A harsh voice echoed through the trees.
"Where are you, little fox?" Miu Jiang growled, his voice thick with rage.
As the Dreamweaver Mist slowly thinned, his face finally emerged—shockingly clean, not a single drop of blood.
But that was the terrifying part.
Cloudia had twisted his senses so thoroughly—controlling not only what he saw, but what he felt.
Her illusion skill, Dreamweaver Mist, had reached deep into his mind, adjusting even his pain responses.
The blood he thought he'd seen, the agony he swore he felt—it was all part of the illusion.
All carefully crafted to convince him it was real.
Now, as the false reality unraveled, Miu Jiang's expression grew darker.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, boots crunching over broken twigs and scorched leaves.
But was Cloudia foolish?
No—she knew exactly how this would play out.
She couldn't win against him. Not now.
