How is a support class going to fight on their own?

  Desmond clasped his hands together, fingers interlocking very tight. His lips moved in silence. His eyes shut, lashes twitching faintly. Then, as though the Tower had been waiting for that prayer, light engulfed him. The glow clung to his frame, pulling him downward until his figure snapped out of existence in an instant.

  In the next blink, he stood in the arena.

  I flinched when Eli tapped me on the shoulder. My nerves were strung tight, and his sudden touch nearly made me jump. He smirked, unfazed, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Calm down. I know Sosuke’s got you up tight."

  I tried to settle my breathing, but before I could answer, Eli tilted his chin toward the arena. "Did you catch that?"

  Malik’s voice broke in, halting and uneasy. "D-don’t make him guess. He’s not on our level. It’s unfair." He shuffled forward, leaning heavily against his staff, using it like a cane even though I knew he didn’t actually need it.

  What are they talking about?

  Malik shifted, his grip tightening on the staff. "The clone said running out of mana would hurt you. If it had all our memories, shouldn’t it have known Isabella gave us health and mana potions? This means the clones only have our memories from outside the Tower."

  Eli grinned and cuffed Malik lightly on the shoulder. "You’re awkward, you know that? Haruto would’ve figured that out with enough time."

  No, I wouldn’t have. Not anymore. This Tower has shifted something inside me. The patient, careful logic I once leaned on feels distant, replaced by raw instinct and forward momentum. I don’t think before I strike. I strike before I think.

  Malik sighed, muttering as his gaze fixed on the arena. "W-well. I’m not worried for Desmond. I’m worried for the few of us whose Unique Skills aren’t that useful, like mine. This Tower is unfair."

  Down below, Desmond’s prayer ended. His eyes opened. He stretched his arms once, cracking his knuckles deliberately, then strode forward. His boots sank into the sand with each step, the soft crunch somehow louder than the murmurs of the spectators.

  His clone awaited him, smirking faintly. Its posture mirrored his, like looking into a crueler reflection.

  "This is going to get ugly." the clone said, voice flat but cutting. "No powerful abilities on either of us. Just strength and knowledge."

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  Desmond rolled his shoulders, muscles coiling under his shirt, and spoke with the conviction of steel. "No need to pretend you care about ugliness, demon."

  The clone snapped upward, an uppercut so fast it sent a spray of sand upward. "You think so?"

  Desmond barely flinched, responding with a gut punch that sank deep into the clone’s abdomen. "I know so."

  They went for weak points mercilessly, dissecting each other. Desmond drove a fist into the liver, his voice sharp. "Go down already."

  The clone, grinning through clenched teeth, mimicked the same strike. "No, you."

  Desmond’s face twisted in fury. He lunged, seized the clone by the shoulder, and bit down savagely on its ear. Flesh tore with a sickening rip, blood spurting hot and thick across his chin. He spat the chunk out onto the sand. "Then suffer."

  The fight devolved into barbarism. Desmond’s fists blurred, smashing the clone’s face, ribs, throat—anywhere that would hurt most. Teeth flew, blood splattered across his forearms, every impact ringing like a drumbeat of violence. The clone staggered, arms raised weakly, but Desmond overwhelmed it, driving it backward into the ground.

  And then something shifted.

  "Weakness." Desmond hissed.

  A glowing purple dot shimmered on the clone’s chin, pulsing faintly like a target painted by God himself. Desmond zeroed in instantly. He pulled back and drove a straight punch into the mark. The clone’s jaw collapsed with the impact, sand exploding outward as its body slammed into the arena floor.

  It lay flat, dazed, twitching. But Desmond mounted it on his kill, straddling the chest and raining blows down. Each strike slammed into the weak spot with bone-shattering power, the ground beneath them cratering deeper and deeper. Dust and blood sprayed upward, coating Desmond’s face in red streaks.

  The clone’s arms dropped. Its fight was gone. But Desmond didn’t stop. His fists rose and fell with brutality, each punch heavier than the last.

  Finally, Desmond raised his bloodied hand high, fingers curled into a hammer of flesh and bone. His voice carried, calm and merciless.

  "Repent."

  The final blow descended. A thunderous crack resounded as the clone’s skull caved inward, exploding in a mist of blood and bone. Its headless body twitched once, then stilled.

  One punch could end a fight between normal men. Don’t get me wrong—Desmond’s strength surpassed Francis Ngannou, but it was still within the human realm. Yet what we had just witnessed wasn’t a fight.

  It was judgment.

  Desmond reappeared in the stands, wiping the blood off his face.

  To do that to someone who looks like you so easily... it chilled me. The others and I had done it, sure, but they could separate themselves from it because it was wrapped in the supernatural. Zoto taunted Soto, poked at the wounds of his past until Soto’s rage took control. Maya fought a mirror that twisted her own skill back at her, forcing her to escalate as survival demanded she pull the trigger. Even I cloaked my actions in the excuse of logic and necessity, telling myself my spell was impersonal, detached.

  Desmond didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even seem to question it. He treated his clone—the same face, same body, same voice—as though it were a rabid animal in need of culling. His fists weren’t angry, or desperate.

  His theology must have given him that certainty. To him, that clone wasn’t himself at all—it was a demon wearing his skin. Something unholy masquerading as the faithful. That explained the prayer, the calmness, the word he spoke before the finishing blow, repent.

  His faith is quite strong.