Aligning the Currents

I've already taken down several of the encircled ones. Didn't count how many. No need to. Same pattern every time. Spot them, close in, bite and swallow. Then move on. At first, I broke it all down one by one—distance, timing, every twitch of movement. Now the process has shortened. It's not that my thoughts have dwindled. They've been streamlined. Only what's necessary remains. This shift isn't simple familiarity. Unneeded steps are ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠falling away one by one in my head. It mirrors the end of long training, where you sweep aside distractions to leave only the essence. But the direction is different. Back then, I discarded to empty myself; now, I cut away to survive. That subtle difference nags at me.

Another one. Crunch—bones shatter, flesh tears. I swallow without stopping. Energy seeps inward. Weak. Barely anything. Still, it accumulates. I lift my head and pause.

···Something's different. This time, I feel it. Not just the sensation of filling my belly. Something inside tugs. Demanding more. Urging me to shove it all in. But it's not hunger. Not emptiness begging to be filled. It's already full, yet it wants to overflow. The direction comes first, will follows after. A human would feel revulsion at this, but strangely, it's both alien and natural.

I don't move. My body is already leaning toward the next prey. Instinct offers no hesitation, no ambiguity. But I force it to stop. Willfully, consciously.

"···This is different."

I mutter shortly. Memories from my past life flicker by. Yokai beasts, Yodan, condensed power. And the sensation of what that price entails. I'm no stranger to it. This isn't hunger. Not a deficit. It's already filled. Yet it craves more. A sensation where reason trails direction. That's not human.

Power.

I close my eyes. Sever my sight, turn consciousness inward. The Yodan hasn't settled. It's flowing inside me. Not scattering, not fading. Just relentlessly pushing upward. Stack more, cram it in. Force a cutoff here, and it bursts. I know that. Not mere judgment—I've seen that end before. Those who couldn't handle power, how they crumbled, how far they fell. The conclusion was always the same. They became something not human.

"···Not about suppressing it."

This time, the thought stretches a bit longer. The Dao doesn't work that way. You don't break it—you redirect the flow. You don't block; you turn the course. You don't clash opposing forces to shatter them—you mesh them into one stream. I don't reject the Yodan's flow. I don't evade. I accept it fully. Then layer Dao Force atop it.

Faint. Imperfect in form. But unmistakably there. That faintness becomes the anchor. Correcting a massive flow isn't about magnitude—it's direction. A single tiny balance point suffices to right the tilt. Not yanking it forcibly, but aligning the currents. I overlap it with the slightest offset from where the Yokai Force pushes upward. Sizzle—sparks fly inside. A momentary shove. The Yokai Force is far stronger. Overwhelming. But I don't block head-on. I divert sideways. Then bind it. Slowly, but surely.

The pulling sensation slows. Doesn't vanish completely. But no rampage. Direction takes hold. I exhale long.

"···This feels right."

Now it's a familiar sensation. Not erasing power, but wielding it. That's the way I know. I open my eyes. Inside, it's quieter than before. Not fully settled. But I'm no longer at its mercy. Not being dragged—I'm gripping it. That feeling echoes a realm I touched long ago. Not crushed under power, but standing above it. Imperfect, but the direction matches.

I stand there a moment, holding that state. Thoughts flow slowly.

···Until just now, I was too simplistic. Judgments were there, but brief. Severed. Instinct led, thought trailed. Now it's different. Instinct remains strong. But thought overlays it again.

"···Coming back?"

No certainty. But it doesn't seem fully broken. I raise my head. Scan surroundings again. Air, heat, flows. Rats still plentiful. But I don't charge blindly like before. No need to keep hunting. Power's already stacked. What matters now isn't quantity—it's direction. Flowing it out comes before piling more. Miss that, and I'm swept away again.

I shift direction. Then it snags. Not a rat. Another flow. I halt instantly. Lower my body, suppress my presence. Read again. Not hiding—reducing existence. Erase myself from the air's currents. Settle my energy to avoid ripples. This isn't flight; it's concealment.

