'Tag out, Murphy,' I roared.

  I didn't try to block. Murphy's stamina was an empty tank, and his consciousness was already retreating into the back seat as I surged forward. I immediately dispelled every clone except for Sir Plunge-alot. That included the meditators in the tannery as well as the clone holding the fort inside our Inventory. My mana shot back to a hundred percent and change, but it was the stamina that made me pause. The moment I checked the internal gauges, the bar was full.

  The Prime was making his move. I needed time.

  WHOOMPF.

  A cloud of white flour exploded outward from my skin, expanding into a dense, choking fog bank. In the same microsecond, I burned a chunk of my fresh stamina to override the safety limiters on my leg muscles. I didn't just dodge; I launched myself out of the kill zone at the exact moment the Prime lunged into the dust cloud to end it.

  CRACK.

  The Prime's fist hammered the concrete where my skull had been a fraction of a second before. The impact shook the yard and cleared the dust, sending spiderweb fractures tearing through the ground.

  Silence slammed into the yard, broken only by the hiss of settling grit. The Prime froze, his fist buried wrist-deep in the fractured earth. The servos in his arm whined as he looked at the empty crater, then slowly raised his head to the figure standing on the shipping container above the smoke screen.

  "Impossible," he whispered, his painted features locked in a mask of confusion. "Your structural integrity was compromised. How are you able to move? A restorative Art, perhaps?"

  I didn't answer immediately. I took a breath as the realisation hit me. The Art didn't tax the meat; it taxed the driver. It drained the soul's capacity to warp reality. Murphy was tapped out, his spiritual stamina depleted by the Phasing. But I was fresh. It was a mechanic we had never tested, and it just saved our lives.

  I opened my eyes. The shimmer of emerald green was gone; they burned with a molten, ancient gold.

  "You have poor manners, pal," I said. My voice was the same timbre as Murphy's, but the cadence was anchored—deeper, calmer, and layered with the weight of a thousand battlefields. "Hitting a guy when he's down? That's low. Even for a toaster."

  I cracked my neck. CRACK. CRACK.

  The Prime tilted his head, his sensors whirring. "You seem to have regained some vitality, but your personality has changed. You seem smug. Arrogant. I fail to see how such a change will help you win a fight you have already lost."

  "You're looking at the shell," I said, dusting the flour off my leather Armour. "You should be looking at the spirit beneath."

  "A logical being would use their newfound health to run away," the Prime stated, his internal gears clicking with polite arrogance. "I am curious—why keep fighting?"

  "Honour. A concept this world seems to have forgotten," I stated simply. "Now, please allow this old man a guilty pleasure. I prefer my swordplay with a little bit of music."

  "Old?" the Prime asked, confused.

  "I assure you I am over a hundred years old," I said with authority. I raised a hand, and a clone materialised on top of the container next to me. He wasn't holding a weapon; he was holding a heavy, brass-horned gramophone.

  "A sonic weapon?"

  "Better," I said, walking toward the edge. "It's called a gramophone, but I modified the internal diaphragm with a few wind Runes to handle more acoustic range." I thought back to the years in the Nevada desert. "The Old Man had a hell of a vinyl collection, but it stopped around the 1980s. He never owned this record."

  I grinned—a sharp, wolfish expression.

  "I would like to introduce you to the Man in Black. Johnny Cash. One of the greats. He wrote this track just before he died, decades after the Old Man stopped buying records."

  The clone dropped the needle. There were no drums. Just a voice, deep and ragged as the grave, reading from the Book of Revelation.

  "And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder..." ?

  The Prime stepped back, unsettled by the spoken word. "This is... a scripture of some sort?"

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "One of the four beasts saying, 'Come and see.' And I saw, and behold, a white horse." ?

  Then, the acoustic guitar kicked in. A steady, driving strum.

  STRUM. STRUM. STRUM.

  Ten clones materialised in a phalanx around me, wielding heavy, two-handed Longswords.

  "Engage," I ordered. I didn't run. I marched.

  "There's a man goin' 'round takin' names." ?

  The clones surged forward. We fought like the ticking of a clock. Inevitable. Clone One stepped in, delivering a rigid, textbook overhead cleave. The Prime blocked it, but the force drove his feet into the concrete.

  CLANG.

  "And he decides who to free and who to blame." ?

  The Prime was fast—faster than us—but he was fighting a hive mind that could Phase through almost every blow. Every clone moved on the beat, trading space for time.

  "Fascinating!" the Prime roared over the music, ducking under a decapitation strike and swatting a clone into a cloud of blue mist with a casual backhand. "You possess a tactical unity the other lacked! You are a true Soldier!"

  He lunged at me, his porcelain face twisted into a snarl. I met him. I didn't dodge; I parried. My sword locked with his forearm guard, the impact jarring my hands.

  "Your strength is coming from the religious Totem!" the Prime said, concluding that the music was the source. He fired a pulse of yellow mana at the clone on the container.

