A storm of howling ghosts made of poisonous mist, given form by the toxic aura of Mo Etian, crashed against the head of the huge water serpent that Desmond shot in his direction. Behind every half dozen ghosts was the assassin's purple sword, serving as the core and catalyst for the howling projections.
Desmond swallowed saliva and blood as he saw the vortex of lethality and decay forming around his adversary. Although he tried to maintain a neutral expression on his face, he couldn't help but break into a cold sweat as he imagined himself on the receiving end of such a move.
"Mental note: pressing relentlessly on the poison addict to prevent him from pulling out techniques like this from his arsenal in the middle of a fight turned out to be a good idea," Desmond murmured. Despite the lapse in concentration, his body was already preparing for its next move.
