Silas stood frozen, his staff trembling in his grip as he took in the twenty-five elves arrayed before him. They moved with an unnerving, fluid grace, their sharp features accentuated by the cold gleam of the short swords they carried. Each pair of lifeless eyes tracked his every move, like predators waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"What the hell is this bullshit?" Silas muttered, his breath hitching as fatigue gnawed at his legs. He flexed his fingers around the staff, willing himself to steady. "Fucking wheels. Fucking goblins. Fucking elves," he spat, his voice barely above a growl. The ache in his body was relentless, every muscle screaming for rest, but there was no escape—not from this.
The elves held their ground, making no immediate move to attack, and Silas allowed himself a fleeting glance around the chamber. Nothing. No cover, no exit, just smooth stone walls mocking him with their emptiness. His mind flicked back to the murals carved along the stairs. They'd seemed important, intricate. Maybe they'd held some key to this insanity.
"Why the hell couldn't you translate the writing on the stairs?" he snapped into the air, his frustration boiling over.
The response came instantly, the system chiming in with its maddeningly calm tone: Translation will cost 100,000 merits.
Silas froze, his head whipping up as the words sank in. "Of course it does," he muttered bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his staff, his teeth grinding together. "Greedy piece of shit," he growled through gritted teeth, throwing up his free hand. "Where was that offer before I picked the stairs?!"
Host didn't ask, the system replied smoothly, almost smug.
Silas stared blankly for a moment, his eye twitching in frustration, but the sound of movement pulled his attention back to the elves. They were closing the distance now, their blades reflecting the faint light as they spread out slightly, their lack of coordination an almost cruel mockery of their deadly speed.
He couldn't think anymore. There was no time to argue, no time to scream at the system. His grip tightened on his staff as the first elf lunged, its blade slicing toward him with ruthless precision.
The first elf darted forward, its blade slicing through the air with precision, its movements quick and deliberate. Silas twisted to the side, anger bubbling under his skin as he swung his staff with all his strength. Spiritual energy surged through the weapon, and the strike slammed into the elf's chest, shattering its brittle frame in an explosion of shards.
The force of the strike reverberated through his arms, but it wasn't just physical—it was raw, emotional. Each blow carried his frustration, his defiance against the impossible odds this tower kept throwing at him. Every swing felt like a fight for his existence, and in the heat of the moment, something in his mind clicked. The Dao of Force wasn't just strength—it was the raw inevitability of survival crushing everything that tried to stop him.
Another elf lunged, its sword flashing toward his ribs. Silas let out a sharp breath, stepping into the attack. His staff came down in a crushing arc, splintering the elf's sword before smashing into its torso. The brittle body flew back, disintegrating mid-air as he turned to face the next one.
They weren't coordinated, but they were fast—faster than anything he'd faced so far. Silas's fury drove him forward. His staff caught the next elf in the jaw, the strike twisting its head with a violent crack before the puppet collapsed. Another elf came from the side, and he spun to meet it, his staff connecting with its shoulder. The energy behind the strike sent the puppet crumpling to the ground in a heap of shattered fragments.
Every movement carried weight now, not just from his exhaustion but from the mounting clarity in his strikes. The Dao of Force wasn't just about landing blows—it was about delivering such crushing inevitability that resistance ceased to matter. His anger fed the energy behind every swing, each one driven by the understanding that this was life or death, and he refused to die.
Another elf rushed in, its blade darting toward his throat. Silas bellowed, shifting his weight as his staff came around. The strike met the puppet's arm, snapping it at the elbow before continuing into its chest. The brittle frame folded under the force, scattering into shards that dissolved into the floor.
The anger in his chest burned brighter as the elves pressed forward, their precision testing every ounce of his focus. They didn't give him time to think, and maybe that was why his movements felt sharper, more deliberate. Another elf lunged, and Silas slammed his staff downward with a ferocity that left no room for survival. The brittle skull shattered, the puppet collapsing at his feet.
He turned, and an elf's blade nicked his side. The sharp sting of pain only fueled him further. "Keep moving," he snarled to himself, twisting out of reach as another blade came dangerously close. His staff swung low, catching one elf in the legs. The puppet toppled forward, and Silas brought his weapon down on its chest with a roar, crushing it into fragments.
