No Path but the Void

The remains of the Elder Beast smoldered behind him, but Zami's focus was elsewhere. The flames that had engulfed his katana moments ago had left their mark—his right arm trembled slightly, patches of seared skin visible beneath his cloak. He flexed his fingers, wincing as sharp pain shot through his forearm.

"This will take days to recover," he thought, frustration flickering across his otherwise blank expression. The "Exploding Blood Cells" technique had its cost. The sheer intensity of igniting his blood left his arm damaged and weakened. It was a trade-off he only used when absolutely necessary.

Still, he knew he couldn't rest here. The echoes of the beast's death throes would draw others, curious and hungry. He adjusted his hat, pulling it lower to shield his face, and disappeared into the labyrinth once more.

Zami trudged through the winding corridors, his thoughts unusually active. The Elder Beast's words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

"You are no different from the beasts you hunt."

He shook his head. "The words of a dying creature mean nothing,"he told himself, but the doubt remained.

Eventually, he reached a secluded alcove, one of the few places he considered "home." It was a small, hollowed-out chamber with a trickle of clean water running down one wall. A makeshift bed of softened monster hides rested in the corner, and a few rudimentary tools lay scattered about—a stone blade for skinning, a bowl carved from hardened monster chitin, and a blackened pot for cooking.

Zami set his katana down gently, leaning it against the wall before removing his cloak. Beneath, his arm was worse than he thought—blistered and red, the veins beneath his skin visible and darkened.

With a sigh, he retrieved a strip of cloth and a salve he had concocted from crushed beast marrow and herbs he had found in the colony's outskirts. He worked methodically, his movements precise despite the pain.

As he tended to his arm, Zami's thoughts turned to his training. The techniques he had honed over thousands of years weren't born of supernatural gifts—they were the result of relentless practice and a willingness to push his body to its absolute limit.

Each technique carried its own risks, demanding perfection to execute without injury. Yet Zami welcomed the challenge—it was this relentless pursuit of mastery that defined him.

With his arm bandaged, Zami turned to more mundane tasks. He inspected his katana, wiping away the residue left by the Elder Beast's blood. The white symbols along the blade seemed to pulse faintly, a reminder of the countless battles it had endured.

Next, he prepared a meal. He had salvaged chunks of meat from a lesser beast he had slain earlier, its flesh tough but rich in nutrients. He skewered the pieces on a sharpened bone and set them over a small fire, the aroma filling the chamber.

As he ate, Zami allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. The solitude of the colony was oppressive, but he had grown used to it. He thought of his clan, of the faces that had long since blurred in his memory. Would they recognize him now? Would they understand what he had become?

The thought was fleeting. He couldn't afford to dwell on the past—it would only weaken his resolve.

As Zami finished his meal, a low rumble shook the ground beneath him. He froze, his senses sharpening instantly. The colony was never truly quiet, but this was different—this was the sound of something massive moving in the depths.

He stood, his hand instinctively reaching for his katana. Whatever was coming, it wasn't a random beast. It was deliberate, calculated.

The remnants of the Elder Beast's presence still clung to him like a scent, and something stronger had taken notice.

Zami adjusted his cloak and hat, his expression as cold as ever. "No rest, then," he thought, stepping out into the labyrinth once more.