Lian looked down at the severed stump where his right hand had been.

Blood no longer flowed.

The blue energy that now coursed through his reconstructed body had already cauterized the wound, sealing veins and arteries in a clean, glowing line.

He smiled.

Not the cold, empty smile of the other him.

Not the mocking grin of the double.

A real smile.

Small.

Fierce.

Satisfied.

The stump twitched.

Flesh bubbled.

Bone extended.

Tendons wove themselves back together.

Skin regrew in a ripple of blue light.

In seconds, the hand was whole again—fingers flexing, calluses from ten thousand hammer strikes still present, scars unchanged.

Lian clenched the new fist.

Tested it.

Perfect.

He looked up at the double.

The mocking smile on the duplicate’s face faltered for the first time.

Lian smirked.

Then he jumped.

No hesitation.

No wasted motion.

He used the same hand the double had just cut off—now reborn stronger—and drove it forward like a hammer striking an anvil.

The double blocked.

Arm raised.

Fist met forearm.

The shockwave was cataclysmic.

Air exploded outward in a visible ring.

The stone floor beneath them shattered into a crater ten meters wide.

The ceiling far above cracked open with a deafening boom.

Huge chunks of ancient masonry rained down, smashing into the sand like meteors.

Both fighters were thrown backward by the force.

They slid across the broken ground, feet carving deep trenches.

The double lowered its arm.

It was smiling again, but this time the smile was different—excited, almost hungry.

“Now you’re finally getting serious,” it said, voice echoing with dark delight. “This will be fun.”

It released more Qi.

The air around the double thickened.

Its body grew larger—not in height, but in presence.

Muscles swelled.

Veins glowed with stolen power.

The mocking aura intensified until the entire arena trembled under the weight of it.

Then they collided again.

Toe to toe.

Fist to fist.

Blade to bare hand.

The fight became a storm of destruction.

They moved through the collapsing arena like living disasters.

Every punch shattered pillars.

Every kick carved new trenches into the floor.

Every clash sent debris flying upward into the broken ceiling.

They burst through walls into adjacent ruined chambers.

They fought across broken staircases that crumbled beneath their feet.

They traded blows on collapsing platforms that fell away into darkness below.

Lian was gaining the upper hand.

He dodged the double’s strikes with minimal movement—body flowing like liquid starlight.

He landed stronger blows—each one carrying the accumulated will of every ten thousand hammer strikes, every silent night with Elara, every promise whispered over Harlan’s blood.

The double’s mocking laughter grew strained.

Its sword swung in wide, vicious arcs—light-drinking edge hungry for flesh.

Lian fought bare-handed.

He didn’t need a weapon anymore.

His fists were enough.

His reconstructed body was enough.

His will was enough.

They destroyed the entire arena.

Walls fell.

Ceilings collapsed.

The vast circular ring became a ruin of rubble and dust.

After an hour and a half of unrelenting combat, the double was on the ground.

Breathing hard.

Body broken.

Half its face caved in.

One arm hanging limp.

Blood—blue and red mixed—leaked from dozens of wounds.

It was smiling.

Still smiling.

Even on the edge of death.

Lian stood over it.

Glowing blue energy slowly fading from his skin.

Breathing steady.

Uninjured.

The double looked up at him.

Eyes still mocking, but now with something else—respect?

Pride?

“You finally did it,” the double rasped, voice weak but clear. “You became more than the weak boy who watched his uncle die.”

It coughed.

Blood flecked its lips.

“Get stronger.”

It reached up slowly, as if to touch Lian’s face, then let the hand drop.

“We will both get what we want.”

Lian stared down at it.

The double’s smile widened one last time.

Then its eyes dimmed.

The body dissolved into blue light—fading like mist.

Absorbed.

Not gone.

Never gone.

But integrated.

Lian stood alone in the ruined arena.

The silver thread above had brightened into a steady blue glow.

The silence returned.

Not empty this time.

Full.

He closed his eyes.

Took one deep breath.

And woke up.

His real eyes snapped open in the small side room of the underground forge.

Chains still on his wrists and ankles.

Body still injured—but healing.

The voices were quieter now.

Not gone.

But quieter.

Elara was outside the door.

He could feel her presence—steady alloy fingers resting against the stone.

The old blacksmith and the healer waited nearby.

Lian looked at the fracture in the rune on the wall.

It was still there.

But smaller.

This time, the darkness did not answer with mockery.

It simply listened.

And somewhere deep inside, the new Lian—the one who had faced the mirror and refused to break—smiled.