Another elf came in from the right, its sword slicing through the air. Silas deflected it with a sharp swing, using the momentum to drive his staff into the puppet's midsection. The brittle frame shattered, but the cost of every strike was beginning to show. His spiritual energy was draining, his arms felt like lead, but his rage kept him moving. The pressure of survival pushed every motion, the Dao of Force clearer with each crushing blow.
They came at him in waves, and he met them with defiance. His strikes were raw and unrelenting, shattering knees, splintering ribs, and caving in skulls. Each swing carried the weight of his will to live, the understanding that he wasn't just attacking—he was imposing his survival on the battlefield.
An elf slipped past his defenses, its blade cutting a sharp line across his shoulder. Silas hissed, the pain biting into his focus, but he twisted with the motion, his staff smashing into its ribs with a sickening crack. Another came in from the left, but he was ready, stepping into the attack and driving his weapon upward into its chest. The brittle frame crumpled, shards scattering as it dissolved.
The final few elves were relentless, their blades flashing in rapid, uncoordinated attacks. Silas dodged and countered with brutal efficiency, his strikes fueled by fury and the clarity of Force. He slammed his staff into the knee of one elf, sending it crashing to the ground, before spinning into a crushing blow to another's head. His movements slowed, but his strikes only grew heavier, each one a declaration of survival against the odds.
When the last elf lunged, its blade coming straight for his chest, Silas roared. His staff came around in a final, devastating arc, the force of the blow carrying all his remaining energy. The puppet's head shattered, its body collapsing into fragments that dissolved into nothingness.
The chamber fell silent once more.
Silas collapsed to his knees, blood dripping from his wounds, pooling beneath him on the cold stone floor. His chest heaved with every shallow breath, and his vision was nearly gone, the blood trickling down his face turning the world into a red blur. Somewhere in the distance, the wheels began to spin again, their hum steady and mechanical, but to Silas, it felt far away, almost disconnected from the raw clarity unfolding in his mind.
The mountain came to him. Not the one he had conjured in his meditations, but the mountain outside his childhood home, a monolith that had loomed over him his entire life. It had been there, unchanging and unyielding, a constant in the background of his world. He had never thought much about it, never questioned it, because it was simply there. A mountain didn't move. A mountain didn't break. It was.
But it had broken. He hadn't seen the moment it happened—hadn't even been awake to witness the massive pagoda that crushed it. He had only awoken to find rubble where something vast and unshakable had once stood. And in that moment, he had learned what inevitability meant. No matter how immovable something seemed, no matter how strong or vast, there was always something that could reduce it to nothing. The mountain had never been invincible; it had simply existed long enough for its destruction to arrive.
And now, on his knees, Silas understood it wasn't just the mountain. It was everything. Resistance, strength, defiance—none of it mattered when faced with the inevitability of something that would not stop. That was what the Dao of Force had been guiding him toward, what his strikes, his battles, his survival had revealed. The crushing power he had wielded wasn't the peak of his understanding. It was only the beginning.
Force wasn't about breaking things. It was about continuing until breaking was the only possible outcome.
The wheels clicked louder, their rhythm growing sharper, cutting through the haze in his mind. Silas's fingers curled around his staff, trembling as he forced himself to move. His muscles screamed in protest, his legs felt like they would buckle under him, but it didn't matter. Just as the mountain had stood until it couldn't, he would rise until the same truth applied to him.
Blood blurred his vision, but the mountain stood clear in his mind. It had been unshakable, its strength unmatched, but that hadn't saved it. He tightened his grip on his staff, the faintest flicker of a grim smile crossing his lips as he dragged himself to his feet. His body was weak, but weakness wasn't what decided anything.
He had no illusions now. It wasn't his will that kept him moving, nor his power. It was the inevitability that he would move forward, that nothing would stop him until there was nothing left to stand against him.
Silas wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing it across his face as the chamber spun around him. The hum of the wheels reached its crescendo, their spinning grinding to a halt. He stood still, battered, bloodied, but unbroken. His legs trembled, but he did not fall.
He wasn't strong. He wasn't invincible. He wasn't unstoppable.
But like the pagoda that crushed the mountain, he was inevitable.