Marta advanced, arms outstretched like a maestro of the impossible. The palms of her hands radiated an ethereal glow, pulsing in sync with the arena's very structure. Under her feet, the solid ground dissolved like quicksand, revealing a dark, seemingly bottomless abyss. Meanwhile, Vyrta's figure fragmented, multiplying into hundreds of illusory clones that emerged from the mist, their movements a disorienting blur of intentions.
"Is that all you have?" Marta taunted, her voice echoing from each clone, a chorus of challenge. With fluid gestures, she commanded the ghostly army. Each duplicate attacked with frightening precision, movements fluid and unnatural that twisted perspective and confounded fundamental senses – depth, direction, even time itself seemed to falter.
