Corrupted Bonds-Chapter 96: The Blood Mirror

The chamber shattered into chaos.

Resonance screamed through the air like sirens made of wire and bone. The scent of burnt ozone, scorched metal, and raw blood hung thick in the oxygen-starved atmosphere. It clung to their tongues like rust, heavy and metallic.

The floor trembled beneath every footstep—fracturing with the weight of power. Glowing lines spiderwebbed through the white stone, too bright to stare at directly, too unstable to stand on for long.

The reflections moved first.

Not with hesitation.

But with a predator's grace—all smirks and sharpened confidence. Their bodies shimmered faintly, not glitching, not echoing—but perfected. Stronger. Faster. Hungrier.

ARI vs ARI

Ari roared as her reflection lunged, twin daggers flashing like liquid silver. Their blades met in a savage clash—steel shrieking against steel, the vibration running up her arms like an electric burn.

Ari twisted, slammed her shoulder into the other's ribs, then pivoted to sweep with her leg.

But the reflection didn't falter.

It grinned.

"That all you've got, muscle memory? I've bled sharper hits than that."

The reflection ducked low, feinted a swipe, then spun—moving faster than she could track—and drove a boot into Ari's gut.

The impact knocked the wind from her lungs. She flew back into a cracked column, her spine arching on contact. Dust exploded outward from the crater she left.

Ari gasped, tasting copper, but forced herself up.

She charged—daggers out, resonance flickering along the hilts. She activated her surge burst—her muscles pulsing with enhanced strength, veins glowing faintly under her skin.

With a primal cry, she slammed her blades into the floor to trigger a shockwave, flinging debris upward to blind the reflection.

But her reflection was already there.

The mirror-Ari came from the side, blades carving an arc that shredded through the rising dust. One dagger sliced across Ari's shoulder, tearing through flesh with a wet, splitting sound.

Ari staggered—blood pouring.

She turned, slashed wildly, caught the reflection across the face.

But it didn't scream.

It smiled.

"You're flailing," it said. "You always flail when you're desperate. Like a drowning rat trying to bite the sea."

Ari threw a punch with her off-hand—landed it square in the reflection's jaw—but pain flared instantly through her wrist.

The reflection had turned just enough to absorb the blow with her temple, and retaliated with a brutal knee to Ari's sternum.

Something cracked.

Ari dropped.

She hit the floor hard—cheek pressed to cold stone, her own blood pooling beneath her chin.

Her reflection knelt beside her, blade angled against the back of her neck.

"Let me guess," it whispered. "One more heroic lunge? One more snarl about protecting the team?"

Ari's fingers twitched.

The reflection drove the heel of its boot into her ribs again, and Ari screamed. It echoed, raw and violent.

"I am you," the reflection hissed. "But perfected. Sharpened. Unforgiving."

Ari coughed—blood dribbling from her lips. She turned her head just slightly, eyes blazing through the agony.

"I've got more scars than you ever will."

Then she rammed her head backwards.

A crunch. The reflection recoiled—snarling—and Ari rolled, slow and shuddering, onto her knees.

Every breath was fire. Every movement ripped something inside her. But she still raised her blades.

"I'm not dead yet, bitch."

QUINN vs QUINN 

Quinn moved with precision—fluid steps that mirrored breath, hands poised in defensive rhythm. But his reflection matched him perfectly. No. It led him—like a dancer who had memorized every beat of his soul.

They collided in silence.

Mental barriers clashed like tidal waves in a narrow channel—psychic resonance blasting outward in unseen shockwaves that sent hair standing on end.

The scent of ozone thickened. Quinn gritted his teeth as the feedback loop intensified—his reflection hammering his mind with overloads of emotional static, fake grief, twisted comfort.

"Aw," the reflection said, mockingly soothing. "Still playing the calm one? The healer? The empath who fixes everyone but himself?"

Quinn's hands sparked—blue-white resonance flaring around his wrists. He snapped a loop into place—Anchor Mode—trying to stabilize the wave crashing against him. Sweat trickled down his temple, soaking into his collar.

But the reflection only smiled. "You always were the weak link, Quinn. All tether, no teeth."

The reflection launched forward, slamming into him—elbow to sternum, a knee striking up and into his gut.

Quinn gasped, doubling over, and the reflection gripped his head—forcing a telepathic surge.

Agony exploded behind Quinn's eyes.

He screamed.

Flashes—Kira's broken expression, Nolan's death, Rowan's bleeding face—all amplified. Warped. Personal failures rendered in 4K clarity.

Quinn dropped to his knees—nose bleeding freely. But he didn't crumble.

He reached deep—into the tether.

A pulse surged back—Echo Damping. His own trick—thrown in reverse.

