Son of witches

Garrick's laughter rang out as the illusion broke like glass around them—castle walls flickering into endless voids, flickers of fire becoming flashes of ocean.

He grinned beneath his tattoos, blood still dripping from his shoulder where Menma had clawed him.

"You're too slow, demon. You'll die in a dream before you know it's not real."

But Menma wasn't listening. His sword—bladed black, humming like a beast—sliced the air. He didn't need to see.

He felt it. Garrick dropped more illusions: burning forests, shrieking mothers, falling stars—but Menma's glowing eye narrowed.

"You're not making masterpieces," he growled. "You're throwing paint at a wall."

The sword shimmered—

Human Teleportation // First Step

—and he was gone.

Behind Garrick.

The slash was clean.