As the sealed space unraveled, the Deathmist spilled out like smoke escaping a shattered jar. A deep roar echoed through the air, low and guttural, and the mist churned violently.
It began reforming.
But this time, it didn't take the shape of the serpent. No twisting heads. No long coils. Instead, it began to rise, piece by piece, until a tall humanoid figure stood before us—twenty feet high, cloaked in thick armor made from the mist itself.
I could tell right away: it was injured. Not just weakened—damaged at the core. The earlier battle had drained it, leaving it almost as fragile as the first Phantom fragment I had fought.
But it still wasn't done.
Before it could take a single step, a flash of crimson tore through the air.
A focused beam slammed into the Phantom's chest, forcing it to stagger. A sharp screech echoed from above as Silver swooped in low, circling above us.
The Phantom reeled back, arms spreading slightly, its body crackling with unstable energy.
