The three men surrounded him, their weapons crude but deadly. They had him cornered or so they thought.
Now shouting in rage.
"You bastard! What the hell did you do?"
"Why did he die like that? The smoke—what was in it?"
"You killed our friend!"
They were gripping rusted pipes and knives, ready to strike. They charged at the figure who was in Haoran's body, weapons swinging.
But they hit nothing.
Their blades cut through empty air. Their fists met nothing but smoke.
The figure in Haoran's body didn't move. He didn't flinch. Their attacks passed right through him, as if he wasn't even there. But they could only see a faint glint of silver eyes visible in the shadows.
One of them stumbled, eyes wide.
"What the—?"
The figure tilted his head slightly, his face hidden in shadow. His body flickered, shifting like mist in the wind. When he spoke, his voice was deep.
"I don't stand with the wicked."
The staff in his hand pulsed with a faint, red glow. The air grew thick. The scent of burnt tobacco and something foul filled their lungs.
One man took a shaky step back.
"What is he...?"
Without a word, the figure raised his staff. Thick, black smoke poured from its tip, curling through the air like living shadows. The first man gasped, coughing violently as the smoke wrapped around him, burning his throat and lungs. The second and third tried to step back, but the smoke followed, sinking into their skin, choking them.
Within seconds, all three were on their knees, their breath ragged, their bodies trembling. The figure tilted his head slightly, then thrust his staff forward. A shockwave of dark energy erupted, and the men collapsed, their bodies motionless.
Silence fell over the alley. The only sound was the whisper of wind carrying the scent of burnt flesh. The figure lingered for a moment, then turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving nothing but death in his wake.