Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 101: Tricky Tactics

Chapter 101: Tricky Tactics

The hallway he ducked into was half-collapsed, beams slanted like crooked teeth, embers floating in from the other fights. His clone had already slipped off with the girl—but the real Milo waited behind the curtain of heat, eyes flicking to every shadow.

His opponent came striding through the firelight like some kind of prizefighter straight out of an alchemy lab. Covered in sleek black combat gear, but with glowing red lines tracing up their skin, pulsing like veins.

Name: Rilah.

Unco: Morphdrive — the ability to condense and stretch her limbs like liquid alloy, forming them into blades, whips, shields, or even wings. A living weapon, ever-shifting.

Milo leaned against a beam as she stepped into view.

"Oh good," he said brightly. "I was hoping I’d get the flexible one."

Rilah rolled her eyes and launched forward—her arm morphing mid-swing into a serrated blade. Fast.

Milo dodged by inches, slipping behind her, tapping her shoulder as he passed. "Tag. You’re in."

She spun, lash forming from her other hand—snap—but Milo ducked again, stepping along the wall, graceful in chaos.

Rilah slashed again, her leg elongating into a spike that shot across the room.

Milo backflipped over it, flipped mid-air, landed sideways.

"Ohhh," he winced, "I felt that one in my taxes."

She came again.

He threw down two tiny rune-glass marbles. They cracked—puffs of smoke filled the space. Confusion spells.

Rilah paused.

Milo’s voice echoed through the fog. "Y’know, this would be a lot easier if you just laid down, confessed your crimes, and gave me your lunch money."

A foot hit her side—Milo appeared from the smoke and vanished again.

She reshaped both arms into spiraling drills, tried to force him into a corner.

Milo threw a clone at her.

It exploded in a puff of ink and static. She cursed, recoiling.

Then—

Boom.

A small trap glyph triggered under her foot, launching a burst of force upward. She crashed through a section of the roof, crashing back down hard.

Milo slid forward into view, hair tousled, smirking. "Still with me, Jelly Arms?"

Rilah groaned, armor cracked, her limbs twitching back into shape.

"You’re infuriating."

"Aw, don’t flirt while I’m winning."

She lunged again, more desperate now.

But Milo was already prepping a chain of miniature clones, each one bursting into blinding light as they collided with her reshaped limbs. The tempo changed. She was reacting now. And he was leading.

Like a magician. Or a street performer. Or a liar with too many good lines and just enough spite to make them hurt.

Rilah lunged again—her arms reshaped into long blades that pulsed with glowing red cracks, slicing through the smoke like molten razors. Her control had improved since the last volley, sharper, faster.

But Milo was already gone, flipping behind a half-collapsed support beam and landing like a cat that knew all nine of its lives were in perfect health.

"Missed me," he called, voice sing-song. "Is this a bad time to mention your form’s a little rigid? You gotta flow, Rilah!"

She snarled—actual teeth gritted now—and whipped her arm forward again. This time it stretched into a trident-like point, aimed for his torso.

He jumped sideways, twisting in the air, landing one palm against the wall with a slight bounce. A rune-flash ignited beneath his glove—a launch glyph—and the wall detonated behind him, flinging him across the room like a firecracker.

He tucked, rolled, and popped up on the rafters.

"Ta-da," he said with a bow.

Rilah’s eye twitched.

"You think this is a game?"

"Oh absolutely," Milo grinned. "Only difference is I’m the player, and you’re the bad boss with too many moves and no sense of humor."

She leapt.

Her feet snapped into spiked claws midair. She struck the wooden beam where he stood—but Milo was already gone, dropping behind her.

"Peekaboo," he whispered, planting a mirror glyph on her back as he passed.

She spun, blade-arm wide—but again, it was a clone.

The real Milo leaned casually against a support post across the room, arms folded.

"Y’know, I read somewhere stress contributes to early hair loss. And I mean, you’ve already got that angry forehead vein situation..."

Rilah screamed and slammed both fists into the ground.

The floor shuddered—rippling like liquid as her Unco fused her lower body into the structure, surging tendrils of liquid steel out in every direction. The walls melted into jagged spires. Milo’s perch snapped.

He fell—and grinned the whole way down.

"Finally," he muttered mid-fall. "Now you’re taking me seriously."

He slammed the ground with one palm, activating a concealed ring of stasis traps—one of which froze Rilah mid-step as her leg reformed, locking it in glimmering silver.

She froze, half-shifted, teeth clenched.

"Stop. Talking," she hissed, body jerking.

Milo landed, perfectly balanced on a cracked table, arms spread wide.

"Darling," he said with a wink. "If I stopped talking, how would you know you’re losing?"’

The smoke hadn’t even cleared before Rilah surged forward again—her leg a pillar of hardened alloy, shattering the floor tiles beneath her steps. Her torso split along the shoulders into jagged spine-blades, both arms extended into stabbing spikes.

She was tired of games.

Unfortunately for her, Milo had just started performing.

He cracked his neck, then snapped his fingers with theatrical flair.

Two clones split off from him immediately—each a perfect reflection, grinning just as wide.

Rilah snarled. "Again with this—"

Another clone dropped from the balcony above, flipping midair. Three Milos.

Rilah lunged and struck the middle one—but it side-stepped before her blade even landed. Not poofing. Not shattering. Dodging.

Real. Tangible.

"You’re not even doing anything useful!" she hissed.

"I’m deeply hurt," said the Milo on the right. "We planned a whole ensemble number."

A fourth and fifth Milo sprinted into the hall from different angles—one carrying a stun glyph, the other tossing caltrops laced with mana disruptors. Rilah’s feet snapped inward to armor plates just in time, but the sudden sensory assault sent her balance reeling.

"Stop MOVING!" she screamed.

Sixth clone emerged from behind a shattered doorway, clapping rhythmically. "Encore, encore..."

"Shut UP!" she bellowed, hurling a beam-like extension of her spine straight through two of them. They collapsed, yes—but behind her, the real Milo landed on all fours from above, skidding across the wall and launching another clone forward like a battering ram.

It tackled her fully.

She smashed it to shards.

But now she was panting. Her limbs kept pulsing between forms, glitches in her transformation rhythm.

And Milo?

He was standing near a burning pillar, arms crossed. Smiling faintly now. Calm.

"You rely on force. I rely on finesse."

She charged him.

He whispered something—and two clones appeared behind her in a blink. They struck her lower back and thighs with precise, blunted force—not fatal. Disruptive. She dropped to one knee, morphing blade skittering across the floor.

"You’re scattered," he said, stepping closer. "Which makes you predictable. You keep shifting your shape, but never your tactics. That’s why you’re losing ground."

Rilah’s fists clenched.

Her breathing trembled.

Milo knelt in front of her and gave a small, surprisingly sincere shrug.

"I’m annoying," he said gently. "But I do it with purpose."

Then his clone placed a glyph behind her shoulder.

A pulse flared—her limbs locked momentarily.

Not unconscious.

Not finished.

But now cornered.

Her growl filled the hallway.

Milo stood again, brushing dust off his shoulder.

"And that," he said, turning to walk away, "is why we rehearse."