[Gale Palm Successfully Executed. Qi Consumption: 15%. Effectiveness against small, low-mass targets: High.]
Aryan's mind processed the data. Fifteen percent of his Qi for a single blast. It was effective, but costly. He could use it six more times, at most, before his reserves became dangerously low. It was a powerful tool, but not one he could use indiscriminately.
The spiders didn't pause for long. The initial shock wore off, replaced by a new, frenzied rage. The hissing of the swarm grew sharper, more venomous. They changed their strategy.
Instead of a blind charge, the next wave halted at the edge of his light. Then, in unison, dozens of them arched their backs.
With a series of wet, spitting sounds, they launched projectiles. Glistening globs of clear venom arced through the air toward him from multiple angles.
His new body reacted before his mind could even process the threat. He moved. His legs, powered by his refined muscles, carried him to the left in a swift, elusive blur. The Flowing Willow Steps he'd seen in the store flashed in his mind—he didn't have the technique, but the concept of fluid evasion was all he needed.
Splat. Splat. Splat.
The venomous globs struck the stone wall where he had been standing a second before.
A sharp, greasy sizzle filled the air as the venom began to eat away at the ancient stone.
The rock didn't just corrode; it seemed to melt, bubbling and releasing acrid plumes of smoke like hot tar, leaving weeping, black stains behind. A single drop wouldn't kill him, but a direct hit would undoubtedly tear through his plain clothes and leave him paralyzed in seconds.
Now he understood the true danger. It wasn't just their numbers, but their ability to attack from a distance. He couldn't risk standing still.
His analysis was immediate and brutal. Standing still was a death sentence. Evasion was a temporary solution. The only logical option was to collapse the firing line. It was a counter-intuitive move, a plunge into the heart of the danger, but it was the only variable he could control to shift the combat parameters in his favor.
He unleashed another Gale Palm, this time aiming low, clearing a path across the floor. As the spiders were thrown aside, he followed in the wake of the force, his feet sure on the web-covered stone. A spider dropped from the ceiling, aiming for his head. He didn't even look up. His right hand, now free, shot out in a simple, brutal punch. His fist, empowered by the pure Qi of the Supreme Immortal Scripture, connected with the creature's body.
Crunch.
The spider's exoskeleton shattered like a rotten eggshell. It exploded in a spray of thick, foul-smelling fluid. He didn't slow, his momentum carrying him deeper into the basement. He was a whirlwind of controlled violence, a Gale Palm clearing the way, his fists and feet crushing any creature that got too close.
He was winning, but he knew it was a battle of attrition. His Qi was finite, and the spiders were endless. He needed to find the heart of the nest. His eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned the chamber as he fought, tracing the thickest strands of webbing, the paths where the spiders were most concentrated. They all converged on a dark, open alcove at the far end of the basement, a place so shrouded in thick webs that it looked like a solid, pulsating wall.
That was it. The core of the nest. The queen's throne room. He unleashed one last Gale Palm to give himself a moment's respite, then sprinted toward the alcove. As he drew closer, a new sound reached him, a low, guttural chitter, deeper and more intelligent than the mindless hissing of the smaller spiders.
The mindless hissing of the swarm ceased, replaced by a unified, dreadful silence. The smaller spiders, as if obeying a silent command, retreated, forming a clear, circular arena. Then, from the shadowed entrance, a shape emerged that broke the pattern. It was a spider that dwarfed the others, its body a bloated, obscene parody of its smaller kin. Its legs were as thick as a man's wrist, and its fangs were like two daggers of polished obsidian, dripping a venom that wasn't clear, but a milky, iridescent white. Its eight eyes weren't just red; they burned with a focused, hateful intelligence that was completely absent in the others.
The Nest Queen had revealed herself. She fixed her gaze on Aryan, and he felt a palpable wave of pressure, a primal, psychic assertion of dominance. It let out a deafening hiss, a challenge and a death sentence in one, and charged.