Stone above him.
Jagged, uneven, dripping moisture that gleamed faintly like silver veins in the dimness.
Simon blinked slowly, breath steady, chest rising and falling with calm precision—not panic, not confusion, just… awareness.
The void's silence still lingered in him.
His fingers curled against the cold ground, and for a brief moment, the memory of that abyss—of Jaka, of Simonstita, of the self that formed from them both—hung like mist around his mind.
Soft. Quiet. Steady.
He was not lost.
Not fractured.
Not divided.
He was one.
He was present.
And when he finally exhaled, the breath left him smooth, controlled, like a blade sliding from its sheath.
He slowly sat up.
Pain laced his body like threads—but they were distant, muted, as if wrapped in velvet.
Not gone.
Just quiet.
Like everything else inside him.
The cavern ceiling glimmered faintly from crystal outgrowths, pale glow spreading like stars etched in stone.
Beautiful in a haunting, feral way.
He stared up at it and whispered,
"…I'm still alive."
No triumph.
No disbelief.
Just acknowledgement—simple fact, simple truth.
His hand pressed to his sternum.
His heartbeat pulsed like a steady drum.
Measured.
Even.
Certain.
Something had changed.
His emotions…
They were there, yet not spilling. Not screaming.
Controlled. Contained.
Like water in a perfectly shaped vessel.
Void Path.
He didn't know how he knew the name.
He simply did.
Not Abyssal hunger.
Not Human warmth.
A third thing—stillness carved from acceptance.
Power drawn from emptiness, not loss.
He stood.
Not wobbly.
Not frantic.
Just… moving, body following intention without hesitation or waste.
He brushed dirt from his clothes, wiped dried blood from his cheek, and rolled his shoulders.
No trembling.
No pain swallowing thought.
A clarity sharper than steel.
He walked.
Footsteps rhythmic, neither rushed nor cautious.
There was no fear humming in his chest, no adrenaline demanding to be fed, no lingering doubt whispering failure.
Just purpose.
Forward.
A faint rustle echoed through the narrow stone corridor ahead.
A vibration through the ground.
Subtle scraping like claws carving earth.
Simon stopped—not in alarm, but in calculation.
His head turned slightly, eyes adjusting to the gloom.
Six of them.
Small.
Fast.
Burrowing predators with pale carapace shells and elongated limbs made for digging and ambush. Fangs sharp as obsidian shards, mouths twitching from excitement at fresh prey.
Burrowers.
The creatures burst from the ground with screeches, dirt spraying like shrapnel.
They lunged.
Simon didn't step back.
Didn't gasp.
Didn't brace.
His eyes narrowed, body lowering with fluid precision.
The first Burrower leaped—mandibles wide.
Simon's hand moved.
No wasted wind-up.
No frantic swing.
A single motion, smooth as a falling leaf.
His fingers sliced across the creature's throat.
He didn't punch.
Didn't claw.
He cut, with nothing but his hand—like emptiness sharpened into edge.
The Burrower dropped, throat severed, ichor spilling silently.
The other five shrieked.
Dirt exploded again as they dove in and out, breaching like sharks through soil.
Simon exhaled lightly.
Feeling?
None.
Only awareness.
One lunged from the left—slower than breath.
Simon pivoted, heel sliding perfectly on stone, using no extra motion.
Hand pierced under its mandible—ripped through brainstem.
Collapse.
Another burst behind him.
His body simply turned, back foot anchoring, elbow driving backward like he'd always known where the creature would be.
Skull cracked.
Silence.
Two came from above, clinging to cavern wall before springing downward.
Simon lifted one arm.
Not in panic—like he was placing a cup on a shelf.
Claws struck his forearm—and stopped, halted in air by a grip so tight, so calm, the creature convulsed in confusion.
Simon pulled and twisted.
Neck snapped.
The last Burrower dove from underground, soil erupting around his ankles.
Simon didn't look.
His foot slid.
Heel crushed its skull like stepping on fruit.
It was over in seconds.
No roar.
No heavy panting.
Just stillness returning, as if violence had been a whisper instead of a scream.
He looked down at the bodies.
Once, he would have felt adrenaline, relief, exhaustion… fear.
Now—
Nothing unnecessary.
"Efficient," he murmured.
Not pride.
Observation.
He crouched, examining the Burrowers briefly before standing again.
His limbs felt light.
Breath steady.
Muscles efficient, compact in motion.
Mind clear as untouched snow.
If Abyssal power devoured emotion, and human power thrived on it, then…
Void Path refined it.
Didn't destroy feelings.
Didn't amplify them.
Held them.
Balanced them.
Allowed them to serve instead of control.
He walked again.
No hurry.
No hesitation.
Behind him, six corpses cooled.
Ahead, the cavern widened, the stone opening like a throat leading deeper into ancient hunger.
A distant trembling echoed from the depths—heavy, slow, like something massive shifting in its den.
Simon felt it.
Not fear.
Not excitement.
Just readiness.
"…Whatever comes next," he whispered calmly, "I will face it."
He rolled his neck, quiet crack echoing.
"And I will win."
The cavern answered with a low, distant rumble—like a beast exhaling in the dark.
Simon stepped toward it.
Not rushing.
Not cautious.
Centered.
Void in his veins, purpose in his stride, emotion resting quietly like sheathed blades waiting to be chosen.
And with each step, the world felt less like something trying to kill him—and more like something he was learning to master.
Darkness swallowed him again.
