Temoshí and Stitch stood side by side, facing off against their latest opponents—Ophelia and Trice, two elite warriors of the royal guard.
At first, it seemed like they held the upper hand, but with Trice's sudden involvement, their advantage quickly slipped away.
Stitch absentmindedly spun her needle between her fingers, a translucent silhouette of Mendy's spirit looming behind her, keeping a sharp eye on their adversaries.
"So... Guess we're really doing this," she muttered with a smirk.
Trice adjusted the necklace around his neck, thumping his foot forward and leaning in as he bellowed, "I've had more than enough of you all!" With a deft flick of his palm, he controlled a mysterious force that sent a floating spear hurtling through the air at breakneck speed, prompting Temoshí to react instantly.
Without hesitation, Temoshí sprang forward, his skin briefly glinting with an inky sheen as if clad in black steel. He expertly weaved around the rushing spear, unleashing a searing heat wave that disrupted its course. Meanwhile, Trice's spear ricocheted and plunged straight into the ground, standing upright as it generated a pulsing barrier of energy that scattered the flames in all directions.
Then, with a swift motion, Trice shifted his hand upward and pointed, causing the spear to rocket high into the air before it pivoted back into an aggressive thrust aimed squarely at Temoshí.
In response, Temoshí dashed forward with lightning speed, then abruptly retracted his arm and punched the air. In that moment, he transformed into a torrent of flame, appearing behind Trice as if out of nowhere. Blue electricity danced between his outstretched fingers, surging along Trice's back and delivering a series of sharp, stinging zaps. Finally, Temoshí's feet trailed over Trice's back as he flipped backward, landing a safe distance away with his hand raised protectively in front of his chest, palm open and facing downward—a silent declaration of a successful hit.
Got it! Here's the fixed version—Temoshí has no sword, and everything else stays intact:
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Trice stood upright, his spear spinning around him in a vicious vortex of energy. "Didn't think you had another style in you," he muttered, voice muffled behind the mask. "Only ever seen moves like that from the Etoceans."
Temoshí narrowed his eyes, breath a little heavier than before. "Yeah, I've run into 'em before. Picked up a few tricks. Didn't think you'd be the type to know about them, though."
Trice's shoulders tensed, his orange hood whipping in the wind as his fingers clenched. "They're the reason I wear this damn mask." His voice cracked with anger as he hurled his arm forward. "Knowing you've got ties to them makes me wanna kill you even more!"
The spear shot forward like a bullet—faster, more erratic, and laced with pure rage. Temoshí's eyes widened. He ducked to the side, barely avoiding the first thrust, the tip tearing through part of his sleeve. The spear twisted mid-air and came back for a second shot, forcing him into a backflip that ended with a messy landing, sliding across the ground.
"Tch… you're getting fired up," Temoshí grunted, wiping a thin trail of blood from his arm.
He steadied his stance just as the spear zipped by again, forcing him to weave and dodge with sharp, controlled movements. The relentless speed had him gritting his teeth, each pass cutting closer than the last.
Trice skidded back, dragging the spear in a wide arc before slamming it into the ground. The shockwave cracked the pavement beneath them and launched him forward like a cannonball.
Temoshí braced himself—just in time to see a feint jab. The real attack came in low—a sweeping strike aimed at his ribs. He dropped fast, the blade grazing his side, and slid under the swing. With a burst of momentum, he sprung up and landed a solid kick into Trice's side, sending him crashing into the wall with a sharp thud.
Trice coughed, gripping his spear tight as he pulled himself back to his feet. "You disgust me."
Temoshí rolled his shoulder, electricity flickering faintly between his fingers. "You ain't seen nothin' yet."
In a flash, Temoshí launched forward, his feet kicking up mist from the soaked ground. His fingertips grazed the rough terrain as he surged ahead, skidding to a stop right in front of Trice's chest. A grin tugged at his lips as he cocked his arm low by his hip, hand curled into a tight fist. His knuckles cracked.
Without hesitation, he drove the punch upward into Trice's chin, the force lifting him slightly off the ground. The flames that once danced around Temoshí's arm fizzled out under the downpour, smoke rising from his skin.
Trice staggered back, stumbling but refusing to fall. Blood dripped from the edge of his mask, and his grip on the spear tightened. "You think a punch like that's enough to stop me?" he growled.
