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 movent, 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 sothing different. Sothing dangerous.
His mana pulsed. The shadows stirred.
Then, movent.
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 tal groaned, denting inward.
Elvis’s lips curled. Too fast.
The figure in the mask erged from the mist, already in motion. He wasn’t running—he was gliding. His feet barely made contact with the ground before he launched another attack. A second ball—no, a rock this ti—shot towards Elvis’s head.
Bang!
Elvis barely managed to shift his body in ti, feeling the wind scream past his ear. His mana flared, and the mist responded. The shadows beneath him stretched and wrapped around his feet, anchoring him.
Then, with a wave of his hand—they attacked.
Dark tendrils erupted from the mist, reaching for the masked student like starving beasts. They lashed out, clawing, slicing through the air with deadly precision.
Yet, none of them landed.
The student twisted, dodging with inhuman agility. His movents were sharp, calculated. The tendrils missed by inches, slamming into the ground and leaving deep scars in the concrete.
Elvis’s eyes darkened. He’s playing with .
With a flick of his fingers, the shadows changed tactics. Instead of striking randomly, they spread out, encircling the masked student, leaving him with no space to maneuver. Then, from behind—
An ambush.
A mass of shadows erupted from the ground, morphing into solid claws.
This ti, there was no ti to dodge.
The claws struck dead center.
Elvis’s breath caught. Did I get him?
The answer ca imdiately.
BOOM.
A pulse of energy exploded outward, shattering the shadows upon impact. The force sent ripples through the black mist, montarily clearing the area.
Michael—if that was even was really him—stood unhard, his figure outlined by the dying embers of his aura. The air around him shimred.
Elvis had seen this before.
Aura manipulation.
His jaw clenched. So he really is that strong.
The masked student didn’t give him ti to process. He was already moving again, his speed even faster than before.
Elvis braced himself. The next attack would co from—
The right.
He turned, shadows coiling around his arms, prepared to strike—
Wrong.
The masked student wasn’t there.
A sharp impact hit his ribs from the left, sending him reeling.
Another.
This ti, his shoulder.
Then—his jaw.
The strikes ca from every angle, precise and unrelenting. Elvis staggered, his vision flickering. How is he this fast?
His fingers curled into a fist. Enough.
Mana surged through his body.
The mist thickened, turning into sothing more than just a veil—it beca armor. The shadows wrapped around him, solidifying into a shell of darkness, absorbing the incoming attacks.
No more dodging.
He turned sharply, hand outstretched.
The shadows grabbed.
The masked student’s movent faltered for a split second—long enough for Elvis to seize him. The darkness locked around his arm, then his legs, wrapping tight like iron shackles.
Elvis smirked. "Got you."
His mana flared.
The shadows dragged Michael down.
His body was yanked toward the ground, the weight of the darkness pressing down like a vice. The mist around them whirled violently as Elvis poured every ounce of his strength into his talent.
He stepped forward, watching as the masked figure struggled for the first ti.
But then—sothing changed.
The air shifted.
Elvis’s smirk disappeared.
The shadows—his own power—twitched.
Then, they turned against him.
His breath hitched.
The tendrils binding the masked student unraveled in an instant—and latched onto him instead.
Elvis’s body locked up.
His own shadows wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. Tighter.
Panic surged.
"What the hell—"
Crack.
Pain exploded through his chest as he was hurled backward, slamming into the soccer post. Blood sprayed from his mouth. His head spun, but his body wouldn’t respond.
The masked student stepped forward, his aura swallowing the field. The mist that had once belonged to Elvis obeyed him now.
Elvis’s heart pounded.
This wasn’t just aura manipulation.
This was control.
His own power—his own talent—was being used against him.
And for the first ti in a long ti—
Elvis L. Mathers felt fear.
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