented bark now shattered tree trunks.

Sword swings caused shockwaves that dug trenches in the ground.

Each step left craters in the soil, and every time their blades met, the sound cracked like thunder.

'Anthony's' movements became even sharper, as if every strike was guided by some divine blueprint of combat.

His blade hummed through the air, aura wrapping around it like a cloak.

He brought it down in a furious arc toward Anthony's collarbone.

Anthony didn't dodge.

He leaned into the strike, caught it with the flat of his blade, and redirected the force to the side, stepping in close enough for a follow up elbow strike.

But 'Anthony' rotated, bringing his hilt up between them to block the elbow.

The force of the block caused a localized tremor, dirt exploding around their feet.

They broke apart again, now with small fragments of earth suspended midair, caught in the collision of their auras.

The surrounding environment had become a war zone.

Trees fell like paper structures.

Cracks ran through hillsides.

The very air buzzed with unnatural pressure.

Then came sword intent.

It poured from them like gravity collapsing inward.

The air itself grew heavier.

The ground turned brittle beneath their feet.

Trees in a ten kilometres radius bent away from the sheer force of their will.

Their blades began to glow faintly, not with magic, but with the oppressive focus of intent honed to a weapon of its own.

'Anthony' attacked with a downward stroke infused with pure killing intent.

Anthony parried, the contact point between their blades releasing a shockwave that flattened the surrounding vegetation.

Anthony spun mid deflection and slashed upward with enough force to part the clouds above.

'Anthony' leaned back, the tip of Anthony's blade grazing the fabric over his chest, severing it cleanly without touching skin.

They pressed on, slashes so precise they cut individual leaves mid fall, footwork so exact that not even pebbles shifted under their weight unless they willed it.

The battle had ascended beyond technique.

They seemed to be reading each other's thoughts, seemingly adapting without needing to analyze.

They had become extensions of one another.

The fake moved with ruthlessness, never hesitating, never faltering.

Every slash was aimed at a fatal point, the carotid artery, the heart, the back of the neck.

Anthony responded in kind, his blade whispering toward vital zones with a surgeon's calculation.

Their swordplay, amplified by intent, left no room for error.

Yet they made none.

For every thrust, there was a perfect sidestep.

For every slash, a flawless deflection.

Their shadows danced along the fractured terrain, indistinguishable from one another, flickering like specters locked in an eternal duel.

Minutes passed.

Time had no meaning in their battlefield.

The mountain itself seemed to bow under the pressure.

Cracks split open the hillside.

Trees with decades of growth behind them collapsed in the wake of their intent.

Dust filled the air, caught in the whirlwind of their motion.

And still, neither drew blood.

Another destructive clash shook the ridge, a cataclysmic collision of aura, steel, and will.

The ground ruptured beneath them, splitting into a jagged chasm.

Dust and rock exploded upward, swallowing the two figures in a vortex of ruin.

When it cleared, they stood once more, blades locked, eyes locked.

Unmoving.

Equal.

Perfect.

Flawless