Metal, machinery, unsettled traces. Not fully gone. Time's passed, yet they linger. Not mere afterimage. Closer to deliberate remnants.

"···Still here."

Tone shifts slightly. Short, but not simplistic. No need to probe. What kind, what level. Not important now. Probing touches it. Touching snags me. I step back. Hunting stops. Survival demands judgment first. And my judgment's clear. This isn't for fighting.

Time passes. Senses steady. I move slowly. Now consciously selecting flows. Avoid overlapping points, breaks, lingering dangers. Glide into voids along the currents. No forcing through. Find empty paths. Fastest, safest.

Then stop. Wall. Concrete, cracks, exposed rebar. Traces atop it. Letters, markings, faded paint.

"···Entrance."

Not fully erased. Lingering after time suggests not just abandoned—left intentionally. Or too big to erase. And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠above. Air differs. Less rotten. Drier. Flow leads upward. Air circulates. Faint, but present. Can't come from a sealed space.

I ponder briefly. Below's traces accumulated. Too late to hide. Above's dangerous. But open. Lingering in closure is as good as trapped. One choice. Risk up, or end here.

I lift my head slightly. Faint light falls from above. Not fully sealed. Light's dim. But distinct. Different realm up there. Another layer, environment.

"···Have to go."

Decision made. Lower body, align flow. Move upward.

Higher I climb, space changes. Humidity fades, air dries. Rot yields to old metal, dust. Not simple contamination. Accumulated time's scent. Human-deserted space, unmaintained facility, yet uncollapsed structure. Somewhere in between.

Light sharpens. Dim, but clear. Wholly different brightness from below. I pick up speed slightly. Movement shifts. Not shoving—sliding. Ride without resisting flow. Drag lessens. Then halt.

Dead end. Yet open space. I raise my head. Words stall briefly.

"···This is."

Vision punches upward. Vast. Tall. Empty, yet the space presses like a monolith. Invisible weight bears down, pinning sight, subtly squeezing breath. Massive structure central. Tanks. Not one. Many. Gauging size freezes senses momentarily. Layered metal, concrete. Arrangement no mere pile—intentional design. Layer gaps, supports, flow paths—all calculated. Like a colossal formation, whole space woven for one purpose. Not mere ruins. Facility.

I stand frozen awhile. More indifferent, rougher, grander than any structure from my past life. Built purely for function. Thus, more overwhelming. Not for humans. Extreme efficiency, necessity pushed to limits. That feels eerily off.

Lift gaze higher. Ceiling not sealed. Light filters through collapse cracks. Surface.

Scan again. No stairs, passages. Designed for vertical transit.

"···Lift."

Stopped now. Just looks severed. I move slowly. Definitely changed. Power loads precisely. Not just stronger—usage transformed. No waste. Exactly what's needed. See flow: where it starts, exits. Defense too. Scales harder, shocks not absorbed—deflected.

I narrow eyes. Dongshu. Vision overlays. Invisible flows layer atop visible. Range widened. Unbroken. Flows connect.

"···Grown."

Yokai Force and Dao Force. Once ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠clashing, now bound as one flow. The result. I focus on floor metal shard. Air quivers faintly. Metal lifts slowly. Telekinesis. Still weak. But works.

I release. Metal drops.

"···Usable."

Sufficient. Glance up again. Light. Massive structures. This world isn't fully ended. Broken, ruined, but remnants persist. Long ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠exhale.

Then. Below tanks, in lightless shadow, motion caught. I lower gaze slowly. Familiar shape. Rat. Contaminant. But off. Not scattered. Not chaotic swarm—aligned at intervals, same direction.

I freeze. Narrow vision, reread flows. Now it shows. Not swarm. Encircling. Completely. Circular. Hundreds fixed on one center. As if bound by single will.

I hold breath. Center invisible. But felt. Air different. Only inside compressed. Something there.

I crouch very slowly. Instinct warns. Dangerous. Unlike before. Eyes locked, I mutter very low.

"···What the hell is that."