The air thickened with tension as both Eliza and Pinocchio froze, eyes wide with fear, watching the Boogeyman descend. His presence was suffocating, a weight that pressed down on the hallway, causing the lights to flicker and the ground to splinter beneath their feet. The air itself seemed to draw away from him, as if even the atmosphere recoiled from his arrival.

  “Sir… w-why are you here?” Pinocchio's voice trembled, a crack in their usually stoic demeanor. “There's no need to concern yourself with this one—I can handle it.” Desperation seeped through their words, the synthetic voice faltering.

  The Boogeyman's gaze snapped to Pinocchio, his crimson eyes colder than death itself. In a blink, he vanished from the air, reappearing inches from Pinocchio, his movements a blur. His hand shot out, gripping Pinocchio’s damaged arm. With a casual twist, he tore it from their body. The mechanical limb ripped away with a sickening crunch of metal and wires, sparks showering the room with brief flashes of chaotic light.

  “While you're still in a condition to be fixed… retreat.” His voice was ice, an edge of smoldering anger threading through his tone. “This one is mine.”

  Pinocchio didn’t argue. “Y-yes, of course… I'll escape now.” They turned, their movements jerky and unbalanced, the exposed circuitry from their severed arm sparking with each step. The sound of metal against stone echoed as they vanished into the shadows.

  The Boogeyman watched them go, a faint smirk twisting his lips. “Maybe I should kill them… no, it’s fine. I’ve got a good deal with that Russian bastard. No need to ruin things.”

  Then, his attention shifted to Eliza. His eyes, sharp and analytical, moved over her with an unsettling scrutiny. He studied the sword at her waist, the draconic horns on her head, his expression a mix of curiosity and disdain.

  Without warning, he appeared before her, his hand wrapping around one of her horns. His grip was unyielding, fingers digging into the ridged surface with enough force to make the bone creak. Eliza stiffened, her body reacting with a surge of adrenaline as fear coiled tightly in her chest.

  “That’s Excalibur, right? Right?” His voice cracked with a raw, uncharacteristic desperation. His crimson eyes bore into hers.

  Eliza swallowed, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. “Y-yes, it is. My signature artifact.” She forced her voice to remain steady, though a tremor of fear slipped through.

  He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against her skin, cold and invasive. “Tell me… are these horns from a dragon?”

  “They are,” she shot back, her fear mingling with anger. “Why is a bastard like you so interested?”

  The Boogeyman’s grip tightened, the ridges of her horn cracking under the pressure. “One last question, and answer me now: what type of dragon are you?”

  “What… what do you mean?” Confusion swirled through her, her mind scrambling to find the trap hidden in his words.

  “When you use your breath attack,” he hissed, his patience thinning, “what element comes out of your mouth?”

  “F-fire,” she managed, each syllable a struggle against the vice of his grip.

  The Boogeyman’s expression shifted. His eyes dulled, the mania in his voice evaporating into a cold, detached calm. “Good. That’s good.” He sounded almost relieved, as if some dreadful possibility had been dismissed. “If a light dragonoid wielding Excalibur had shown up, I might’ve actually vomited.” His lips curled into a twisted smile. “You’re close, very close, but you’re not him. Good news for you, though… you get to die painlessly.”

  Then, his fingers crushed down. With a sickening crunch, her horn shattered, shards of bone and scale scattering to the ground. A sharp, piercing pain shot through Eliza’s skull, and she gasped, the world tilting beneath her. Each fragment that fell was a piece of her power, a piece of her pride, broken and discarded like so much debris.

  “Painlessly,” he repeated, his voice a low murmur, his smile cruel and unyielding. “Well, to a degree.”

  Eliza brought Excalibur down in a brilliant arc, the blade flaring with a light so bright it scorched the darkness. In one fierce stroke, it cleaved clean through the Boogeyman’s neck. For the briefest moment, the world seemed to stop. His head spun away from his crumpling body, and Eliza dared to believe it was over.

  Then the severed head dissolved into a swarm of writhing maggots before it could even hit the ground. They squirmed across the floor, merging into one another in a vile, churning mass that crawled back to the corpse. Flesh molded over the empty neck, bone reformed, and the Boogeyman stood again, his head grotesquely whole.

  He let out a guttural laugh, the sound spiraling into a shrill cackle.

  “Oh, that’s rich!” he jeered, rising to his feet. “Do you know what the first thing that bastard did to me when we first met? He cut my head off.” Another twisted chuckle ripped from his throat, echoing against the fractured walls. “Funny how history repeats itself, isn’t it? But back then, he didn’t have Excalibur, yet. And you—you wield it, yet… you’re nothing like him.”

  The corridor shuddered under his malevolence, forcing Eliza to tighten her grip on Excalibur. The triumph she had tasted a second ago evaporated like mist. He grinned, baring teeth that gleamed with dark amusement.

  “Come on. I want to see you struggle. Show me if you possess any other traits like that damn bastard.”