---
The cavern stretched endlessly, twisting like a spine through the earth.
Simon moved through it without hesitation—void-quiet, void-steady.
Footfalls soft.
Breath smooth.
Heart untouched by dread.
No fear.
No rage.
No thrill.
Only purpose.
The corpses of the Burrowers were long behind him, forgotten like passing thoughts. Ahead, the air thickened with the scent of damp soil and metallic blood.
A faint skittering tremor brushed against his awareness—
Not heard.
Felt.
He paused.
A swarm of tiny, needle-thin legs chittering over stone.
Little black bodies moving with maddened hunger.
Devourer Swarm.
Tiny flesh-stripping insects, like acid with teeth. A colony predator, existing only to consume anything warm and alive.
They spilled from a crack in the stone like a living shadow, mandibles clicking in feverish frenzy.
Once, Simon would've retreated.
Raised his arms.
Panicked.
Now?
He simply lifted a hand and exhaled.
The void inside him did not roar like fire nor surge like lightning.
It collapsed.
Air bent inward toward his palm—gravity folding just slightly, space tightening with a soft silent crush.
The swarm lunged.
Simon lowered his palm gently.
Reality dipped.
The first wave of insects crumpled mid-air, bodies folding into dust as an invisible pressure crushed them. No burst. No explosion. Just quiet annihilation, like existence retracted its permission for them to live.
He stepped forward.
The swarm broke like frightened water, scattering in panic—too late.
His foot slid across the ground and he swept his hand as though brushing dust from a table.
Void followed the gesture.
Silence collapsed across the cavern floor.
When it cleared, nothing remained of the swarm but faint black smear dust in fine ripples.
Effortless.
Simon blinked slowly.
He still wasn't used to feeling nothing about victory.
Not pride.
Not exhilaration.
Just observation.
"…I can do that," he murmured.
He kept walking.
The cavern ceiling widened, like entering a hollow chamber. Crystals jutted from the walls now, pulsing faint purple, feeding off ambient abyssal energy.
A shriek came from above.
Simon did not look.
He simply stopped.
The shriek turned into a blur—something massive diving from the stalactites with bone-shredding claws extended.
Winged Bulker.
Bat-like, but wolf-bodied, dense muscles and a mouth wide enough to swallow a man's head whole. Strength-type predator. Thick hide. Heavy bone. Speed born of pouncing surprise.
The creature descended like meteor.
Simon tilted his head slightly, enough to see its shadow pass over his cheek.
Perfect clarity.
He stepped aside, not dodging—simply not being where the blow landed.
The beast slammed into stone, shockwaves shuddering the cavern.
Before it could rebound, Simon placed a hand lightly on its spine.
He didn't force power.
He released stillness.
Void seeped in—no violence, no hatred, no heat.
Silence, turned lethal.
The Winged Bulker spasmed. Flesh rippled inward, as if bones suddenly forgot how to exist. Its scream choked into a broken gargle. In two seconds, it collapsed like a punctured drum.
Its carcass twitched once.
Stopped.
Simon exhaled, calm.
His footsteps resumed.
Not long after—more noise.
Soft.
Subtle.
But familiar.
Silent Creeper.
This one was bigger—mottled scales, elongated arms, white-bone claws curving like hooked scythes. Its shimmering skin flickered as it masked itself against the cavern shadows.
A hunter.
A stalker.
Assassin beast.
It vanished.
A flicker behind him—
Slash incoming.
Simon did not turn.
Did not block.
He simply reached backward and caught the claw mid-strike, fingers closing around it like a man lightly gripping a teacup handle.
The Creeper hissed in shock.
Simon's gaze didn't even shift.
"You are fast," he said gently, voice flat yet polite. "But speed without intent is noise."
He pulled forward slightly.
Not force.
Geometry.
The creature's body twisted—not by strength but inevitability, like the angle had always been wrong and Simon merely pointed it out.
Bones snapped.
The Silent Creeper collapsed, limp.
He let it drop.
No satisfaction.
Just result.
The cavern narrowed into steep stone ridges, forming natural steps spiraling upward.
Simon lifted his head.
A narrow shaft of pale light.
Far, but real.
A path up.
His chest didn't swell.
He didn't gasp or rush.
He simply began climbing.
Void aura flowed softly around him—maintaining balance, conserving every movement, every breath.
Claw-edged lizards scrambled from crevices.
He dispatched them without stopping, flicking fingers or shifting his weight to break necks and skulls fluidly.
Ambush predators leapt.
None reached him.
A stone serpent lunged, fangs like daggers—Simon slid past it and tapped its head. The skull caved like wet clay.
Blood slicked his boots, but none clung to him.
Void rejected stain.
Up and up he climbed, steps steady, breath unchanged.
His body felt light.
Precise.
Aligned with itself.
He reached a ledge, the shaft widening to a faint open glow above.
Rock wind whispered.
Chill air brushed his skin.
He was close.
He paused only once, glancing down into the abyss he had climbed through—the hell he had survived, bled in, nearly died in.
No trembling.
No flare of triumph.
Only certainty.
"…I'm leaving," he whispered.
Not escaping.
Not running.
Ascending.
He placed his hand on the stone above and pulled himself up. His voice did not rise. His breathing did not quicken.
But his presence—his quiet, sharpened, relentless will—rose like iron forged in silent fire. And with the calm certainty of someone who has embraced himself completely,
Simon climbed out of the abyss.