Nikolai narrowed his gaze at the opposite figure shimmering into existence. "So this floor's the psychological type..."
He watched silently, waiting for the enemy to make a move. A shape stepped forward from the mist. The same build and coat, just a different colour... ice-blue eyes, in place of his crimson red... jet black hair instead of silver. The figure wasn't just a reflection.
It smiled wider.
"You've become soft."
Nikolai rolled his shoulders.
"Not soft. Focused."
The copy tilted its head.
"Then prove it."
The arena began to shift — the floor peeling away to form a circular platform, runes igniting along the edge, with both of them stepping forward onto the white painted marks. Steel slid free from twin hilts at the same time.
Nikolai's stance was regular.
The clone faced him in southpaw.
They bounced lightly off the ground, an audience of spectres, a strange illusion of the crowd that watched him fight Alistair Faust.