  Rage flared hot and sudden inside her. In a heartbeat, Eliza unleashed her Berserker ability, a storm of crimson energy erupting around her. Fueled by the heat in her veins, she lunged forward, Excalibur blazing. Her blade carved through his chest in a burst of radiant power, only for black shadows to wriggle and seal the wound almost instantly.

  “Not bad,” he hissed, voice rasping like coiling serpents. “But you’re going to have to try harder.”

  Determined, Eliza attacked in a relentless barrage. She slashed at his legs, his arms—any part she could cleave away. Pieces of him fell, but each severed fragment twisted back, shadows weaving limb to limb in a grotesque resurrection. Flames tore from her throat in a desperate attempt to incinerate him, turning the hallway into a searing inferno. Still, he rose from ash and bone, his laughter scraping against her nerves.

  “Yes… that’s it!” he howled, eyes alight with mania. “Burn me! Tear me apart! It won’t stop me.”

  Again she charged, hacking him into pieces that squirmed together with sickening efficiency. The corridor rattled from the force of her onslaught, sparks from fallen wiring flickering in time with her furious heartbeats. Every muscle in her body screamed for relief, but she kept swinging, determined to end the abomination before her.

  When he reformed once more, he stood as a macabre patchwork of darkness and flesh, an unsettling grin curving his lips.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Your fighting style is so… inelegant,” the Boogeyman sneered. “Even more unrefined than when I first met that bastard. Shouldn’t that damn blade of yours have taught you how to fight?” His eyes flicked toward Excalibur with a twisted smirk. “What do you think, Mordred? This is a disappointment compared to him, right?”

  Eliza’s grip tightened on Excalibur as she steadied herself, her mind catching on that unfamiliar name. “Mordred… who are you talking to?” she asked, but her instincts warned her not to wait for an answer. She charged with another fierce cry, determined to overwhelm his unholy regeneration if that was what it took.

  She was only a few strides away when his voice boomed, thick with dark, ritualistic power. “Oh slayer of kings,” he intoned, the walls trembling at the resonance. “I beckon your power. Let your night consume the heavens. From father’s corpse to my hand, I call your name.”

  Eliza froze, heart pounding, as a vile energy gathered around him. His eyes blazed with something ancient and terrible, and he reached out as though pulling something from the void itself.

  “Arise from slumber,” he roared, and from empty air, a blade formed—a weapon wrought of pure abyss. “And once more, cleave the skies with blood and darkness.”

  His cackle reverberated through the hallway as he uttered the final command:

  “Awaken, Mordred.”

  The sword fully materialized at once, a living shadow that swallowed every trace of light. The air grew stifling, as though the world itself recoiled from the blade’s presence. It was the mirror opposite of Excalibur: where Eliza’s sword shone with radiance, this one radiated only despair.

  She felt a chill run through her, but she forced it aside. She had to press on no matter what twisted power he’d summoned. Lifting Excalibur, she let its glow clash against the looming darkness.

  “Damn it, part of me actually misses that bastard,” the Boogeyman muttered. His grip on the dark sword tightened. “Right, Mordred? In this era, all we have are trashy disappointments.”

  Eliza watched in disgust as he hugged the blade to his chest like a cherished lover, his fingers tracing its surface. The sight sent a shudder through her.

  “I wish you had a real body,” he crooned, stroking the sword. “Think of all the fun we’d have, Mordred. All the things we could do…”

  Her stomach twisted at his deranged display. Steeling herself, Eliza raised Excalibur. She had seen plenty of horrors, but this was different—this was a madness that cut to the bone.

  “This man is batshit crazy…” she murmured, forcing herself to breathe.

  “Excuse me,” he said suddenly, snapping his head toward her as if he’d heard her very thoughts. “I really hate that stupid name you humans gave me—‘The Boogeyman.’ How dull.” His gaze was razor-sharp. “My name is Faker Mimic. Maybe I’ll spare you, just so you can update your damn records.”

  Faker. Eliza memorized the name, its weight settling like a stone in her mind. Yet there was another question she couldn’t hold back. “I’ve been meaning to ask—you keep ranting about some dragonoid who wielded Excalibur. You clearly despise him. Who could possibly earn such hatred from you?”

  At the mention of the dragonoid, his smirk twisted into something darker. Eyes flicking to Mordred, he let out a bitter chuckle. “Oh, that bastard? Hey, Mordred, how many times did he kill me, huh? Really chopped me up good, didn’t he?” His fingers tapped the sword’s hilt as if reliving each cruel moment. “I regenerated so many times… He almost did it.”

  He turned away, addressing the blade like a confidant. “I wish I could have another swing at him…”

  Eliza seized the opportunity. Her Berserker aura flared around her, and she charged, pouring all her might into Excalibur. The blade shone like a miniature sun, every ounce of her will condensed into a single blow. She was certain she’d end him this time.

