No Path but the Void

The quiet of the cavern was suffocating. Zami leaned against the wall, his burned arm loosely bandaged with makeshift wrappings. His katana lay across his lap, the once glowing symbols now dim. He stared at the blade, his mind adrift in fragments of memories—his clan, his father, and the forest where it all began.

For years, Zami had tried to suppress these thoughts, believing they would only slow him down. But the scars of the past had a way of resurfacing, especially in moments of stillness.

He closed his eyes, and the memory came rushing back. The screams of his clan as the creatures descended upon them. The sight of his father, Juro Agatoru, standing defiantly with his own blade—a katana unlike any other. Juro had been the strongest warrior of their clan, a figure of unshakable resolve and discipline.

"Run, Zami!" his father had shouted.

Zami could still feel the weight of his father's hand shoving him forward, urging him to flee while the others held the line. That was the last he saw of Juro, standing amidst the chaos, cutting down creature after creature with ruthless precision.

But Zami hadn't fled directly to safety. Instead, he had stumbled into the forest, disoriented and desperate. That was where he encountered the entity.

The memory of that moment burned as vividly as the flames of *Exploding Blood Cells.* He remembered the pulsating, viscous creature that emerged from the shadows of the trees, its form unlike anything he had seen before. It had no discernible face, but its presence was overwhelming.

Before he could react, the creature surged toward him, enveloping him in a boiling darkness. The pain was indescribable, as though his entire body was being torn apart and remade. When he awoke, the forest was gone, replaced by the endless expanse of the colony.

"How did I survive?" Zami muttered to himself. It was a question that had plagued him for years. The entity had given him the ability to revive, but it was not a gift—it was a curse, a relentless cycle of death and resurrection.

He glanced down at his dagger, crafted from the rib of a toxic beast he had slain years ago. The weapon was a reminder of his adaptability, his refusal to succumb to the colony's horrors. Yet, it also symbolized his isolation.

The sound of dripping water broke his reverie. Zami rose to his feet, his katana sheathed and his senses on high alert. The colony had a way of interrupting moments of reflection with harsh reality.

As he moved through the narrow tunnels, his thoughts drifted back to his father. Juro's teachings had been relentless, pushing Zami to his limits even as a child. Every strike of the blade, every drill, had been designed to instill discipline and strength.

"Strength isn't just in the body, Zami," his father had once said. "It's in the mind. The spirit. That's what makes us unbreakable."

But Zami had broken. He had run when his clan needed him most. The guilt was a constant weight, one that even thousands of years in the colony couldn't erase.

As he turned a corner, the tunnel opened into a vast chamber. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like jagged teeth, and pools of viscous black liquid dotted the floor. In the center of the chamber stood a grotesque figure, humanoid but twisted beyond recognition. Its body was covered in hardened plates, and its head bore the distinct markings of a clan's emblem.

Zami froze. The markings were unmistakable. They belonged to his clan.

The creature turned toward him, its movements deliberate and measured. For a moment, Zami's heart raced—not out of fear, but out of recognition. Was this... one of his people?

He took a step forward, his hand resting on his katana.

"What are you?" he asked, his voice low and steady.

The creature let out a guttural growl, its claws flexing. But it didn't attack. Instead, it raised a hand, pointing toward the far end of the chamber. There, etched into the wall, was a series of symbols—symbols from his clan's language.

Zami's breath caught in his throat. The symbols formed a single word: **Survive.**

The creature lunged, breaking the moment of stillness. Zami's instincts kicked in as he unsheathed his katana. The battle was swift and brutal, his techniques flowing seamlessly: *Razor Sharp Hands* to deflect a swipe, *Earth Slam* to destabilize the creature, and finally, a precise *Super Fast Pierce* that shattered its chest.

As the creature fell, its body dissolving into the black liquid, Zami knelt by the etchings. He traced the symbols with his fingers, his mind racing.

What did it mean? Had his clan survived in some form? Or was this a cruel trick of the colony?

The answers were elusive, but one thing was clear: his journey was far from over.