The Last Rule of Death

“Name.”

Etzel stared at Saeva.

For several seconds, he said nothing. The little spirit was still looking at the convergence point on Halven’s map. Not afraid of it. Not exactly. Repulsed by it. As though something there offended a rule she could feel but couldn’t explain.

Etzel followed her gaze. “My name?”

Saeva didn’t answer. Her wings tightened against her back.

Renn’s voice came through the communicator. “What did she say?”

Etzel kept watching the map. “She said the center is waiting for a name.” A pause. “Whose?”

Etzel exhaled. “I’d really prefer not to find out.”

DK stood beside him. “You will.”

Etzel looked at him. “Sometimes friends are supposed to lie.”

DK’s expression didn’t change. “No.”

“You’re becoming very difficult since getting that armor.”

Then Etzel’s communicator went black.

He blinked. Tapped it. Nothing.

“Halven?”

Halven checked his own device. “Mine works.”

One of the C-Ranks lifted hers. “So does mine.”

Etzel took out his personal communicator. Dead. Not low battery. Not damaged. Simply dead.

His smile disappeared. Something burned against his chest.

Etzel reached inside his jacket and pulled out his Hunter ID. The card was hot. Very hot. The identification surface flickered.

ETZEL DEYMAR

The letters vanished. Etzel stopped moving. New text appeared.

VALIDATION PENDING

The room became quiet.

“Renn.”

No response. Of course. His communicator was dead.

Halven raised his own. “Renn, Etzel’s Authority identity just changed.”

Static. Then: “What changed?”

“His card says validation pending.”

Silence. A longer silence. “That’s impossible.”

Etzel looked at Halven’s communicator. “We’ve used that sentence a lot today.”

“Give me ten seconds.”

Etzel opened his System. Unlike the Authority equipment—it answered immediately.

Limited Necromancer. Present. Witness of the First Flaw. Present. Soul Link.

Etzel felt outward. DK. Solid. Saeva. Solid. Nothing inside him had changed. His Soul knew who he was. The System knew who he was. Only the human infrastructure was suddenly confused.

Renn came back. “You’re still registered.”

Etzel looked at his useless card. “My card disagrees.”

“No. Your record is there.”

Renn stopped. Etzel knew that silence. It was the silence people made immediately before telling him something he would hate.

“Renn.”

“Wait.”

“I hate that word.”

“There are two.”

Etzel frowned. “Two what?”

“Etzel Deymars.”

Nobody spoke. Etzel slowly lowered the Hunter card.

Halven stared at the communicator. “Repeat that.”

“There are two identity records under his name.”

Etzel looked at DK. DK looked back.

Renn continued. “The original record is active.” A pause. “The second is still forming.”

Etzel’s eyes narrowed. “Status?”

“Validation pending.”

There it was. Etzel looked again at the words on his card. Two records. One real. One—being created.

“Location?”

“Searching.”

Etzel already knew what Renn was going to say. He wished he didn’t.

The regional map updated. A new marker appeared. Not at the shelter. Not inside the city. Near the outer boundary of the convergence zone.

Renn’s voice lowered. “We found it.”

Etzel stared at the marker. Candidate Seven had died. Something needed a replacement. And somewhere beyond the city—a second Etzel Deymar had just entered the Authority database.

“That’s rude,” Etzel said.

No one laughed. Neither did he.

Authority surveillance reached the location first.

A drone feed appeared on Halven’s communicator. The image shook as the drone descended over broken terrain. Dead trees. Cracked earth. Old roads partially swallowed by vegetation.

Then—black filament.

Hundreds of strands were twisting together. Not randomly. They were building something. A spine appeared first. Then ribs. Shoulders. Arms. Legs.

Etzel watched without speaking.

Muscle formed over the structure. Then skin. Hair. A face.

Halven looked from the screen to Etzel. Then back to the screen. “That is disturbing.”

Etzel stared at his own face. “I’m more handsome.”

DK looked at the screen. “You are identical.”

Etzel slowly turned toward him. “You’ve been unusually aggressive today.”

DK ignored him.

The thing on the screen opened its eyes. Etzel’s eyes. A System evaluation came through the field scanners.

Etzel’s jaw tightened. One more line appeared.

