The mist rose around me once more, curling and twisting like restless phantoms. It seeped from my body in waves, carrying a chilling calm that belied the chaos unfolding. I steadied my breath, feeling the cold energy wrap around me like a second skin. My Mist Sword pulsed faintly in my grip, an extension of the mist itself, alive with its own unspoken intent.
Ahead, the five Hands of Altronotch stood unmoving, like harbingers of doom carved from the void itself. Their pitch-black armor warped the air around them, bending light and space with the weight of their presence. The ground beneath their feet burned... not with fire, but with raw annihilation.
Their blades shimmered in the dim light, their edges alive with a volatile, multicolored glow that flickered like dying stars. Each movement they made, no matter how small, carried a intentional menace. They didn't need to speak. Their presence alone spoke volumes: I was not meant to pass.
One of them moved.
