Wolfsbane recondensed his form within the swirling violet fog. Beneath his grotesque mask, his eyes narrowed with heightened vigilance.
Facing the endless swarm of ravens engulfed in deathly flames, the purple mist around him surged outward, forming a dense barrier. The ravens shrieked as they collided with it, feathers sizzling in the energy, but for now, they couldn't break through.
Yet Daemon Spade would not let him catch his breath.
While Wolfsbane focused on repelling the ravens, Daemon silently emerged from the fog above—like a phantom stepping out of the void.
A dagger shimmered into his hand, its edge glowing with strange light.
In a flash, he struck downward toward Wolfsbane's mask.
But Wolfsbane had anticipated it. With a roar, he raised his chainsaw just in time. Metal clashed against metal—sparks exploded in the air.
With his free hand, Wolfsbane grabbed Daemon and hurled him aside.
Daemon twisted midair and landed gracefully, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh? You've got some moves."
Then his tone turned teasing, almost sing-song. "But tell me—why so protective of that mask? Afraid someone will see your real face?"
His voice dripped with lazy sarcasm, as if the entire battle were a game.
"Or…" he continued, eyes narrowing, "...does the mask mean something more? A symbol, perhaps?"
Before Wolfsbane could reply, the dagger in Daemon's hand dissolved—morphing into a sleek, ornate cane.
With a flourish, he slammed the cane to the ground.
Instantly, Daemon's figure splintered into seven identical clones, each drifting into the mist. Every one spoke in a different tongue—ancient, modern, arcane—as if communicating with the fundamental essence of reality itself.
"The power of mist," Daemon intoned in unison, "is to rewrite reality. And with it, I will break you."
The seven clones attacked like wraiths, darting in unison toward Wolfsbane, all aiming for his mask. Their speed was staggering.
Yet Wolfsbane didn't panic.
Instead, he drew back his cloak, revealing a polished, glowing box embedded at his chest. The ring on his right hand slid into place over the indentation, locking in perfectly.
The moment the two connected, a blinding light burst forth and engulfed him.
When it faded, the man known as Wolfsbane was gone.
Hovering in his place was a massive moth, its wings shimmering with violet hues. Dozens of watchful, blinking eyes blinked across its wings, glowing with eerie light.
At once, the seven Daemons faltered. The fog twisted around them unnaturally, and the world began to spin. Their footing failed. Up became down. Left became right.
"An illusion?" one Daemon muttered, trying to regain control.
But the world twisted again.
Each time one of the seven attacked, their strikes landed—not on Wolfsbane—but on themselves.
"Oh… fascinating," Daemon murmured, voice layered across the clones. "A sensory illusion that inverts perception. Intricate."
He tried to counter. He shifted tactics. But each adjustment only drew him deeper into Wolfsbane's maze.
Illusion upon illusion stacked like nesting dolls. The world blurred into chaos.
Daemon's movements slowed. His judgment cracked. Wolfsbane—now fully mothlike—hovered in the distance, never attacking directly, instead manipulating the battlefield with terrifying control.
Then came the blow.
A pulse of illusionary energy pierced Daemon's chest. He gasped, staggered, and fell to one knee, breath ragged, body torn with injuries.
"How…" he hissed. "How can you see through my illusions?"
Above him, the moth-Wolfsbane hovered, wings beating slowly, eyes flashing. His synthesized voice echoed through the fog:
"First Mist Guardian of Vongola… how pitiful. Master Byakuran will be pleased to see you fall. The game is over."
He spread his wings wide, preparing to strike the final blow.
But Daemon… smiled.
Gone was the fear. Gone was the panic.
In its place was a calm, almost smug grin. "Yes," he said softly. "The game is over."
Wolfsbane froze.
Suddenly, he couldn't move. His body hung suspended in the air as if time itself had stopped.
Eyes widened in disbelief, he struggled—but nothing responded.
Then he noticed it.
A single purple flower had bloomed on the edge of his mask.
Cracks began to form across the mask's surface.
The battlefield flickered—and Wolfsbane realized something horrific.
Daemon was no longer wounded on the ground.
He was seated, calmly, on a throne formed from condensed mist. A cup of red tea in his hand, steam rising gently.
"I wonder…" Daemon's voice echoed from all directions. "When exactly did I let you believe you weren't already inside my illusion?"
He sipped from the cup, then let it fall.
The porcelain shattered as it hit the ground—just as the flower on Wolfsbane's mask blossomed in full.
Light burst from it, and the mask shattered completely.
Wolfsbane's body began to unravel, consumed by an unseen force.
Piece by piece, he disintegrated into green smoke, fading into the air.
Daemon rose from his throne, now nothing but vapor in the breeze. He picked up a shard of Wolfsbane's mask—and let it crumble into ash in his palm.
"The true Mist," he said softly, "has no need for a mask. Because we are the lie that shapes the truth."
With that, Daemon Spade vanished into the fog.
The last wisps of mist in Hell's Kitchen slowly dissipated.
And by the time they cleared…
Daemon was already sitting at a cozy café three blocks away.
He raised a glass of wine to the window, as if toasting an invisible audience.
On the table before him sat a single pair of reading glasses, glinting faintly in the light.
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Bonus Chapter - 150 Power Stones
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