The reflection hissed, reeling backward as the false memories were scrubbed.

Quinn lifted his head, face soaked in blood and sweat. One eye was nearly swollen shut, but his mouth still curled in defiance.

"You think you know my pain?" he rasped. "You're just a fucking photocopy."

He slammed a palm into the floor, creating a ripple of Empathic Feedback—forcing real emotion outward, truth against illusion. The reflection screamed as it was overwhelmed with actual feeling.

"Let's see if a reflection can feel regret."

JASPER vs JASPER 

The air cracked.

Jasper's reflection exploded toward him with gale-force speed, winds spiraling in jagged arcs around its outstretched limbs. The twin tornadoes screamed like banshees, sucking the light from the room.

Jasper braced—boots dragging along the floor as he threw up a barrier of spinning wind. The pressure roared around him, deafening, tugging at his clothes, tearing fabric and peeling skin where resonance flared too thin.

"You think you've mastered the storm?" the reflection sneered, floating above the ground with hair blown back like a god of ruin. "I am the storm."

It hurled a vortex straight into him.

The impact drove Jasper back into the wall—stone cracking, blood spraying from his mouth. He coughed and gasped as wind claws sliced across his back, ripping deep gouges into muscle.

He retaliated with a Whirlwind Surge, arms spinning in tight circles before slamming his palms into the ground. The storm burst upward, catching the reflection mid-laugh and flinging it into the ceiling. Concrete fractured.

But the reflection twisted mid-air—riding the wind.

It owned it.

It came back down, foot-first, smashing into Jasper's chest. Bones gave. Jasper screamed.

The reflection landed, crouching like a predator, one hand swirling with razor-sharp currents.

"You call this control?" it hissed. "You're scared of what you could become."

Jasper struggled upright, blood running from his nose, his lip, a cut above his brow. He spat.

"You're right," he growled, stumbling forward with wind screaming at his back.

Then, with a burst of fury, he launched a slicing wind arc—razor-edged, screaming. It tore through the chamber, carving a path of devastation.

"But I'm not scared of you."

MIRA vs MIRA

Shots cracked like lightning.

Mira dove, rolled, and fired. Her sniper round screamed toward its target, but the reflection moved like smoke—sliding behind a rising gravity shield mid-air. The bullet ricocheted into a wall, sending sparks raining.

The reflection smirked, switched ammo types—click—and fired.Lightning round.

It cracked through the air, slammed into Mira's thigh. Her body twisted mid-roll as voltage surged through muscle and nerve. She screamed, hit the floor shoulder-first, rolled and came up limping.

"Getting slow," the reflection purred. "And here I thought you were the sniper queen."

Mira grit her teeth, shoved a round into the chamber—incendiary. She fired.Fire bloomed.

The reflection vanished inside the inferno—only to reappear, singed but grinning, leaping through the smoke with her own rifle like a blade. She slammed the barrel into Mira's jaw.

Crack.

Blood flew. Mira reeled.

Another blow—rifle butt to the gut. She choked. Dropped.

The reflection stepped on her chest, pinning her.

"You're not me," the reflection said. "You're a failure trying to wear my face."

Mira screamed and fired upward point-blank.The explosion threw them both—but she was slower getting up.

The reflection was already aiming."Let's see what happens when you break the glass."

She fired.

And Mira's world went red.

ZORA vs ZORA 

The floor split beneath them.

Zora launched himself forward—bow in one hand, blades at his back. His gravity field spiraled beneath his boots, altering the momentum of his leap. He landed light, despite the stone crumbling underfoot. One hand flicked out, loosing a sleek arrow laced with a distortion pulse.

But his reflection was already mid-air, coasting on a gravity wave—feet never touching the floor, eyes gleaming with savage calculation.

"Still using gravity like a crutch?" it mocked, drawing its own bow with fluid grace. "I am gravity. You're just playing with pebbles."

The two arrows met mid-flight. They didn't clash—they folded together, imploded into a ripple of compressed space that detonated between them.

Zora rolled backward, flipping once, and drew his twin curved swords. The reflection mirrored him—perfect form, mirrored poise. But its grip was looser, cockier, like it had nothing to fear.

Zora slashed low, then swept upward—gravitational pull warping with each strike to drag the reflection off-balance.

But the reflection danced.

Its body moved with a grace that made Zora's own technique feel sluggish by comparison. The twin swords of the reflection carved arcs of compressed space, cutting deep gashes into the floor and sending debris flying like shrapnel.

They clashed again—blades screeching, pressure waves slamming into the walls with such force that hairline fractures bloomed outward like spiderwebs.

They clashed mid-air. Drawing their bows taut.

