After the battle, Silas stood amidst the carnage, his bo staff resting lightly in his hand. His bare feet pressed into the blood-soaked ground, and his breath came in heavy, ragged gasps. Around him, the lifeless bodies of the emperor beasts and their minions painted a gruesome tableau of his victory. He released his killing intent, thick and oppressive, a warning to any creature foolish enough to challenge him.
The remaining beasts in the vicinity slunk away, their instincts screaming at them to avoid the predator before them. Even the scattered kings, emboldened without their emperor leaders, hesitated, sensing the danger radiating from Silas like a palpable force. None dared approach.
But as the silence deepened and the adrenaline faded, Silas faltered. The iron grip of his killing intent slipped, and the exhaustion hit him like a crashing wave. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees, his staff clattering to the ground beside him. Blood oozed from the deep scratch along his ribs, and his entire body throbbed with pain, every muscle screaming in protest.
For a moment, he considered staying down, letting his body give in to the darkness tugging at the edges of his vision. But something inside him refused. Gritting his teeth, Silas pressed his palms against the ground, forcing himself to rise. Every inch was a battle, his mind and body warring against the crushing weight of exhaustion.
He barely stayed upright, each step forward a monumental effort. His vision blurred, but he willed himself onward, dragging his battered form into the cavern system. His mind was a haze, flashes of the fight replaying in fragments—crushing blows, blood spraying, the screeches of the dying.
Eventually, after what felt like hours of stumbling through the labyrinth of tunnels, Silas found a quiet, damp corner where the glow of bioluminescent moss bathed the walls in a faint light. He sank against the cool stone, his breaths shallow and uneven. It was a miracle he had made it this far.
After collapsing into the cavern, Silas leaned heavily against the cool stone wall, his breaths shallow and labored. His side screamed with pain, the deep gash oozing blood despite his earlier attempts to stem it. Every inhale felt like fire in his ribs, and his vision swam with exhaustion. The bioluminescent moss lining the walls cast a faint, eerie glow, barely illuminating his battered form.
He shifted slightly, wincing as the motion jarred his injuries. His mind raced, replaying the battle. It was a miracle he'd made it this far. The smaller creatures had given him a wide berth after he released his killing intent, their instincts wisely guiding them to stay away from the predator standing victorious. But now, out of sight and alone, Silas felt the full weight of his injuries. His body screamed for relief.
And then, the familiar voice of the cultivation system chimed in his mind.
"Host is severely injured. Would you like healing advice for a mere 100,000 merits?"
Silas groaned inwardly, his exhaustion barely allowing him to muster the energy to roll his eyes. Of course, the system wouldn't offer anything for free. He glanced at his remaining merits in the corner of his vision—1,189,000. The battle had been lucrative in more ways than one.
"Fine," he thought. "Take your cut, greedy bastard."
The system didn't miss a beat. "Transaction complete. Host, you're welcome for my generosity. Instructions incoming…"
A faint smirk tugged at Silas's lips despite himself. Did the system just… compliment itself? While rudely telling him to figure it out on his own? He inwardly chuckled, shaking his head at the absurdity.
The instructions materialized in his mind, detailed and precise. The glowing moss on the walls, it explained, contained minor restorative properties. When combined with powdered spiritual stone, the stone Amelia paid for killing the brigands, it could be fashioned into a potent healing paste for external injuries. Silas quickly reached into his ring, retrieving one of the stones Amelia had given him.
With trembling hands, he scraped a clump of moss from the wall, the faintly glowing strands soft and damp to the touch. Using a rock, he carefully ground the moss and powdered the spiritual stone, mixing them together into a thick, luminescent paste. The process was slow and taxing, each movement a battle against his dwindling strength, but eventually, he had enough to work with.
He spread the paste over his side wound and other deep gashes, flinching as the cool mixture made contact with his raw flesh. A faint warmth spread from the application site, soothing the pain and slowing the bleeding almost immediately. The system had been right—this stuff worked.