That one hurt differently. Halven looked at him. “It copied your Level.”

“Apparently.”

Another line attempted to form.

Etzel leaned closer. “Ability?”

Renn answered. “Nothing readable.”

“Try again.”

“We are.”

Nothing. No ability data. No clear Rank. Just his identity. His Level. His body.

Etzel reached through the Soul Link. “DK.”

“I am here.”

“Any change?”

“No.”

“Saeva?”

The little spirit immediately touched his shoulder. “Etzel.”

The links were intact. His summons were still his.

Etzel looked at the copy. “It copied my identity.”

DK understood the implication. “Not your ability.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Etzel didn’t answer immediately. “Hopefully.”

That distinction mattered. A great deal. Limited Necromancer wasn’t printed on a Hunter card. Witness wasn’t stored in an Authority database. Those belonged somewhere deeper. The Soul.

And the thing trying to become Etzel Deymar had already demonstrated one limitation. It could steal identity. It could not steal Soul. At least—not yet.

The copy stood. It looked toward the horizon. Then started walking.

Renn tracked the route. “It’s moving.”

“Toward the convergence?”

“No.”

The map adjusted. Etzel’s expression hardened. The path was familiar. The old emergency shelter. Candidate Seven’s original destination.

Etzel understood. “It’s finishing the job.”

Renn immediately began issuing orders. “Nearest response teams intercept. Minimum B-Rank support. Do not allow it to reach—”

“No.”

Renn stopped.

Etzel repeated it. “Don’t kill it.”

“Etzel.”

“It has my identity.”

“That’s precisely why I want it eliminated.”

“And what happens to me when you eliminate something carrying a System-linked copy of my identity?”

Silence. Etzel raised an eyebrow. “We don’t know.”

Renn said nothing.

Etzel smiled faintly. “You said that to me last time.”

“Did you enjoy hearing it?”

“A little.”

Halven shook his head.

Etzel continued. “Contain it if you can. Don’t kill it until we know whether the connection is one-way.”

Renn considered it. Then: “Agreed.”

Etzel stared at the copy moving across the drone feed. Why him?

The answer arrived slowly. Not from the System. From memory.

The registration shelter. The terminals. His name being erased. The external identity claim. The Anchor structure trying to overwrite him.

Then—True Name Rejection.

Etzel had forced the false identity away. At the time, it had saved him. But what exactly had the enemy seen?

Etzel went still. “Oh, no.”

Halven looked at him. “What?”

Etzel rubbed his forehead. “I think I taught it.”

“Taught it what?”

“How to be me.”

Silence. Halven frowned. “Explain.”

“It tried to claim my identity.”

“Yes.”

“I rejected it.”

“Yes.” Etzel looked at him. “Which means something had to distinguish the false identity from the real one.”

Halven understood. Slowly. “You gave it a verified reference.”

“Exactly.” Etzel looked at the duplicate on the screen. “It tried to counterfeit me.”

DK spoke. “And you showed it the original.”

Etzel nodded. “Yes.” For once—there was no joke. “This is my mistake.”

“No,” Halven said.

Etzel looked at him. “Don’t.”

“I’m not comforting you. You used the only mechanism available to prevent your identity from being overwritten.”

“And it learned from it.”

“You couldn’t know that.”

Etzel looked back at the screen. “Doesn’t change the result.”

DK remained silent. That silence meant more than disagreement would have.

Etzel understood something else too. Witness was powerful. Sometimes absurdly powerful. But every time he solved a mechanism—he interacted with it. And if the enemy was learning too—then every solution could also be a lesson.

Etzel filed that away. Next time the System offered him a perfect answer—he would ask another question first. What does using it teach the other side?

The transport vehicle accelerated toward the interception point.

Etzel sat opposite DK. Saeva rested against his shoulder. Halven coordinated with Authority command.

Then Etzel’s personal communicator suddenly came alive. One bar. Then two.

A call immediately arrived. Neris.

Etzel stared at the name. Answered.

“Neris?”

“Are you alive?”

Etzel looked at DK. “For now.”

“I hate when you say things like that.”

“So do I.”

There was noise behind her. His mother. His father. They were safe. That mattered.

Neris lowered her voice. “Mom’s waiting for you to call.”

