The black mist surged violently, twisting and coiling like a living nightmare. It was thick—so thick that even the sunlight failed to cut through it. The school grounds, once filled with chatter and movement, now held only the sounds of rustling shadows and labored breaths.
Elvis stood in the heart of the fog, his body relaxed, yet his instincts razor-sharp. He was no fool—this was no ordinary fight. He could feel it. The presence in front of him, Michael Alastair, was something different. Something dangerous.
His mana pulsed. The shadows stirred.
Then, movement.
A sharp whistle sliced through the air. Elvis reacted on instinct, his body twisting just as the first attack struck. A soccer ball, infused with terrifying force, crashed against the goalpost where he stood seconds ago. The metal groaned, denting inward.
Elvis's lips curled. Too fast.