As the shattered remains of the dwarves dissolved into the floor, Silas's muscles tensed, his grip on his staff tightening as the air in the chamber shifted. Movement flickered at the edges of his vision, and three slender figures stepped into the dim light. Their angular frames, clad in green jumpsuits, moved with a predatory grace that was as mesmerizing as it was unnerving. Silas's gaze narrowed as the details came into focus: pointed ears, sharp features, and the lifeless gleam of their eyes.
"Elves," he muttered under his breath, exhaling sharply. "Of course. Why not?"
Each puppet carried a short sword, the polished blades gleaming faintly in the chamber's ambient glow. These constructs were nothing like the dwarves. Their movements were fluid, almost unnaturally silent, weaving in subtle patterns as they approached. Their speed and precision were immediately apparent, the energy around them charged and focused, radiating a sense of latent danger.
The first puppet darted forward, its blade slicing toward Silas with startling speed. He twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike, but before he could recover, the second puppet was already closing in. A sharp sting seared across his ribs as its blade nicked him, the shallow wound leaving a burning trail of pain. Silas hissed under his breath, retreating quickly to put distance between himself and the trio.
"Fast," he muttered, his eyes tracking their synchronized movements. Blood trickled down his side, warm against his skin. "But no coordination.
The elves charged again, their movements cutting through the air with precision, but their lack of coordination left Silas just enough room to maneuver. The first puppet lunged, its blade whistling toward his neck with deadly speed. Silas deflected the strike with a sharp swing of his staff, the weapons clashing with a harsh clang that echoed through the chamber. Using the momentum of the block, he pivoted fluidly into a counter, stepping into his strike as the Dao of Momentum guided his movements. His staff whipped through the air and struck the second puppet's weapon hand with a sickening crack. The brittle joint shattered cleanly, the short sword spinning out of its grip and clattering to the floor. The puppet staggered back, its arm dangling uselessly.
Before Silas could press the advantage, the third puppet was already upon him, its blade carving toward his exposed side in a vicious arc. Silas dropped low, the edge of the sword grazing past his ribs as he rolled away. He came up on one knee just in time to see the first puppet darting back into the fray. It lunged, forcing him to twist and weave out of reach. The rapid exchange left his breathing ragged as he sprang backward, widening the distance between him and the trio to reassess.
The three puppets moved with eerie synchronization now, their swords flashing as they advanced in perfect rhythm. Silas sidestepped the first strike, redirecting the blade with a deflecting blow. His movements flowed seamlessly into a low sweep aimed at the second puppet's legs, the force of his staff forcing it off balance. The brittle frame wobbled, but before Silas could capitalize, the third puppet closed in fast, its blade slicing toward his upper body in a horizontal arc. He twisted sharply, feeling the burn of another shallow cut as the blade nicked his upper arm, leaving a stinging welt.
Pain flared along his ribs and arm, the shallow wounds trickling blood that warmed his otherwise chilled skin. Silas gritted his teeth, his eyes darting between the puppets as he adjusted his stance. Their speed and precision were relentless, but every miss revealed their fragility. A few clean hits would break them—it was just a matter of timing.
The first puppet lunged again, its sword carving a deadly arc toward his chest. Silas stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike, and countered with a sharp, upward swing. His staff connected squarely with the puppet's jaw, shattering its head in a single, brutal motion. The brittle shards of its frame scattered, dissolving almost immediately into the smooth stone floor as its body collapsed.
The second puppet, disarmed but no less aggressive, rushed him with its remaining hand clawing for a hold. Silas twisted sharply, dodging its wild grab, and drove his staff into its torso with a resounding crunch. The brittle frame caved inward under the force of the blow, and the puppet crumpled to the ground before dissolving like the first.
The third puppet hesitated, its lifeless eyes unreadable as it recalibrated. Then it charged, its blade arcing down in a wild, desperate swing. Silas ducked low, the sword slicing harmlessly through the air above him. He pivoted sharply, his staff already in motion. The strike landed with devastating force against the puppet's side, the impact shattering its slender frame. Its fragments scattered briefly before vanishing into the floor.
Blood dripped steadily from the cuts on his chest and arm, his breathing heavy but measured as the last fragments of the puppets dissolved into nothing.
Four hulking figures lumbered out of the shadows, each towering over Silas by a full head. Their broad shoulders and thick, muscular frames were sheathed in green-tinged skin that rippled with power as they moved. Angular jaws jutted out beneath tusks that curved menacingly upward, and their heavyset faces bore a brutish intelligence. Silas's eyes narrowed, studying the massive clubs they carried—thick, blunt weapons that looked capable of reducing stone to rubble with a single swing.