“I will.”

“You said that before.”

“I got busy.”

“With what?”

Etzel looked through the armored window. Trees blurred past. “Myself.”

Silence. “What?”

“I’m going to fight myself.”

A much longer silence. “Etzel.”

“Yes?”

“You’re joking.”

Etzel looked at the tracking marker. “No.”

Another silence. “What does that even mean?”

“Long story.”

“Of course it is.”

Etzel smiled. “You’re all safe?”

“Yes.”

“Stay that way.”

Neris’s voice changed. Softer. “You too.”

Etzel didn’t joke this time. “I’ll try.”

“And when you get home—”

“I explain everything.”

“Everything.”

“That sounds legally dangerous.”

“Etzel.”

“Everything.”

“Good.”

The connection began breaking. “Neris.”

“What?”

Etzel hesitated. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m okay.”

“You just told me you’re going to fight yourself.”

“Maybe phrase it differently.”

The call died.

Etzel stared at the communicator for a moment. Then put it away.

DK had been watching him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Good.” Etzel looked outside again. “Because I already have one version of me judging me today.”

The Authority selected an abandoned road near the forest boundary for interception. Wide sightlines. No civilians. Minimal infrastructure.

Etzel stepped from the vehicle. DK followed. Black armor. Red eyes burning beneath the helm. Hellscript Greatblade resting against one shoulder. Saeva floated behind Etzel.

Halven took position farther back. Two Authority response teams blocked the secondary routes but remained under strict orders. Contain. Observe. Do not kill unless necessary.

Etzel rolled his shoulders.

Then saw movement. A figure walked from between the trees.

Same height. Same build. Same face.

Etzel experienced something deeply unpleasant. Seeing himself in a mirror was normal. Seeing himself walking toward him from fifty meters away was not.

The copy stopped. Etzel stopped. Neither moved.

Halven’s voice came quietly from behind. “How am I supposed to know which one to shoot?”

Etzel didn’t turn. “The more handsome one is me.”

DK answered. “Not useful.”

“We are reviewing your performance after this.”

The copy tilted its head. Exactly the way Etzel sometimes did when studying something. Then it spoke.

“DK.”

The Greatblade ignited instantly. Etzel’s smile disappeared.

The copy looked toward Saeva. “Saeva.”

The little spirit moved behind Etzel. His grip tightened around the spear.

“All right.” The copy looked back at him. “I didn’t like that.”

Then it moved. Fast.

Etzel barely got the spear up. A black filament formed in the copy’s hand. Lengthened. Hardened. A spear.

Their weapons collided. Etzel twisted. The copy twisted with him. Etzel stepped left. It had already moved right. He feinted toward the shoulder—the copy didn’t react. Instead it struck for his ribs.

Etzel blocked. Barely.

CLANG.

He retreated. The copy followed. DK attacked from the side. The duplicate ducked before the Greatblade arrived. Not after. Before. It had known.

Etzel’s eyes narrowed.

The copy redirected DK’s momentum toward Halven. Halven jumped backward. Etzel stabbed. The duplicate rotated away. Again—before the attack fully developed.

They exchanged six strikes. Seven. Eight.

Etzel knew some of those movements. Because they were his. A sidestep from the dungeon. A low feint he had used during an Authority test. A spear reversal from the forest.

The copy wasn’t improvising randomly. It was fighting from recorded behavior. His recorded behavior.

Etzel retreated. The copy stopped. Waiting.

DK moved beside him. “It knows you.”

Etzel watched it. “No.”

The copy attacked again. Etzel blocked. Another familiar combination. Three movements. Exactly the same order Etzel had once used.

Something clicked. “It knows who I was.”

DK looked at him. Etzel smiled. “Not who I’m about to be.”

He threw his spear away.

Halven shouted. “What are you doing?”

“Testing something.”

Etzel charged with empty hands. It was a terrible idea. Which was exactly why he chose it.

The copy hesitated. Half a second. Enough.

Etzel punched it in the face. Pain exploded through his knuckles. The duplicate staggered.

Etzel shook his hand. “That hurt more than expected.”

DK stared at him.

Etzel held up one finger. “One.”

The copy attacked. Etzel ran toward DK. “Give me the sword.”

