The humidity on Floor 17 clung to Zamasu, heavy and damp. The roar of the Great Falls echoed through the misty cavern, blending with the faint scent of raw ether in the air.
Visibility was poor. Mist drifted in slow, shifting eddies, and only faint patches of glowing moss lit the slick, stone walls around him.
Zamasu stood on a flat, algae-covered rock near the river that fed the falls. The constant thunder of water was more than just sound—it pressed against his skin like a physical force.
His outfit was showing signs of wear. The white pants were stained with grime and monster blood, the crimson sash still tightly secured at his waist.
Dampness clung to the fabric in places, but the mythril on his bracers and boots remained untouched, gleaming faintly in the gloom.
He wasn't resting. He was listening.
Not with his ears alone, but with his entire being.
The sharp edge of progress had begun to settle into something deeper. What had started as raw power and instinct was quickly transforming.
Hours spent on Floors 16 and 17, channeling his overwhelming power through the disciplined framework of Takemikazuchi's teachings, were starting to bear fruit.
It wasn't just about applying the teachings anymore.
His body wasn't merely responding. His mind was starting to keep up with his perception.
A guttural snarl tore through the mist to his left.
From the swirling grey emerged a Hellhound—larger than the ones he'd faced before. Its eyes glowed like burning coals, and acidic saliva dripped from its jaws, hissing as it hit the rock below.
It didn't charge right away. Instead, it circled low to the ground, muscles tense beneath its matted fur.
It was sensing something.
Not fear.
But the stillness of a predator far more dangerous than itself.
Zamasu didn't shift into a stance. He simply was in it.
Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees soft. Spine aligned without thought. His hands hung loosely at his sides, palms open, as if inviting the attack.
The Hellhound lunged—a blur of dark fur and snapping fangs aimed at his thigh.
Earlier, Zamasu might have pivoted sharply, blocking with his forearm. Now, his body moved with quiet precision. No wasted motion. No flare.
He shifted his weight back onto his right foot. His left leg lifted—just enough for the beast's jaws to snap through empty air beneath it.
The Hellhound's momentum carried it forward.
Zamasu's left foot came down—not as a stomp, but as a calm, deliberate anchor.
At the same moment, his right hand extended—not in a strike, but a smooth, guiding push. The heel of his palm met the Hellhound's shoulder joint just as its front paws touched the ground.
CRACK–SNAP!
The sound was sharp.
The Hellhound yelped—a burst of shock and agony—as its front leg buckled instantly. The joint had shattered under a perfectly channeled force.
It crashed sideways, skidding across the wet stone.
Zamasu didn't move to follow up. He simply watched.
The creature thrashed, stunned and crippled. And he observed—not with detachment, but with precise interest.
He was analyzing the movement, the mechanics, the outcome.
It hadn't been planned. His body had recognized the opening, understood the leverage point, and delivered the disabling strike with barely any energy wasted.
It was instinct refined—Saiyan aggression shaped by a Kai's understanding of anatomy, all flowing through the disciplined structure Takemikazuchi had taught him.
Three philosophies. One seamless motion.
'Alignment,' he thought.
The word meant more now than just posture. It was the alignment of intent, physiology, and technique.
His mind wasn't barking commands at his limbs anymore. There was no strain, no delay. Only flow.
It was a quiet conversation—between his will and the power humming in his cells, between awareness and the grace etched into his very bones.
The movement hadn't been forced.
It had felt… inevitable.
Correct.
A high-pitched shriek echoed from above.
Two Vouivre—small draconic flyers with leathery wings and venom-tipped tails—plunged through the mist, dive-bombing toward him. One aimed for his head, the other for his back.
Their approach was fast, erratic, wings slicing through the air with unpredictable momentum.
Earlier, Zamasu might have swatted them from the sky without a second thought—raw power unleashed, bodies obliterated.
But now, he saw something else.
A different challenge.
A test of restraint, precision, and control.
He dropped into a low crouch—not just to evade, but to coil power.
As the first Vouivre swooped down, talons extended, he launched upward. But it wasn't a wild leap. It was a controlled extension, energy channeled cleanly from his grounded feet through his legs and core, lifting him with piston-like precision.
His right hand shot up, fingers stiff—not to crush, but to spear.
He didn't aim for the body.
He aimed for the joint—where wing met shoulder.
PFFT!
A precise puncture.
The creature shrieked again, but this time it was high, broken—desperate. Its wing folded in on itself, collapsing mid-flight. It spiraled out of control, crashing into the churning river below.
The second Vouivre hesitated. Confused. Its companion had vanished in an instant.
It banked sharply.
Zamasu landed lightly, already pivoting. His left arm rose in a smooth arc.
