Grey's eyes narrowed as the Seven-Colored fog and the Transparent bottle surged toward him, their movements sharp and precise. But unlike what anyone might expect in the face of such an ominous attack, Grey's expression remained eerily calm. It was the kind of calm that could swallow fear itself, a quiet confidence that emanated a sense of inevitability.
As the Seven-Colored fog drew closer, its form rippled violently before condensing, coalescing into a hand several meters long. It was delicate, slender, and unmistakably feminine in its contours. Every finger seemed carved with precision, every curve exuding an almost ethereal grace. This was no ordinary attack, it bore the mark of intent, of malice, and of refined skill.
