Silas knelt on the blood-slicked stone floor, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. Blood dripped from the gash on his forehead, blinding one eye as it mingled with the sweat streaming down his face. His muscles screamed with exhaustion, his grip on the staff faltering with every second. The hulking shapes before him blurred, their brutish forms indistinct save for the glint of their massive weapons. Ten, maybe fifteen orcs remained. He could no longer count. The chamber echoed with their guttural snarls, the sound a cruel reminder of how far he was from victory—or survival.
One of the puppets lumbered forward, its club carving a brutal arc through the air. Silas moved instinctively, stepping into the strike as his staff rose to meet it. The collision sent a shockwave through his arms, rattling his teeth. But the motion didn't stop there. His staff powered through, splintering the orc's weapon before driving into its chest. The brittle frame buckled, fragments scattering across the floor as it dissolved.
There was no time to think. Another puppet was already upon him, its swing more measured, its aim deadly. Silas twisted, his body moving with muscle memory honed by countless battles. His staff spun in a precise arc, striking the orc's ribs with a sickening crack. It collapsed, shattering like porcelain as Silas pivoted, the next opponent already closing the gap.
His body screamed for respite, but his movements remained deliberate. Each strike landed with crushing weight, the Dao coursing through him, pulsing in rhythm with his very being. He wasn't simply fighting—he was enduring. Every step forward felt unyielding, every motion a declaration that nothing could stop him.
Yet, his mind wavered. The question gnawed at the edges of his consciousness, louder with every strike. He had no spiritual energy left. It was gone—depleted in the earlier battles. And yet, his blows hadn't weakened. If anything, they carried more force, more certainty.
"Why?" The word echoed in his mind, sharp and intrusive.
Another orc charged, its heavy club aimed for his side. Silas ducked low, driving his staff upward in a brutal arc. The weapon struck the puppet's arm, breaking it clean off, before slamming into its torso with a sound like stone splintering under pressure. The fragments dissolved into nothing, but the thought persisted.
Why do I need spiritual energy for this?
The Dao pulsed again, louder, more insistent. His strikes didn't feel tied to his reserves anymore. They didn't feel like effort. They felt inevitable. Another orc lunged, and Silas reacted without hesitation. His staff swung in a wide arc, shattering the puppet's leg before following through into its chest. The brittle frame crumbled, but Silas barely noticed.
The question wasn't leaving. It burned, searing through the haze of exhaustion that clouded his mind. Another puppet moved, and Silas turned, his staff connecting with its weapon and driving through to its torso. The puppet shattered, but the motion was automatic, disconnected from him.
Why do I need energy at all?
The chamber seemed to darken, the edges of his vision blurring as the question consumed him. His strikes carried weight, but it wasn't his strength driving them anymore. It wasn't spiritual energy fueling him. It was something deeper, something vast and unrelenting.
Another swing. Another crash. The puppets dissolved, one by one, but Silas was no longer fighting for survival. He was moving forward, his staff crushing through resistance, but his mind spiraled deeper into the thought.
His body moved, but it no longer felt like his. The Dao wasn't guiding him now—it was engulfing him. It pressed against the edges of his consciousness, pulsing louder with every strike, demanding more. Another puppet lunged, and his staff moved of its own accord, smashing into its brittle frame. Silas staggered as the remains dissolved into the floor, his knees wobbling beneath him.
He gasped, his vision flickering, his thoughts collapsing into a single truth: I don't need energy for this.
The Dao pulsed, overwhelming now. It wasn't a tool, a guide—it was a tide, an unrelenting force pulling him deeper into itself. His body faltered, his strikes losing precision even as they carried that same crushing inevitability. His grip on the staff slackened, his legs trembling as he stumbled back.
The puppets blurred before him, indistinct shadows that felt farther away with every second. His body screamed for rest, but he couldn't feel it anymore. The Dao had swallowed him whole, pulling him into its rhythm, its truth. He wasn't channeling it anymore; it was consuming him.
The air grew heavier, each breath shallow and fleeting.
As Silas fought his mind spiraled, the pulsing rhythm of the Dao drowning out his thoughts, his senses.
Silas teetered on the edge, the crushing truth of the Dao pressing down on him. His vision darkened, his body shaking uncontrollably as his soul frayed under the weight of comprehension. His breath hitched, his mind unraveling, as the world around him seemed to collapse into a single, suffocating point...