The number of spirits had dwindled to a third. Their forms, once towering enough to counter a meteor, had shrunk to just below Logan's height. But he wasn't faring much better—his mana was drained, his body worn. Still, he refused to call for help.
This battle had to end soon.
The next part would be one of strategy—conserving mana, landing precise hits. Drawing his whip, he coated it in darkness mana. It was less taxing than casting a full spell. For now, brute force and endurance would have to do. All he could do was fight head-on and wait for the luminous beings to thin out—until one finally gave in.
The boy charged forth, a whip held on his right hand as he lashed forward, aimed straight at the spirit. It split in two, seemingly unconcerned. But just as planned.
Logan's whip split again mid-strike.
The spirits responded in kind—now there were three, as it divided itself to avoid the strik.
