Azalea stretched both arms forward, her palms facing the incoming Phantom. Her expression was cold, focused, and her voice came out in a low murmur.
"Black Thorn."
The air in front of her shimmered, warping like heat on metal. Then, without warning, a massive black thorn burst into existence right in front of her hands. It was jagged, twisted, made from wood and almost as large as the Phantom itself.
The thorn shot forward like a spear.
It slammed into the Phantom's back with a loud crack, halting its motion in mid-air for a split second—then launching it forward again with even more force, as if it had been punted straight out of the sky.
I didn't wait.
I spun my staff once in my hand, tightened my grip, and charged after it, aiming to strike it again before it could recover. But just as I closed the distance, the Phantom's body began to unravel.
Right before my eyes, it dispersed into thick strands of Deathmist, slipping through my strike like smoke.
