Alexander ripped his hand free from the figure's wrist, the resonance still singing through his bones. His obsidian flickered on the shadow-flesh, cracking deeper, spreading fractures through stolen armor.
He went all out.
No holding back. No preserving energy. No strategy beyond pure aggression fueled by three weeks of grief and the sudden hope that maybe he could reclaim what this thing had stolen.
His fist drove into the figure's jaw. No obsidian protecting his knuckles, but he didn't need it. Flesh and bone backed by mountain training and absolute refusal to die here.
The figure's head snapped sideways. Alexander followed with elbow to temple, knee to midsection, palm-strike to sternum that sent the figure stumbling backward. The stolen obsidian flickered with each impact, cracking further. But the figure recovered fast. It tilted its hood, mockery radiating from that void.
FGR: Struggling... so desperately... for scraps... of power... that were... never truly... yours.
Fire erupted around its hands - Alexander's fire - burning hotter than Alexander had ever managed. Flames lanced toward him in patterns he recognized because he'd invented them.
Alexander rolled sideways, came up throwing frozen earth that shattered against the figure's chest. He charged forward, ducked under flame-wreathed strike, drove his shoulder into the figure's midsection.
They crashed down together. Alexander on top, raining punches that connected with shadow-flesh more solid than it should be. The hood fell back slightly, revealing deeper darkness.
FGR: You cannot... win... this. You fight... with discipline... I fight... with inevitability.
Shadow-hand caught Alexander's wrist, twisted with leverage that made his dislocated shoulder scream. The figure bucked, threw him off, was standing before Alexander hit ground.
Obsidian-plated kick to his ribs. Alexander felt something crack - not his bones, but the stolen armor. The resonance pulsed stronger.
He rolled through impact, came up with frost coating his hands. His ice was manifesting, flickering weakly. The resonance was working, pulling power back through proximity.
FGR: Ah... you feel it... returning... How delightful... to watch hope... bloom before... I crush it.
The figure advanced, both hands wreathed in obsidian and flame, walking like execution was inevitable.
Alexander's breathing came ragged, blood running from too many wounds. But his hands were coating in ice now, growing stronger with each heartbeat.
ALX: You have something that belongs to me.
His voice came out rough but steady. He raised his frost-coated hands, felt obsidian beginning to manifest along his forearms.
The figure tilted its hood. Question without words.
ALX: My power. My obsidian.
Alexander took a step forward, ice spreading up to his elbows, obsidian solidifying into proper armor.
ALX: They're mine because they came from here-
He pressed his bloody hand to his chest, over his heart.
ALX: -and you can copy technique all you want, but you can't copy what makes them mine.
The resonance reached critical mass. Alexander felt his powers flooding back, pulled from the figure through proximity and will. Obsidian coated his arms fully. Ice spread across his chest. Fire kindled in his palms, small flames growing with each breath.
FGR: Impressive... recovery... But recovery... is not... victory.
The figure moved. Frame-skipping motion. One moment ten paces away. The next, inside Alexander's guard. But Alexander had been counting on it. Had watched the pattern all fight. He swung where the figure would be, not where it was, fist wreathed in obsidian and fire meeting shadow-flesh with impact that sent shockwaves through ground.
The figure staggered. Its stolen obsidian shattered completely, dispersing as the resonance tore it away. Alexander pressed forward. Left hook wreathed in flame. Right cross backed by obsidian. Uppercut that lifted the figure off its feet.
It hit the ground hard. For the first time, it looked uncertain, the void beneath its hood flickering.
Alexander stood over it, breathing hard, blood running from his mouth but power flowing through his veins again. His obsidian was solid. His fire burned hot. His ice coated the ground beneath his feet.
He raised his fist, obsidian and flame combining in the technique his master had taught him, that he'd never used at full strength because the destructive potential made it dangerous.
This thing had taken his power. Worn it like stolen clothes. Used it to nearly kill him. And now Alexander was going to show it the difference between copying power and earning it.
ALX: This is for Johann... and everyone else you've hurt.
His fist descended, wreathed in fire and obsidian, carrying enough force to punch through stone, to shatter bone, to end this shadow-creature.
The figure's hand shot up. Caught his wrist. Stopped the strike completely. Alexander's eyes widened. Impossible. It was down, powers stripped away, beaten. This should have been over, should have been his victory, should have been-
Pain.
Sudden. Absolute. Centered in his chest.
He looked down.
The figure's other arm was extended through Alexander's chest, shadow-flesh turned solid, punching through ribs and muscle and into the space where his heart beat desperate rhythm.
Blood filled his mouth. Copper taste. Red running over his lips, down his chin, dripping onto the figure's arm that had just run him through.
The figure stood, lifting Alexander with the arm impaling his chest. They were face to void now, Alexander's feet dangling above ground, blood running freely from the wound that was killing him.
FGR: And this... is mine.
The words echoed from the void beneath the hood, inches from Alexander's face.
Shadow-fingers wrapped around his heart.
Squeezed.
Alexander's scream died in blood that filled his throat, that poured from his mouth in a rush that tasted like death and defeat and the terrible understanding that he'd been played.
The figure's grip tightened. Alexander felt his heart struggling against shadow-flesh, felt his ribs grinding, felt his vision dimming as blood pressure dropped and organs started failing.
His powers flickered. The resonance that had pulled them back was fading, drowning in trauma and blood loss.
The obsidian dissolved. The fire died. The ice melted.
And Alexander hung there, impaled on the figure's arm, blood running down shadow-flesh that drank it like wine, choking on copper and the taste of his own ending.
The figure tilted its hood. Almost gentle.
FGR: You fought... well. Better than... expected. But you... cannot... reclaim... what already... belongs... to another.
Darkness crept in from the edges of Alexander's vision. Not the figure's shadow. Just unconsciousness. Death. The simple, terrible ending that came when bodies took too much damage. His last thought, as the world faded and his heart struggled against impossible grip, was simple.
Johann... I'm sorry.