The curved edge of his dark scythe glinting faintly under the strange moonlight of the Ethereal Grounds. Then, slowly, the air around the scythe's head began to change—dark mist started to gather, swirling quietly at first, like smoke coiling from a small fire. But as seconds passed, that mist began to take shape—forming into something more solid, more dangerous. It became a dark ball of concentrated energy, floating just above the blade's tip, pulsing like a heart filled with shadow.
Yoora's eyes widened as soon as she saw it, her chest rising and falling as she took a shaky step back. That shape, that aura, even the sound it made as it formed—she knew it.
She knew that skill.
It was her mother's.
"What… what do you think you're doing?!" she shouted, voice trembling with a mix of anger and confusion.
