Safe behind his barrier, Wataru began to move, slowly. If I can only get close enough to strike.
He could feel his strength draining away. The pain made his eyes pop out of his head. White noise filled his head. His consciousness began to slip.
His double stood straight and tall as if to say I have nothing to fear from you, little boy.
His back is turned. He can’t see me. Now’s my chance. I have to do this, I have to!
Three more steps. Two more. One more step and I’ll reach his back.
Wataru lifted his sword, and his double whipped around, an evil grin on his face. “Nice try!”
With a mocking laugh, the double thrust out his sword. Wataru was holding his own blade high over his head—he was wide open. The point of the Brave’s Sword slid deep into his chest.
Wataru’s mouth snapped open. He had been holding his breath and now he exhaled in one giant heave. Arms still raised over his head, he slowly looked down at the blade sticking into his chest. Blood was seeping out around the blade, soaking his shirt. The mirror-image Brave’s Sword was buried deep in his chest.
Wataru felt no pain, but he was freezing. The sword had found his heart and was pouring icy coldness directly into his body.
I’m going to die.
It was a logical conclusion.
My double defeated me. I’m going to bleed, and then I’ll die.
His strength left him and his legs bowed. Wataru dropped to his knees onto the surface of the lake. His arms hung limply by his side. His own sword fell loose from his grip, its sharp point hanging listlessly between his knees.
Wataru’s conqueror yanked his sword back. Now free of the blade, Wataru collapsed to one side. Laughter rang in his ears. “Pitiful boy. Sad little boy. It’s over.”
The assailant turned his back on Wataru and began walking toward the far shore. His gait was ebullient—he was almost skipping. Wataru’s blood dripped from the tip of the Brave’s Sword hanging from his hand as he left.
—Wataru.
The gemstones in his sword were calling to him.
—Steady, Wataru.
—Remember what the Goddess said.
—You mustn’t fight.
—Your double is you.
—Remember the Goddess’s words.
Blood flowed from his wound, spreading across the crystalline surface of the water. Wataru was lying in a puddle of his own blood.
The Goddess’s words?
Wataru hung on the brink of consciousness. He stretched out a hand, desperately trying to retain his grip on sanity.
—Call him back.
—The split soul.
That double? That murderer?
—Yes, yes. Because that is you, Wataru.
Wataru lifted his head. A stream of blood trickled out of his mouth. He had no strength left in him. I’m drowning in a sea of blood.
Somehow he mustered enough strength to sit up. The gemstones were all calling for him now.
—Wataru, Wataru, don’t die. Don’t give up.
—Don’t leave your other half alone. Acknowledge him. Accept him.
After much effort, he was able to sit at the edge of the lake. His double was already standing on the far shore and had begun to disappear through the swamp reeds.
“Hey!” Wataru called out. It took all his remaining strength to do so.
The double stopped, turning around silently, a snake sensing its prey.
“I’m not dead yet!”
The smile faded from his double’s face. He lifted his sword.
—Accept him.
With a shrill battle cry, his double charged across the lake. He ran with the speed of a hurricane. The tip of his blade gleamed with reflected light from the crystal.
Wataru closed his eyes and quietly spread his arms. He breathed. Fresh blood spilled from his mouth. But he stood his ground. He was calling. His heart was calm.
I have nothing to fear. I’m just calling him back.
Calling back the soul split from me.
Come home!
The double collided with Wataru—and evaporated. He was drawn into Wataru. Two became one.
The force of the impact blew Wataru’s hair straight up and knocked him sprawling on his back.
Quiet returned to the Swamp of Grief.
When he opened his eyes, Wataru was looking up at the sky, his arms and legs splayed out in the shape of an X. He could feel the hard surface of the lake; it was solid beneath him.
Wataru gingerly moved his hand, poking at his chest. His shirt was dry. He lifted his head. There was no sign of any wound, nor any blood.
Wataru tried standing. His legs held him up.
I’m alive.
A smile came unbidden to his lips, then a warm wave of relief washed through his body. He put a hand to his chest and felt his heart beating beneath the skin.
Wataru had parted ways with his hatred back in the Swamp of Grief, and now it had come back. It was home in Wataru’s body where it belonged. At last, he understood. The gate he had passed through to reach the arena: the fifth pattern was the key. He hadn’t felt anything when he stood on it because the fifth pattern stood for hate.
Wataru realized that he had spent all this time trying to keep his own hate away. He lied to himself, pretending it wasn’t his, not wanting to acknowledge the hate he felt toward Rikako, the hate he felt toward his own father. He didn’t want to acknowledge that he could even feel that way. He was deceiving himself.
But that deception had spawned his double and forced it to walk alone, carrying all of Wataru’s hate by itself.
“Welcome home,” Wataru whispered.
He released one last shuddering breath and stood. He sheathed the Brave’s Sword at his side.
It was then that he noticed the mist flowing around him. Where did that come from? The area had been perfectly clear only moments before. Soon it covered the entire surface of the lake. It glimmered with a soft light, and the moisture felt like tears on his skin.
Wataru’s eyes opened wide.
A black robe was lying in a crumpled heap in the middle of the lake, shrouded in the mist. A boot was sticking out of one side. Loose hairs spilled out of the other.
Mitsuru.
Wataru ran, but it was like running in a dream—he couldn’t seem to go forward. His feet slipped on the crystalline water. Burning with frustration, he clawed at the mist with his hands, trying to swim through it.
“Mitsuru!” he shouted, throwing himself forward and finally reaching him. At first he felt nothing, only the mist against his hands. He could see the robes right there in front of him, but they had no substance. It was like grabbing a shadow.
“Mitsuru, Mitsuru!” Wataru shouted again. Suddenly, he was there. Where there had only been an image before, now there was flesh and blood. Mitsuru came into focus.
Wataru lifted Mitsuru in his arms.
Mitsuru’s face was pale, his eyes were closed. His cheeks were covered with scars and his arms hung limp at his sides. One of his ankles had been twisted in an unnatural position. It was probably broken.
“Mitsuru! Wake up!” Wataru gave him another shake, and the Sorcerer’s Staff fell from the folds of Mitsuru’s black robe. It had split clean in two. Mitsuru’s pale face, his limp body, the broken staff—they all told Wataru the truth of what had happened here.
Mitsuru had lost.
Mitsuru had faced his own double in this Swamp of Grief, and he had lost.
Wataru understood now. He didn’t want to, but the proof was right in front of his face. Mitsuru had let his hate walk alone, too, and it had grown into something far, far greater than Mitsuru himself—too large for him to call back. In the end, his hate had broken him.
What do I care what becomes of Vision?
All I want to do is reach the Tower of Destiny.
I’ll do whatever it takes.
That hard determination. That will of steel. That mighty sorcerer’s power born by the strength of the gemstones—a power only a Traveler could hope to wield. Mitsuru used it all in his journey. Many were the people he injured, the towns he destroyed, the grief he caused, all leading up to his final act: the destruction of the seal on the Mirror of Eternal Shadow.
Wataru and Mitsuru had been fooled. They both thought Mitsuru knew what he was doing. The destructive will, the desire to kill, the arrogance that led him to trample anyone in his path—these things hadn’t belonged to Mitsuru. They belonged to his double, the one that bore all his hate. Yet that hatred was so close to his own heart. He had told himself for so long that he didn’t need anything else, that his hatred would see him through. At some point, Mitsuru had become unable to distinguish between his double and himself.