The first spirit lunged, its clawed fingers raking toward Zhang Yan's throat; a flash of frostbitten mist that hissed like a blade on ice. He twisted as his body twirled through the air, his shadow erupting in a whip-crack arc. The apparition shattered with a shriek, scattering into motes of sickly green light. But three more surged forward, their hollow eyes blazing, their wails slicing through the air like broken glass.
Tao Yiming advanced, his movements a grotesque parody of grace. His feet barely touched the ground, his body flickering between corporeal and spectral as he closed the distance. A fist lashed out, trailing ghostly embers, and Zhang Yan barely dodged. The strike grazed his ribs, and agony bloomed where it touched; a cold so deep it burned.
Move. I must keep moving.
Zhang Yan's shadow coiled around him, deflecting another spirit's claws. He feinted left, then pivoted, his dagger slashing through a wraith's midsection. It dissolved into smoke, but Tao Yiming was already upon him, a flurry of strikes forcing him backward. Each parry rattled Zhang Yan's bones; each evasion sent fresh fire searing through his wounded side.
He couldn't win this. Not here. Not yet.
"Running already?" Tao Yiming smiled as he licked his lips, his voice layered with the whispers of a dozen spirits. His ghastly green pupils flared as he raised a hand, summoning another wave of specters. "The dead have no pain. Zhang Yan, join them, won't you?"
Zhang Yan didn't answer. Instead, he pushed; not with his body, but with his shadow.
It surged outward in a black tide, swallowing the light, and for a heartbeat, the forest plunged into absolute darkness...