Chương 47: Chapter 46

The Adventurers' Guild hall goes silent. Every voice dies as the Dungeon Map pulses overhead. Jacob's green dot and the mimic's purple dot crash together in a corner of the fourth floor. The two marks overlap, and nobody breathes. Every gambler who was jeering ten seconds ago now stares up, knuckles white on the tables and coin trays. No one is placing new bets. The odds are gone, replaced by raw nerves. Guildmaster Dorn stands behind the betting pit, arms crossed.

His clerks stand frozen, eyes wide, betting slips forgotten. The crowd leans in, half of them holding their breath, the other half gripping silver or scribbling frantic notes. A single mug falls over and rolls across the stone, but no one moves to pick it up. Felisia's jaw stays clenched. She watches the map and says nothing. Sir Greyson stands behind her, face carved from stone, his gaze fixed on the screen and nothing else. On the map, the green and purple dots press together. Someone whispers, "This is it.

It's over." Another voice answers, "No way he's beating a shadow mimic." Guildmaster Dorn does not move.

"Any second now. Just watch. The green dot is going to blink." But it doesn't. Instead, the two dots start to slide apart. First by a hair, then by the width of a finger. Jacob's marker edges away, then closes again. The two dots circle. Sometimes Jacob's dot gives ground, sometimes it presses in, then backs away, then closes again. They twist and spiral, never quite separating, but never staying stacked for long. A hush falls over the entire room. The crowd leans closer, pressing shoulder to shoulder.

The two dots flicker and slide, trading position back and forth. Someone mutters, "What's happening? Why isn't the mimic finishing him?" A Silver Rank shakes his head.

"He's holding out. He's actually holding out!" The guild clerk with the betting slips gulps.

"They're not just standing still. They're moving—he's dodging. He's—he's pushing the mimic back!" Felisia's fists tighten at her sides. Sir Greyson leans forward and lets out a slow breath. He says nothing, but the look in his eyes says everything. For the next minute, nobody in the Adventurers' Guild speaks. Nobody places a single bet.

The green and purple dots on the map slide back and forth, weaving through the floor, until, at last, the gap between them closes one last time and the two shapes overlap for just a second. Everyone in the guild holds their breath. The map hangs, flickering. The next instant, one of the dot greys out. * I stand over the glass floor, watching the mimic reform its white mask and grip Hell's Sword again. My chest burns. My mana is low. I know that my Skills don't have flaws anymore.

I brought every one to max level, and the Grimoire hasn't shown me a real defect in months. Still, I see the limits. Even perfect Skills can only do so much. They have a shape—a path—just like any tool or blade. I watch the mimic. It's quick. It has every Skill I have. The way it swings Hell's Sword shows it learned fast. It's creative, more creative than most Knights. It feints, it slides, it even improvises, trying new angles and patterns I've only barely tested myself.

But every attack it throws has a rhythm that I know in my bones. The monster copies my Skill, but it doesn't have my instinct. It has none of my history. I can see every move it tries because I made those same choices to survive. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. The Grimoire flickers behind my eyes. At first, there are no flaws to list. Then Architect's Insight activates, pages of diagrams turning in my mind.

I remember every time I've used Architect's Insight—back when I cracked the glass golems, when I saw the flaw in their knees, when I broke through their core shields, when I mapped the pattern behind a perfect defense and found the gap. Now, that same blue overlay slides over the mimic's body. Every swing, every turn, every breath, every flicker of mana is highlighted, lit up with patterns I can read. The mimic attacks with both Hell's Swords. I keep my stance tight and bring up Fire Shield.

The mimic sends a volley of Fire Slashes at my head, tries to cut off my escape with Fire Walk, then pivots for a double-bladed strike. I see the mana drain. I see the way it burns through reserves like it has infinite stamina. If I try to match that, I will lose. I let everything else drop. I hold only two Hell's Swords, Fire Shield, and the smallest pulse of Fire Walk for movement. Nothing else. I need to conserve every scrap of mana. I focus on the Grimoire's overlays.

Patterns start to appear—tiny delays between the mimic's attacks, micro-hesitations when it chains Skills together, little flaws in the way it guards high but leaves its left side weak every third strike. I parry, deflect, and dodge. Every time I move, I push a bit further, nudging the mimic back, making it work for every inch. My own body grows sharper, my arms move cleaner, and I feel the rush of new growth—Intermediate Endurance levels up, Intermediate Strength ticks higher, Bronze Grip strengthens my hold.

Notifications slide past my vision as I focus. The mimic tries to break the stalemate. It feints high with Hell's Sword, fires a Fire Slash for my ribs, and jets past me on a burst of Fire Walk. I see the move with Echo Pulse. The world overlays itself in hard-edged lines and movement arcs. At first, Echo Pulse isn't enough. The mimic is too fast, its pattern too wild, and my own reaction is a step behind. But I sync Echo Pulse, Architect's Insight, and the Grimoire's flaw detection together.

Suddenly, every opening is mapped in front of me—weak knees, a rising elbow, the slow wind-up before a double slash. Every fake and pivot is there, clear as day. I score a cut on the mimic's thigh with a tight swing. I block its counter with Fire Shield, push it off balance with my own Hell's Sword, and chip away at its defense with a flick of fire. Each time the mimic tries to overwhelm me with more Skills, I just wait, see the pattern, then counter. I don't burn mana unless I have to.

I keep my attacks clean, my steps precise. I press it back, one strike at a time, never letting it regain control. The mimic grows more desperate. It burns mana faster, swinging harder, throwing more Skill combinations at me. Its strikes lose precision. The flaw in its guard grows. I see my moment. I slide in close, using Fire Walk for one last burst. I drop low under its guard. I let both Hell's Swords spin up, and I hear the surge in my core.

Echo Pulse shows the opening—Architect's Insight draws the weak line through its ribs. The Grimoire flashes—"NOW." I dodge its last strike. I step into its guard, shove my blade straight through its side, and lance the mimic from hip to shoulder. The mimic stares down at the sword buried in its body. I don't let it react. I lock my grip, bare my teeth, and roar, "Break—" then rip Hell's Sword out, splitting the mimic in two.

The monster's body cracks, splits along the line, and collapses in a shower of glass and burning shadow. The flames die out. The only thing left is silence, and my own ragged breathing. The last echoes of battle fade. I keep my sword drawn and back away from the heap of black glass and burning shadow. The pieces twitch and shift, never settling. My chest heaves. Mana smoke curls up from the cracks in the floor. Then, the darkness on the ground thickens.

The mimic's shadow pours out across the glass, rolling over every broken shard. I brace for another attack, but the shadows only crawl together, dragging the splintered glass with them. A shape starts to form at the center of the room. The darkness folds in on itself, gathering up every last trace of the mimic's remains. Shards click and scrape, bones of shadow clattering as the heap takes shape. The glass starts to pulse with dull, purple light. The whole mass twists and bends.

In seconds, the wreckage and shadow fuse into a single, solid shape. A treasure chest stands in the ruins. Its lid is forged from black glass, marked by a ripple of dark veins and a single lock that glows faintly with purple fire. I feel a small pull from the bracelet that formed around my wrist after the meeting with King Baalrek.