Vayro dashed forward. His Creation—Redspeed—was simple. No flourish. No light show. Just raw acceleration and a sword that never missed.
He cut through a Vel'Tharion clone before it could even lift its arm.
Another Multiply.
He didn't flinch. Didn't pause. If this was another fake, fine. But he'd find the real one eventually, and when he did—there'd be no second chances.
A second version appeared at his side. Vayro spun, sliced through the neck, and turned before the body even faded.
Fake.
They were multiplying fast now. All around him. One on the ledge. Two by the broken tree stump. One right behind him. Weapons in hand—some real, some copied.
But Vayro had seen this trick before.
He clenched his jaw and moved. Faster than any of them.
His sword became a blur of steel and heat. One by one, they dropped. Dust, echoes, fakes. He didn't care.
What mattered was rhythm. He was hunting—not flailing.
And then—a stumble.