Silas sat quietly in the dim cavern, his back pressed against the uneven stone. The faint luminescence of the moss gave the space an ethereal glow, highlighting the scars on his body and the exhaustion etched into his face. His staff rested across his knees, its wood battered but unyielding, a steadfast companion in his journey.
He sighed and pulled up his status.
Silas Creed's Status
Name: Silas Creed
Race: Human
Cultivation Technique: Diamond Furnace Body Refinement
Cultivation Type: Body Cultivation
Cultivation Rank: Foundation Stage (Muscles: Full Completion)
Bones: (None), Organs: (None)
Cultivation Technique Rank: Spiritual Rank
Cultivation Limit: Core Formation
Greater Dao: Staff (Half-Step)
Lesser Dao: Force (Foundation of the Dao), Momentum (Gathering the Way), Flow (Gathering the Way)
Techniques: None
Merits: 1,089,000
Credited Merits (Debt): 1,000,000
Time till Host Can Enter Next Mini-Pagoda: 58 Days
His eyes lingered on the line Staff (Half-Step). It felt… appropriate. In the heat of battle, something had clicked, though not entirely. The staff had become more than a weapon in his hands; it was a part of him, responding to his thoughts and movements with an ease that bordered on instinct. Yet, there was a gap, a subtle but noticeable space between what he could do and what he envisioned. He hadn't crossed the threshold into true mastery—he was on the cusp.
"Half-step," he murmured. The words felt both frustrating and motivating. He was close, but not there yet.
His thoughts shifted to Force, the new dao he had comprehended. The memory of the shattered mountain came to him again, the devastation the main pagoda had left in its wake. He hadn't seen the event, but the aftermath was a vivid picture of raw, directed power. It wasn't just destruction—it was reshaping. Overwhelming. Final. That image had anchored his understanding of Force during the fight. It was more than just strength; it was control over something unrelenting, a directed application of energy that overcame all resistance.
That clarity had propelled his Force to Foundation of the Dao. He could feel it, solid and unshakable, like the mountain itself.
Momentum and Flow, however, were another story. They lingered just out of reach, concepts he could almost grasp but not quite. Momentum was the seamless transfer of energy, turning each action into the foundation of the next. Flow was adaptability, the ability to shift and bend without breaking, to move as water does, conforming to the path yet remaining strong.
"They're close," he thought, his fingers tracing the length of his staff. "But I can't grab onto them. Not yet."
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone. The fight replayed in his mind, each strike and movement vivid. Momentum and Flow had been present, their threads woven into his actions, but they weren't fully formed. They were hints of something larger, pieces of a puzzle he couldn't yet assemble.
The system, predictably, offered no guidance, but Silas had expected that. He guessed Momentum and Flow were at Gathering the Way, the first step in the Dao's progression. Force, with its clear image of the mountain, had moved to Foundation of the Dao, a step beyond, where understanding began to crystallize into something tangible.
"Force feels solid," he thought. "Momentum and Flow… they're still scattered, like fragments. But I'm close."
His grip on the staff tightened as he recalled the fight. Each strike carried the faintest echoes of these ideas—Momentum in how one motion flowed into another, Flow in the way his body adapted instinctively. Yet they lacked the defining clarity that Force had. They were whispers, not shouts.
"Not today," he muttered, exhaling deeply. "But soon."
He shifted slightly, wincing as the paste-covered wound on his side protested the movement. The healing was slow, but effective. He had mixed the moss and powdered stone with precision, following the system's brief and sarcastic instructions. It was enough to keep him going, for now.
The cavern fell silent again, save for the faint drip of water and the distant echoes of the creatures that still roamed the tunnels. Silas let his thoughts drift, the staff across his knees a comforting weight. Force, Momentum, Flow—they were pieces of a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. The Dao wasn't just knowledge. It was understanding, experience, and something deeper he was only beginning to grasp.
For now, he allowed himself to rest, the concepts swirling in his mind as he edged closer to something greater.