  "Intercept," I commanded.

  A fresh clone leapt into the path, vaporising instantly, but the music didn't stop.

  Twelve more clones materialised, wielding Longswords of high-grade steel—mana Constructs. The first clone blurred forward, its blade a silver streak. The Prime raised a heavy arm to block. At the microsecond of impact, the clone phased the blade through the guard and rematerialised it inside the structural joint. The steel bit through the internal mechanisms with a sickening CRUNCH, severing the Prime's arm at the elbow.

  The Prime staggered back, staring at his stump with cold fascination. "A magical sword?" He lunged, disarming one of my clones and snatching its blade. He whirled on another, calculating a lethal arc. "Let us see if your toys work for me."

  Before the blade could touch skin, I opened a portal and the strike phased right through.

  "Frustrating, isn't it?" I asked. Every time he swung, I phased through or dispelled the target.

  "There is no honour in this!" the Prime roared, his porcelain face cracking with rage. "You hide behind phantoms! A true warrior meets steel with steel!"

  I parried his next strike as the music swelled. "Honour has a point of view," I stated. "And right now, mine is looking at your throat."

  The fight was glorious, but the math was cruel. The constant Phasing was a massive stamina drain. The tank was emptying, and the Prime was winning the war of attrition.

  'We can't win the long game,' I realised. 'He's too durable.'

  "You are slowing down," the Prime noted, circling me. "The spirit is willing, but the body is weak."

  "I'm just catching my breath," I lied.

  "Phalanx! Scatter pattern!" I commanded. The remaining clones broke formation, sprinting in chaotic arcs.

  "Childish games!" the Prime roared, swatting another clone into mist.

  "Not a game," I whispered. "A setup."

  I saw the gap. We had gallons of slime acid stored in Stasis. I didn't hug him; I simply pointed my open palm from ten feet away.

  HISS-SPLASH.

  A jet of neon-green sludge caught the Prime dead-centre in his porcelain face. The acid hissed like a thousand angry snakes. Smoke billowed up, thick and acrid.

  "My visage!" the Prime shrieked. It was a scream of pure vanity. "You are melting the visage!"

  "Now," I grunted.

  I dropped my sword and sprinted, sliding under his guard to slam both hands against his chest. My fingers turned ghostly, vibrating through the steel to wrap around the Core. I triggered the Vacuum.

  I expected a pop. Instead, I tried to drink a waterfall. The mana surged into my Inventory with the force of a tidal wave. My arms shook; the veins in my neck bulged as I tried to swallow the ocean.

  'It's too dense!' I realised. 'I can't drain it fast enough!'

  The Prime roared. "Fae!" he bellowed.

  BOOM.

  The Prime flared his Core, a shockwave of pure mana blowing me backward like a ragdoll. I tumbled across the yard, skidding to a halt in the dirt.

  "Well," I panted, forcing myself up. "That was spicy."

  The Prime stood. The butler-like features were gone, melted away. In their place was a nightmare of dark steel and a glowing red sensor.

  "It was never an Art. You are using Fae magic," the Prime growled. "I should have known."

  "I fight to win, pal."

  "And you have failed," he stated.

  The air in the yard grew hot. Puddles began to steam.

  "TIME TO DIE FAE SCUM!"

  CRACK.

  A fissure appeared on the Prime's chest plate as bright orange light spilt out.

  "The shell is limiting," he declared, his voice vibrating the scrap metal around us. "I am not the shell. I am the Core!"

  K-CHUNK. WRRRRR-CLANG.

  It was horrifying to watch. The sleek, human-proportioned body of the butler split down the middle as parts from the fallen golems snapped towards him.

  Plates shifted. Gears ground against gears. Massive, jagged pauldrons unfolded from his back. His limbs expanded, hydraulic pistons lengthening and locking into place. He grew a foot. Then two.

  The elegance was gone. The butler was gone. Standing in his place was a hulking, jagged engine of war. A siege-breaker.

  And in the centre of his chest, the Yellow glow had vanished.

  It was replaced by the terrifying, sun-like radiance of an Orange Core.

  The Prime—or what was left of him—leaned forward, his voice sounding like tectonic plates grinding together.

  "Now," the War Machine rumbled. "Let us discuss your lack of honour, Fae."

  The heat was now a spiritual weight. The Prime took a step, and the ground shook. His Armour density had tripled, and my stamina deficit was eating my muscle tissue. He raised a fist the size of an anvil, and a serrated blade extended with a metallic SNIKT.

  "DO IT!" I screamed.

  He didn't pause. A lunge and a backhand sweep, faster than sound. I tried to raise my sword. I tried to phase. I failed.

  The blade caught me across the neck. No pain—just a jarring shift in perspective.

  The world spun. I saw my own body hit its knees, a fountain of red spraying from the stump.

  I hit the concrete with a wet thud. My vision rolled one last time, seeing the boots of the War Machine settle on a very inconspicuous round carpet.