More creatures surged forward, learning from their fallen companion's mistake.
They attacked from multiple angles, their forms shifting between solid and spectral with each movement.
Jaegar stopped using lightning and focused for a minute.
Jaegar's hands traced complex patterns in the air—not the conventional sigils taught to apprentices, but the ancient forms of the Immemorial Arts of Empyrean Magic.
His arcane energy responded; orange-coloured sigils transformed into a maelstrom of erratic energy that encircled him like a living shield.
When the next wave of shadow creatures struck, the empyrean shield didn't block them—it transformed them. Their darkness became light, their formlessness became structure, and their hunger became sustenance for Jaegar's magic.
"They're adapting," he called to Angelina, who was observing with analytical precision. "These aren't mindless constructs—there's intelligence directing them."
