Sagiri stood at the center of the forest clearing, his blades clenched tightly in his hand as the darkness around him began to move not as individuals, but as a single, living mass. The Shadow Unit no longer struck in isolated bursts. They converged, their movements blending until they became indistinguishable, a storm of fleeting silhouettes that pressed inward from every direction. It was the whirlpool shadow formation. Not many can escape the formation. It was meant to trap, and by the time it broke, the one at the centre of it could be nothing but small pieces of what they once were. The more violent the formation became, the more cuts were torn into his body.
Blades flashed within the shifting gloom. Each step Sagiri took was met with another strike, each defense forcing him deeper into a tightening circle. The air itself seemed to constrict, leaving no path of escape. He could no longer track individual attackers; they were everywhere at once, a vortex of silent death.