The mythril bracer caught the stinger-lashed tail—with a guiding deflection. The venomous tip slid harmlessly past his ear.
Before the creature could adjust, Zamasu struck.
His right hand, fingers rigid in a spear-hand thrust, drove upward—into the soft, unguarded flesh beneath its jaw.
GURKLE!
A choked gurgle escaped the Vouivre's throat.
It spasmed mid-air, wings flapping in chaotic bursts before losing all coordination. The creature dropped hard onto the rocks, landing in a twitching heap.
Zamasu felt the faint tremors in his muscles fade almost instantly, the energy already cycling back—replenished at the cellular level.
His breathing remained steady, deep, almost meditative.
He turned from the riverbank, uninterested in finishing the fallen creature.
Something else was calling to him.
The mist shifted—briefly parting to reveal a new threat taking form among a cluster of jagged stalagmites.
A War Shadow.
Its form shimmered in and out of visibility, semi-corporeal and shifting. Claws that look like they could phase through armor. Through flesh.
This wasn't going to be a challenge of strength.
It was one of timing.
Zamasu approached slowly. Deliberately.
He settled into a modified stance—feet slightly wider for stability, weight centered low. His hands remained open, fingers slightly spread, not to strike, but to feel—to sense the subtle shift in ether around the creature.
The War Shadow lunged.
Its clawed hand passed through the space his chest had occupied just a moment earlier. Zamasu had already flowed sideways, gliding along the slick stone with smooth, practiced ease. His body slipped past the attack by a hair's breadth.
He felt the chill of its passage.
Too slow.
His perception of time, already sharp, now felt enhanced. The War Shadow's movements were almost sluggish to his senses.
Its semi-corporeal body no longer elusive, but trackable.
Was it the Dungeon heightening his awareness?
Or was his mind finally syncing—perfectly—with the hyper-accelerated processing of his body?
The creature swiped again.
This time, Zamasu didn't fully evade.
Instead, he shifted his weight forward. His left hand snapped out in a sharp palm strike—not aimed at the War Shadow's limbs or head, but at the dense knot of shadowy energy that anchored its flickering form.
His palm connected.
There was resistance—cold and viscous—like plunging into thick mud. Not quite solid, not quite formless.
The War Shadow shuddered violently, its shape flickering and distorting.
Before it could stabilize—or retaliate—Zamasu's right hand followed.
A knife-hand strike.
It drove into the same point with surgical accuracy.
SHLUCK!
The War Shadow didn't scream.
Instead, it released a distorted, high-frequency wail—sharp and grating, like tearing metal—before dissolving into black mist. The vapor curled upward, then vanished, absorbed into the ever-hungry air of the Dungeon.
Zamasu stared at the spot where it had disappeared.
The strikes hadn't just disrupted the creature. They had unraveled it—disassembled the cohesion at its core.
He flexed his fingers slowly, feeling the faint, unnatural chill still clinging to his skin.
The precision required for that strike had been immense. Every angle, every ounce of force, every alignment of bone and muscle had to be perfect.
And his body had delivered it effortlessly.
The motion had been complex—high-level motor control most warriors would need to consciously calculate. But for him, it had flowed subconsciously. Natural.
That freed his mind to do what it did best: observe, analyze, and direct intent.
Near a cluster of towering, bioluminescent fungi pulsing with a slow, rhythmic glow, Zamasu paused.
He wasn't winded.
Sweat dotted his brow—a habit of the body more than a necessity—but the damp air cooled it quickly.
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers with quiet intent. The mythril bracers gleamed faintly, catching the light of the glowing fungi in soft, shifting pastel hues.
He could feel the air—its texture, its weight. The distant movement of monsters sent faint vibrations through the stone beneath his boots, subtle signals his senses now interpreted with ease.
Everything felt sharper. More connected.
He threw a single punch into the empty space before him.
Not fast. Not slow. Just… precise.
There was no sonic boom. No burst of displaced air. Just a clean, sharp snap as his fist halted at full extension.
Every muscle fiber had fired in perfect order. Engaged, released. No trembling. No wasted effort.
It was pure, distilled kinetic expression.
A faint curve touched the corner of Zamasu's lips. It wasn't pride—it was understanding.
True martial growth wasn't just about beating enemies. It was about control. About aligning power, mind, and body into one focused purpose.
Everything about Floor 17—the roaring waterfalls, thick mist, and constant danger—had pushed him to adapt.
The dissonance between his immense power and his conscious control was finally resolving into harmony.
He looked toward the mist-shrouded path that led deeper—toward Floor 18.
Stronger monsters. Greater threats. And that was exactly what he wanted.
He adjusted the sash at his waist, the damp fabric cool to the touch, and headed towards the next floor.
End of chapter
Power level - 143