"Orcs?" he muttered under his breath. The word came unbidden, but it fit. They were deliberate in their steps, powerful but lacking finesse. The ground beneath their feet cracked slightly with each step, and Silas could already see the craters they had left in the chamber floor. He adjusted his grip on his staff, his muscles coiling in readiness.
The orcs approached in a loose, uncoordinated formation, giving him some breathing room. The first swung suddenly, its massive club slicing through the air in a brutal horizontal arc. Silas dropped into a roll, feeling the rush of displaced air above him as the club missed by inches. He sprang to his feet, only to duck backward as the second orc came down with a vicious overhead strike. The weapon smashed into the stone floor with a thunderous crack, shards of rock scattering as Silas shifted away.
A third orc charged, swinging low with its club. Silas twisted sharply, using the Dao of Flow to redirect the force of the blow as his staff met the weapon mid-swing. The impact jarred his arms, but the orc stumbled slightly, giving him enough time to pivot into a counterstrike. He channeled the Dao of Force, driving spiritual energy into his attack as he clashed with the fourth orc's incoming swing. The rebound sent both their weapons vibrating violently, the force nearly knocking Silas off balance.
"Strong," Silas muttered, his gaze flicking between the four. "Really strong."
The first orc recovered quickly, its club arcing back toward him. Silas sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the strike as it crashed into the ground, leaving a deep crater in the stone. He darted forward, his staff sweeping low in a sharp arc. It connected with the orc's leg, knocking it slightly off balance, though it didn't go down. A frustrated roar erupted from the creature as it swung wildly again, forcing Silas to leap back out of range.
The second orc pressed forward, its club carving a vertical path toward Silas's head. He twisted to the side, the weapon missing by a fraction as it smashed into the stone. The force of the blow sent a shockwave through the chamber, nearly staggering Silas. He countered with a low strike, his staff slamming into the orc's shin. The creature faltered, its massive frame swaying but refusing to fall.
Silas moved constantly, his bare feet sliding across the warm stone as he dodged one attack after another. Each missed swing left the floor riddled with fresh gouges, the raw power behind their strikes terrifyingly clear. He used their lack of coordination to his advantage, tripping one orc as it overextended, then darting away from another as its club barely missed his shoulder.
The third orc lumbered too close, and Silas seized the opening. His staff lashed out, catching it behind the knee. The orc crumpled forward, roaring in frustration as it struggled to rise. Silas twisted away from the fourth orc's incoming strike, its club slamming into the ground with enough force to send cracks spidering through the stone. He retaliated with a swift jab to its side, driving spiritual energy into the blow. The orc staggered, but its sheer bulk absorbed most of the impact.
One of the orcs lunged, its club carving through the air in a wide arc. Silas sidestepped smoothly, spinning into a powerful counterstrike. His staff crashed into its exposed back, the brittle frame giving way under the force. The orc collapsed, its body dissolving into the floor.
The second came at him with a raised club, roaring as it swung downward. Silas blocked the strike, redirecting the force and stepping inside its guard. With a precise strike to its knee, he shattered the joint, sending the orc toppling to the ground. Its form dissolved into nothingness as its head struck the floor.
The last two charged together, their movements uncoordinated but relentless. Silas ducked under their swings, his staff sweeping out to catch the third orc's legs. It fell with a crash, roaring as it hit the floor. Silas turned sharply to meet the fourth, stepping inside its swing and driving his staff into its ribs with a devastating blow. The orc staggered, its chest caving slightly as it dissolved into the ground.
Blood dripped from shallow cuts across Silas's chest and arms, his muscles burning as he steadied his breathing. His staff rested against the warm stone floor, every inch of his body taut with the strain of the fight.
A low hum filled the chamber, vibrating through the stone beneath Silas's feet. From the floor, a circular pedestal rose with smooth precision, its surface glowing faintly with a pale light. An intricate wheel materialized atop it, spinning slowly. Silas's eyes narrowed as he studied its sections, each marked with a depiction of the races he had just fought: goblins, dwarves, elves, and orcs. The symbols shimmered faintly as the wheel turned, clicking softly with each movement.
The wheel slowed, its motion deliberate, before it vanished entirely. In its place, a second wheel appeared, starkly different from the first. This one was etched with unfamiliar symbols, geometric patterns, and sharp, angular marks that meant nothing to Silas. They seemed deliberate, precise, yet indecipherable.
The new wheel began to spin, its speed accelerating. Silas exhaled, leaning heavily on his staff as he watched, his breath steadying from the strain of the battle. Sweat rolled down his skin, and the ache in his muscles remained, but his focus stayed locked on the wheel. It clicked faster and faster, the hum intensifying, as he waited for whatever was coming next.