The air was thick—so thick it felt like the battlefield itself had forgotten how to breathe. Each clash of steel rang out like a funeral bell, echoing off the jagged cliffs and the crumbling stone walls of the Heights. Sparks burst in frantic flurries, angry fireflies caught in a storm of violence. Overhead, the sky bled in bruised oranges and reds, clouds swirling like wounded beasts, mirroring the fury below.

Shedletsky moved like a storm barely held together—his breath measured, his stance honed, every muscle taut with memory. His sword carved through the air with brutal elegance, each strike a response not just to his opponent’s rage, but to something deeper. Something older. And 1x1x1x1? He was entropy given form. Cloaked in shadows that writhed like mourning veils, his twin blades pulsed a sickly green, as if fed by corrupted echoes of life.

"You will feel every inch of my HATRED, Telamon," 1x1x1x1 snarled, his voice a venomous thread that slithered through the chaos. It didn’t just chill Shedletsky—it curled around his spine like a memory. Not fear. Something worse.

Something tender.

The glow of 1x1x1x1’s eyes—red, unblinking, inhuman—cut through the dusk like twin wounds. With a guttural cry, he lunged, a blur of jagged motion and spiraling fury. His strikes came fast, erratic, like grief trying to claw its way out of a body.

Shedletsky held his ground. Even as old pain stirred—baby murmurs, fatherly whispers, the soft weight of a child’s head on his shoulder—he did not break. He pivoted with practiced grace, parrying the onslaught with clenched teeth and steady hands. Sparks sprayed in arcs of dying light. Then, with a grunt, he twisted and countered—his blade crashing into one of 1x1x1x1’s with a force that cracked the air. The green sword flickered, stuttering like a corrupted screen. 1x1x1x1 staggered, his footing faltering for the first time.

The ground trembled. Even time seemed to pause, uncertain.

Shedletsky raised his sword again—but a blur snapped into view. One of the enemy’s blades, silent and swift, halted inches from his cheek. The air between them buzzed with unspoken grief.

He didn’t flinch. Not fully. But the smile he offered was crooked, caught between weariness and defiance. “Calm down, bud,” he said, voice light, armor made of humor. Beneath it, his body was locked—pupils sharp, stance braced. “I’m just trying to keep Robloxia safe, alrighty?”

The moment hung—fragile, suspended.

Then 1x1x1x1 began to ripple.

His edges blurred, glitching like a broken memory. His form shimmered, then dissolved—pixel by pixel—until only an impression remained. A ghost of presence. Then nothing. No footstep. No breath. Just a soft hiss, like silence reclaiming its throne.

Shedletsky stood frozen, sword still raised, nerves singing.

He exhaled, slow and shaky. His free hand dragged through sweat-damp hair, eyes scanning the battlefield for something real. But all that lingered was a fading shimmer and a scorch mark where the phantom had vanished.

“It wasn’t him,” he whispered, voice hoarse. His sword lowered, tip tapping stone with a quiet clink.

“Just another useless clone."

The words tasted like ash. Not because the fight had been hard—but because it hadn’t mattered. And the real 1x1x1x1?

He was still out there.

Somewhere.