  Alexander Jones’s voice echoed in her memory: “I want you to wield this artifact, 0-12 Excalibur. It feeds off the willpower of its user. The stronger the will, the stronger the energy. I believe in your potential, Eliza.”

  The recollection fueled her resolve. She struck with everything she had—only for a bloodshot eye to snap open at the nape of Faker’s neck. Faster than she could blink, he twisted around, raising Mordred to meet her attack. Blinding light clashed with living shadow, sparks exploding like tiny comets around them.

  “How rude,” Faker sneered, voice tight with anger beneath a possessive edge. “I’m trying to have a conversation with my dear Mordred, and you decide to interrupt.” His eerie calm made Eliza’s blood boil.

  “You’re one crazy bastard, talking to a sword like it’s alive!” she spat, darting in for another strike. Her Berserker aura flared brighter, fueling her relentless assault.

  Faker blocked each blow with chilling precision, Mordred’s dark edge devouring the energy of her every swing. The air rippled with the oppressive weight of his presence, the gloom seeming to warp around his blade.

  “I’ll have you know,” he teased, “my lovely Mordred is real. You just can’t hear her voice—but I can.” His eyes glowed with near-religious fervor. “She and I are bound. She tells me everything.”

  In a desperate burst of speed, Eliza finally slashed through his legs. He crumpled instantly, and she readied the final blow. But before Excalibur could strike home, Faker’s form sank into the darkness, dissolving into the shifting shadows at his feet. Her blade crashed into the stone floor with a deafening crack, sending shards flying.

  She barely drew breath before the shadows crawled up the walls and through every crack, then coalesced at the far end of the hall. Faker emerged from that inky void, fully restored, sword in hand, a savage grin on his lips.

  “Did you really think it would be that easy?” Faker’s voice echoed through the chamber, dripping with cruel satisfaction. “I’ve survived worse than this. Your little tricks won’t be enough to kill me.”

  His tone shifted to mocking glee. “Use your breath attack next. It’s been a while since I’ve faced one.” Dark energy gathered in his throat, the air around him turning frigid, shadows pulsing with anticipation.

  Eliza sensed the sudden swell of draconic power. No time to think—she unleashed a roaring inferno, flames tearing from her mouth in a torrent of elemental fury.

  “Shadow Dragon… roar!” Faker bellowed. A void of pure darkness erupted from his mouth, colliding with Eliza’s fire in a deafening clash. For a heartbeat, heat, and void warred in a riot of sparks. Then the darkness overwhelmed her flames, snuffing them out as if they’d never existed.

  The backlash struck her like a tidal wave, slamming her into the floor. A suffocating miasma clung to her, draining her strength. Coughing and struggling to rise, she felt the life leeching from her very bones.

  “Oops,” Faker said, stepping closer, voice laced with mocking concern. “Did I forget to mention? I’m also part Shadow Dragon. Though, to be fair, I’m part of all things. I can transform into most creatures.” His lips curved into a bitter smile. “But the Shadow Dragon? That one’s my favorite. The absolute opposite of that wretched bastard I’ve mentioned.”

  Eliza forced herself up, drawing ragged breaths. The pain was agonizing, but her resolve blazed in her eyes.

  “Come on, Slayer,” Faker teased, gesturing with his dark blade. “Surely you can do better. Though, I won’t deny I’m a little impressed. Most would have crumbled by now.”

  Gritting her teeth, she tightened her grip on Excalibur. Its glow flickered, reflecting her defiance. Faker lunged, and the hall reverberated with the clang of steel on steel. She parried, each blow a desperate struggle of light against devouring shadow. Sparks flew with every collision, her arms quaking under the relentless assault of Mordred.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” he jeered. “Come on, show me your true power! Or are you just another disappointment?”

  Despite exhaustion gnawing at her, Eliza refused to falter. She threw her entire being into one final strike—only to be met by a merciless slash. The sound of rending metal tore through the air. Excalibur’s blade cracked under the impact, fragments of shining steel scattering across the ground.

  “No!” Eliza’s heart lurched, watching the legendary sword that had fueled her courage shatter in her hands.

  Faker didn’t hesitate. Mordred lashed out in a blur of darkness, cleaving through flesh and bone. Eliza screamed as her right arm severed from her body, pain exploding in her vision. She crumpled to the floor, blood gushing from the wound.

  “Well, well,” Faker said softly, sadistic triumph gleaming in his eyes. “Looks like I’ve made my point. You fought bravely, but in the end, you’re just another disappointment.”

  Her breath came in uneven gasps, consciousness threatening to slip away. Yet through the haze of agony, a fierce defiance burned within her. She clutched the broken hilt of Excalibur in her remaining hand, glaring up at him with unyielding resolve.

  “No, no, I won’t let it end here,” she rasped, voice shaking but steadfast. Blood stained her fingers as she gripped the ruined sword. “I will see this fight through to the end… no matter the cost.”