CHAPTER 78: CHAPTER 77 : BLOOD IN THE STREETS (3)

The bastard finally decided to move.

Up until now, the so-called Aristocrat had just been standing there, arms crossed, smirking like the smugest piece of shit in the world while his freak pet—the Hybrid—tore the skies apart with Volt.

Watching us bleed. Watching us claw for air. Watching us break like he was enjoying a show with front-row seats.

But the moment Volt hit the street—lightning bleeding out of him in twitching, dying arcs—the air changed. Thickened. Sharpened.

That’s when he smiled.

"Enough warming up," he said, voice slick like oil poured over glass. "Shall we play, Ye-Jun?"

And then his flesh twisted.

Into me.

I blinked once, twice. My stomach lurched. He looked exactly like me—down to the scatter of black feathers across the back, the cocky half-smirk, even the faint scar beneath my chin from when I tried to shave at thirteen and nearly carved myself open.

It was... uncanny.

"Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me." My lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl. "What is this, cosplay? You forgot the attitude, pal."

He tilted his head, my head, eyes glinting like a mirror that knew too much. "No, I didn’t."

The ground ruptured beneath us. A spear of crimson blood burst upward, liquid hardening mid-air like molten glass cooling into steel.

I rolled aside just as it stabbed through where my chest had been, leaving cracks spiderwebbing across the asphalt.

And then we clashed.

Feathers ripped free from my wings, spinning like blades, slicing toward him in a storm of black razors. He swung his arm casually—and it melted, dripping downward into a whip of blood.

With a crack like thunder, it lashed outward, batting my feathers from the air like gnats.

Each impact sang like a drumline: his blood splattering in violent arcs, my feathers ringing against crimson walls.

Sparks flew, glass windows shattered, alarms wailed, and the whole street—already half-ruined—became an arena of destruction.

"Ye-Jun!" Ye-Rin’s voice split through the chaos. I caught a glimpse of her sprinting, axe raised, face streaked with soot and blood.

But a wall of liquid surged upward, solidifying into a barricade that split the street in two.

"Stay back!" I barked, feathers spinning around me to catch the next wave of strikes. "This one’s mine!"

The Aristocrat-me sneered, my voice dripping from his stolen lips. "Arrogant as ever. That’s why you’ll break so easily."

And then—he shifted.

The feathers vanished. My jawline softened. My cheekbones dipped lower. My eyes... widened. Innocent. Brown.

Long black hair spilled past her shoulders, tied back the way she always wore it when she was working the late train shifts.

No.

Not her. Not here.

"Han ji6..." My throat tightened.

She smiled at me, that same shy smile I hadn’t seen since—since the station. Since the blood. Since I’d lost her.

"Ye-Jun," she whispered in her voice. Her real voice. Gentle. "It’s been so long."

I froze. Just a fraction of a second. But in combat, that’s all it takes.

The whip lashed. Cracked against my ribs with enough force to lift me off my feet. Pain detonated across my chest as I slammed into the side of a toppled truck. Metal crumpled, glass rained, my feathers scattered like broken knives around me.

I coughed blood, vision swimming.

"Pathetic," the Baron said—in her tone. "Still chasing ghosts."

"Shut the hell up!" I spat, staggering upright, chest screaming. "You don’t get to use her face!"

Rage boiled up. Feathers ripped free again, sharper than before, carving furrows into the cracked street.

He batted most aside with blood, but a handful slashed across his cheek, tearing Mirja’s illusion away into a spray of liquid crimson.

"Better," he hissed, reforming into *my* face again, smirking wider than I ever had. "Now fight me properly."

Before I could retort, his body *split.*

Blood peeled from his flesh, forming duplicates. One. Two. Four—each a dripping reflection of me, each clutching blood-forged spears.

They moved in perfect sync, circling, stabbing in from every angle. I parried left, feathers shattering a spear. Another jabbed low—I twisted, but the third clipped my thigh. Pain screamed through me.

"Ye-Jun!"

Mother’s voice cracked behind me. I risked a glance—she was pale as chalk, her hands trembling as she raised her staff.

She was already half-dead from cursing the behemoths earlier. But she still mouthed words, bleeding from her nose.

"Don’t—Mother, stop! You’ll burn out!" I yelled, barely ducking under another thrust.

She didn’t stop.

Her voice shredded into a scream: "Curse of Senseless!"

Black chains erupted from the cracked pavement, slithering up the Baron’s legs, his clones’ arms, piercing into their chests. For a heartbeat—their movements dulled, like puppets with their strings cut.

"NOW!" Mother screamed.

I didn’t hesitate.

Feathers swirled, dozens compressing into a jagged blade in my hands, pulsing black. My wings flared wide as I lunged, carving straight at the real one—the "me" smirking at the center.

My blade sank across his chest. Deep. Blood sprayed across my face. His grin faltered. For the first time, he staggered.

The world went silent.

"Finally," I panted, wings trembling, blade shaking in my grip. "Guess you’re not so untouchable after all."

But then—he laughed.

At first, low. Bubbled, broken. Then louder. A howl, splitting, choking, until it was all I could hear.

His wound boiled. Flesh bubbling like magma, sealing itself shut as the blood surged inward. Within seconds, there was no wound. Not even a scar.

"You think you’ve wounded me?" His smile returned—wider, sharper, inhuman. "Ye-Jun... we’re just getting started."

The street shuddered. Blood walls collapsed outward in a flood, red rivers snaking down gutters and swallowing the asphalt. Behemoths roared beyond the haze.

Seo-Yeon screamed curses as cars spun wildly out of her control. In-Ji’s rifle cracked again and again, desperate shots cutting through smoke.

Volt twitched on the ground, sparks bleeding like open veins, unable to rise.

And me?

I stood, chest burning, blade of feathers trembling in my grip, staring at my own face across the ruin.

This wasn’t just a fight.

It was a duel of wills.

And if I slipped—just once—everyone here was dead.