Temoshí didn't respond—he was already moving again. He dashed in a wide arc to the left, aiming to close the distance before Trice could regain balance. But this time, Trice spun with him, dragging the tip of his spear along the ground before flinging it sideways. The weapon curved unnaturally, slicing through the air like a homing predator.
Temoshí twisted, but not fast enough. The spear clipped his shoulder, a clean graze that tore through cloth and skin, forcing him into a roll. He popped back up with a grunt, wincing from the sting.
"Still got some bite?" he muttered under his breath, electricity beginning to flicker around his arms again.
Trice wasn't slowing down either—he grabbed the returning spear mid-flight and slammed it against the ground, sending a ripple through the rain-soaked earth that cracked toward Temoshí in jagged lines of energy.
Temoshí jumped back, skidding across wet stone as he eyed his opponent. This fight was only getting started.
Meanwhile, under the pounding rain and flashing skies, Stitch was going wild.
She stalked forward with a wicked smirk, needles twirling between her fingers like they were toys. That ghostly phantom of hers loomed behind her, mimicking her every twitch with eerie perfection. "What's the matter, pretty girl?" she jeered, her stitched grin stretching wider. "Those spears just for show, or you actually gonna use 'em before I sew that smug face shut?"
Ophelia's breath caught in her throat as she stumbled back a step. She was quick, sure—but Stitch was relentless. Every time she found a rhythm, that damn phantom threw it off. She parried a low jab with one spear, spun the other to catch a needle mid-air, but her arms were starting to feel the weight of every movement.
"Tch… she's faster than I thought," Ophelia whispered to herself, sweat mixing with the rain dripping off her brow. She flinched when the phantom lashed out with a ghostly swing, barely ducking under it, only to meet Stitch's knee slamming into her side.
"Gotcha!" Stitch cackled, eyes glowing with chaos as she brought her needles down.
Ophelia blocked with both spears crossed—just in time. The force rattled her bones. She slid back across the wet stone, feet skidding for grip. Her breathing grew shaky. That cut on her cheek stung more than it should. "If I slip up even once... I'm done."
Stitch cracked her neck and tossed another needle in the air, catching it without looking. "C'mon now, don't tell me you're scared. I thought the spear girl was supposed to be sharp." Her phantom flared behind her, pulsing with murderous intent.
Ophelia's grip tightened. "I've gotta end this fast…"
She surged forward suddenly, spears blurring in the rain—but Stitch just laughed, wild and feral, as the phantom snapped forward to meet her head-on.
They clashed again. Metal, needle, and ghost.
Stitch spun out of Ophelia's strike, her laughter echoing off the stone walls like the chime of something unhinged. The phantom behind her moved in perfect sync, lashing and twirling with the grace of a seasoned killer. It was more than an echo now—it was beginning to seep into her.
Ophelia lunged again, spear slicing toward Stitch's side, but the punk dodged effortlessly, ducking low and slashing a needle across the metal shaft. Sparks flew.
"Nice try, sweetheart," Stitch sneered, flicking the rain from her fingers. "But you're gonna need more than fancy sticks to pin me down."
Ophelia's eyes locked onto her opponent, chest rising and falling quickly. "What… what's happening to you?"
Stitch tilted her head, eyes wide for a second—then she laughed, slow and theatrical. "Heh. Noticed already, huh?"
The phantom shimmered behind her, its form pulsing with strange energy, and that's when Ophelia saw it clearly—Stitch's hair, once a messy mix of black and deep crimson, was now streaked with a vibrant magenta. It shimmered like liquid color, curling slightly more than before, the texture softening as if enchanted.
"You know what they say," Stitch cooed, tossing a lock of her changing hair back with a flourish, "Hang out with ghosts long enough, and they start stickin' to you." She grinned wide, eyes glinting with an eerie light.
And her eyes—they were no longer the sharp, bright blue they once were. They were shifting too. The outer edges now shimmered with a faint pink glow, like candlelight caught in glass, creeping in toward the center like ink bleeding through water.
Ophelia's grip tightened around her spears. "You're being possessed."
"Possessed?" Stitch echoed with a delighted scoff. "Nah. This ain't possession, sweet cheeks. This is a merger." She stepped forward with a mischievous sway, phantom shadowing her every move. "Me and her? We're vibin'. She's givin' me a little makeover. Don't I look cute?"
Another bolt of lightning split the sky, casting a flash across her face—half hers, half something else.
And then she struck again. Quicker than before. Her movement was smoother, her attacks sharper. The phantom's power wasn't just lingering behind her anymore—it was becoming her.
To be continued...