Arrows of compressed gravity screamed through the chamber—one of Zora's shots ricocheting off a pillar, while the reflection danced sideways, feet sliding across the air as if gravity bent for it.

Zora ducked under a returning arrow and rolled, drawing both curved blades in a single elegant motion. He launched himself forward, slashing in a downward arc—gravity distorting around each stroke to deepen the force of impact.

The reflection caught one blade with the flat of its own.

"Sloppy," it sneered. "Didn't they teach you control before flair?"

Zora growled and twisted mid-motion, flipping into a backward slice with his other sword—but the reflection dropped into a warp-assisted crouch, gravity fields flaring around its boots. The impact cratered the ground beneath them.

The reflection retaliated.

It vanished for half a second—blinked into a burst of inverted pressure, appearing behind Zora and kicking him in the spine with a gravity pulse so dense it sent him crashing into the far wall. The wall shattered.

Zora spat blood, rolled to his knees, and yanked his bow free. He pulled back an arrow so black it seemed to suck in light. He whispered, "Sing," and let it fly.

It screamed.

The arrow split into five mid-flight, curving with gravity echoes. But the reflection was already gone—sliding sideways along an inverted slope in mid-air like it was surfing spacetime.

It dropped behind Zora.

"Nice shot," it purred. "Too bad you've always aimed at everyone but yourself."

Then it slammed its blades into Zora's shoulders—twin arcs of slicing force that drove him to the ground with a howl.

Blood splattered across the floor in a sick halo.

Zora gasped, one arm trembling, trying to lift a sword.

The reflection crouched in front of him, eyes glowing.

"You think weight makes you stronger?" it hissed. "I am gravity."

And it crushed him beneath a localized pressure wave that cracked the floor beneath his chest.

VESPERA vs VESPERA

The chamber's resonance shifted—like a hymn that soured mid-note.

Vespera walked with steady grace, each footstep quiet against the fractured floor. Her fingers brushed the silver chime at her throat, and a soft pulse of energy shimmered around her—calm, regulating. She was the center in the storm.

But her reflection had no such serenity.

It stepped from the mist like a prayer turned into a curse—identical in appearance, but its posture was poised with cruel poise, like a puppeteer admiring her strings.

"Well," the reflection murmured, circling her, "if it isn't the Saint of Stillness."

Vespera didn't respond. Her hand remained over her charm, anchoring herself in silence.

"You carry their suffering like rosary beads," the reflection continued. "But we both know the truth—you're not healing them. You're hoarding them."

A pulse of resonance burst outward—false empathy, laced with distortion.

Vespera flinched.

The weight was immediate—decades of grief, panic, trauma, all hers, dragged from the recesses of memory and turned into weapons.

She staggered, breath catching, as images flared:

Her hands shaking after missions. The blank, lifeless stares of those she couldn't guide back. The guilt she never voiced. The moments when she'd almost broken—almost.

Her knees buckled.

"I've guided Espers through madness," Vespera whispered, grounding herself. "I've seen what losing yourself looks like. I am not you."

But her reflection was already moving—so fast, it blurred.

The blow came low, a resonance shockwave to her abdomen—not physical, but psychic. It scrambled her tethering field and ruptured her balance. Blood welled at the corner of her mouth.

The reflection struck again—AOE field inversion. Her own technique, turned against her.

Vespera screamed—a short, sharp sound, like glass fracturing inside her skull.

She dropped to one knee. Her resonance charm flared—weak, flickering.

"You've forgotten how to protect yourself," the reflection whispered, standing over her now. "Too many years pretending peace is strength. You want to know what real empathy is?"

Another pulse.

This time it burned. A psychic whip lashed through her nervous system—pain so sharp it blanked her vision. Her hand fell away from her charm.

Her lips parted. Blood spilled from her nose.

And her reflection knelt down, gentle as a lover.

"You don't even scream properly anymore," it cooed. "Let me do it for you."

Vespera tried to lift her hand—just one more resonance flare—but it fizzled, uncontrolled. Her body spasmed from the strain. Every cell felt scorched. Her legs no longer obeyed her.

The reflection stood and raised a hand.

A final pulse knocked Vespera off her feet—slamming her against the wall.

She slid down, dazed, breath shallow, skin slick with sweat and blood. Her coat hung in torn ribbons. Her hair stuck to her face. Her eyes, though glazed, were awake.

Not broken.

Not dead.

But utterly, completely overpowered.

The reflection leaned close, voice soft like silk through a knife's edge.

"This is what perfection sounds like when it pities you."

And with that, the reflection turned away—already seeking her next target.

Vespera lay there, heart pounding like a fractured metronome, whispering to herself:

"Hold on. Just hold on..."