A dozen arrows rained down, each coated in that unnatural foxfire of his. The movements of these projectiles were erratic, unpredictable. They twisted and curved as if possessed, denying any straightforward means of dodging. But what made them truly dangerous was the deception woven into them—half of them weren't real.
Phantoms.
Traps meant to mislead the eye.
Devil swung his black saber, slicing through one of the incoming arrows, but it passed right through. A fake. Another whistled toward his chest. He barely managed to shift in time, but even then, the searing heat grazed his ribs.
A burning sensation flared up from his shoulder as another arrow found its mark, embedding itself deep enough to tear flesh. The foxfire spread unnaturally, creeping across his arm like living embers. His magic flickered—the elements struggled to answer his call.
