Valarie didn't need to spell out the obvious. Mist Knight Thren was formidable. He had proven that by retaining his cunning despite thousands of years of corruption gnawing away at what remained of his will. His form was pulsing with mist. His eyes cold under the hood no emotions were revealed. Damon could no longer deny his cunning. He had cornered the whole party with an army of undead—after splitting them up, of course… then again they didn't do much together anyway. A classic divide-and-conquer. And when they finally planned to strike back, he welcomed them with a group of enthralled, heavily armed mist knights. All lower rank than him, but no less deadly. They never had the element of surprise. All they had been doing was adapting to changing circumstances. Now, Mist Knight Thren stood before them—or rather, a whole group of him stood before them. Each one appeared as real as the last. But all save one were illusions. The real one could shift between the false bodies. Sneaky. The kind of trick Damon himself would pull. That said, Thren miscalculated something. True, he had the rank advantage, and yes, he was more experienced. He had endured thousands of years corrupted—his willpower unquestionable. But… he had never met anyone like Damon. Damon was tired. His mana was low, and his shadow energy even lower. But that only made him stronger. Well, it shouldn't have mattered. Thren still had his illusion trick up his sleeve. Except if Damon wanted to turn ravenous and gain the overwhelming power his shadow possessed in price of his humanity. He shook his head. It didn't matter. Damon had shadow perception. A spatial awareness that allowed him to sense shadows—and all living things cast shadows, with some eldritch or unlucky exceptions. Mist Knight Thren was in for a rude awakening. Damon took the long game. Again. Evangeline raised her sword, the rapier gleaming with golden light. "Damon… which one is he?" Damon wasn't sure if she asked because she thought he knew, or just because he was the party leader and someone had to say something. He couldn't let Thren catch on. He had to play them too. "I don't. I'm not an oracle." Saying that, both he and Evangeline glanced at Sylvia—the silver-haired elven girl. Oracle and seer—if there was even a difference, she blurred the line. Sylvia sighed, shaking her head slowly. "I could ask for the answer… but I wouldn't like the price. So why bother? My intuition tells me we'll be fine." Damon glanced at the pair of lips resting on his shoulder—the only visible remnant of the former ascendant, Valarie Sunwarden. "Her intuition is going to get us killed…" Valarie smiled, even though all that was left of her were lips. "This is a valuable learning experience. You can train your instinct with this." Damon narrowed his eyes. Aside from shadow perception… did this ancient pair of lips actually know another method to discern the original from the fakes? Sylvia held her bow with a calm, focused expression. "I see. She means we should use our sixth sense—our intuition—to tell which is real. From his gaze…" Damon instantly understood. Sometimes, when you gazed at an enemy with hostile intent—or even glanced at them directly—some could feel it. Sense that they were being watched. Valarie wanted them to replicate that. To train their senses. To feel Thren's intent from the illusions. Damon saw a flaw immediately. Thren could simply start observing them with peripheral vision—masking his killing intent. Thren grew impatient. He must've gotten tired of waiting for them to act. So he did. All of him—the illusions and the true body, shrouded in thick mist—rushed forward. But Damon sensed it. The unmoving shadow of the original, buried among the fakes. Evangeline raised her arm, expecting the crushing weight of a spear, the floor to crack beneath her, the wind to howl with the force of the blow— But nothing happened. There was no wind. Her sword had passed through empty air. The Thren she thought she'd engage—just an illusion. Sylvia clicked her tongue in irritation. The sounds of battle outside were growing louder. The others wouldn't hold for long. The undead might be weak individually, but they never tire. She raised her bow and fired a volley of white arrows at the mist knights. Each illusion dodged them fluidly—mimicking life to conceal the original. Valarie sneered. "The trick is impressive. But a shame. Anyone of higher rank could still kill him easily… even with this." Damon felt the urge to throw her off. He was dodging spells—spells he knew were illusions. But he couldn't afford a mistake. He wanted to make his own illusion. Not with magic. But with cunning. Damon's goal was simple: approach the real Thren and strike him down. "He can't hide his intent to kill. No one can. When you have a desire to kill, it reflects in your intention…" Valarie offered counsel from his shoulder. "You have to remember—intention forms the basis of every action. It is the first step in creating will." Damon weaved between attacks. He appeared exhausted. As the illusions cast wind blades, sharp currents sliced through the air. He dodged. A small piece of his hair was cut as a real attack slipped into the chaos. But it didn't matter. Sylvia saw it too. She fired a white arrow—no, a pillar of moonlight—toward the true Thren. The glowing light rippled through the ancient floor that had once been Zaci's sweet Vip floor. Damon watched as Thren was engulfed by the white light. He narrowed his eyes weakly. "Did they just kill him because he got careless…?" His eyes widened. He rolled to the side. A spear tip passed by his face—too close. He had sensed the shadow behind him at the last moment. Thren had the ability to teleport between his real body and illusions. Damon slipped into shadow, putting distance between them. "We need to kill him in a single strike," he said darkly, "or this will never end."