DK actually hesitated. “Etzel.”

“Trust me.”

DK reversed the Greatblade and released it. Etzel caught the weapon. Immediately regretted everything. It was heavy. Far heavier than his spear. His posture was wrong. His grip was worse.

The copy froze again.

Etzel swung. Badly. The duplicate avoided it—late.

Etzel laughed. “Two.”

He threw the Greatblade back. DK caught it.

Etzel pointed left. “Saeva. Light.”

She blinked.

“Light!”

Green radiance burst beside Etzel. The copy turned toward it. Etzel went right. He drove his shoulder into the duplicate’s chest. They crashed to the ground.

Etzel rolled away. “Three.”

The world shifted.

Etzel smiled. “There you are.”

The System expanded.

Etzel read. The duplicate possessed behavioral records. Combat history. Observed patterns. Learned reactions. But all of them had one thing in common. They had already happened.

The copy predicted Etzel through the person Etzel had been. It could imitate history. It could not possess experiences that did not yet exist.

The final notification appeared.

Etzel looked at his duplicate. “You took my face.”

The copy charged.

Etzel moved differently. Not optimally. Not predictably. DK attacked. The duplicate blocked. Etzel entered from an angle he had never used before. His spear struck the creature’s side.

“You took my Level.”

The copy spun. Etzel deliberately broke his normal rhythm. Fast. Slow. Pause. Attack. The duplicate was always slightly late.

“But you missed something.”

Its eyes met his. Etzel smiled. “You can’t steal what I haven’t done yet.”

The difference became immediate. Etzel moved. The copy predicted left. Etzel went right. DK attacked high. Instead of exploiting the obvious opening, Etzel stepped backward.

The duplicate reacted to an attack that never came.

DK’s knee slammed into its chest. It flew. Halven entered. One controlled strike. The duplicate rolled. Saeva flashed green light into its vision. Etzel attacked through the distraction. Spear against black filament. Once. Twice. Three times.

The duplicate lost ground. DK’s Greatblade stopped beside its neck. Etzel’s spear rested against its chest. Halven covered the escape route.

Finished. Almost.

The duplicate stopped resisting.

Etzel breathed heavily. “Good choice.”

The copy looked at him. Then spoke. “Thank you.”

Etzel froze. DK’s head turned. Halven said nothing.

Etzel stared at the duplicate. That sentence—had not come from him. Not from any combat record. Not from any previous interaction he could remember.

The System flickered.

“No.”

The duplicate smiled. Not Etzel’s smile. Something smaller. Newer. Its own. It touched its chest.

“Now I have a history.”

Etzel’s eyes widened. “DK!”

The duplicate moved. Not toward the shelter. Not toward Etzel. Away. Toward the convergence.

“STOP IT!”

DK exploded forward. Too late.

Black filaments erupted from the duplicate’s body. They didn’t drag it. They folded it. Arm into torso. Torso into shadow. Depth collapsed. The entire body narrowed into a single black line.

Then—vanished.

DK’s Greatblade passed through empty air. Silence.

Etzel stared at the place where his duplicate had been.

Halven grabbed his communicator. “Renn!”

“I saw it.”

“Track Candidate Seven.”

“Working.”

Etzel retrieved his spear. “Where?”

No answer.

“Renn.”

The map appeared. The Candidate marker flashed once. Twice. Then reappeared.

Etzel’s blood went cold.

Not near the shelter. Not near the city. At the exact center of the nineteen-dungeon convergence.

Saeva made a frightened sound.

Etzel stared. Then words appeared. Not through his System. Not quite. The same wrong writing. The same imitation of something that understood System language without belonging to it.

Etzel stopped moving. Another line.

The ground trembled. Far away—something answered.

Then:

Saeva screamed.

A pressure wave erupted from the convergence center. Trees bent. The abandoned road shook beneath Etzel’s feet. Halven nearly fell. DK planted the Greatblade into the ground.

Across the region—nineteen dungeons reacted at once.

Renn’s voice exploded through the communicator. “Every dungeon just spiked!”

Etzel watched the convergence point. One final message appeared.

Etzel’s face lost every trace of humor. “Renn.”

“Yes?”

Etzel picked up his spear. “I think we just opened the door for it.”