The oppressive humidity of Floor 16 clung to Zamasu like a second skin as he stepped off the staircase landing.
The familiar cavernous expanse stretched before him – towering fungal growths glowing with faint bioluminescence, the constant drip of mineral-rich water echoing in the vastness, and the thick, earthy scent of decay mingled with ozone.
Below, the faint roar of the Great Falls on Floor 17 vibrated through the stone.
He'd skipped the upper floors deliberately; their monsters offered no challenge, no opportunity to test the discipline Takemikazuchi and Ouka had been teaching him.
He hadn't descended far from the staircase before the Dungeon reacted.
"RRRRRRRRNNNNNGGGHHHH"
From behind a cluster of massive, pulsating mushrooms, a low growl rumbled.
Two sets of reptilian eyes, burning with primal hunger, locked onto him.
Infant Dragons. Each was the size of a large warhorse, covered in emerald scales that shimmered faintly in the fungal light, their powerful haunches coiled, and jaws slightly agape, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
Zamasu didn't rush.
He planted his feet shoulder-width apart on the uneven, slightly damp stone, the reinforced soles of his mythril-plated boots gripping securely.
He consciously recalled Ouka's drills: "Weight centered. Knees slightly bent, not locked. Spine aligned. Shoulders relaxed but ready."
He settled into a basic, neutral stance – feet parallel, hands open at his sides, not clenched into fists.
It felt… unnatural.
His body was practically screaming—to simply 'move' and shatter the creatures before they could blink.
But that wasn't the purpose of this venture today.
Control. Aligning the body with the mind.
The first dragon lunged, a burst of surprising speed for its bulk, jaws snapping shut on the space where Zamasu's head had been a microsecond earlier.
He hadn't dodged with blinding speed; he'd simply shifted his weight, pivoting smoothly on the ball of his left foot, letting the rush of displaced air ruffle his silver hair.
His right hand came up, not as a strike, but as deflection. He brushed the side of the creature's snout with the flat of his palm, using its own momentum to redirect its trajectory past him.
The second dragon, seeing its companion miss, didn't hesitate.
It opened its maw, and a torrent of searing orange flame erupted, aimed squarely at Zamasu's chest.
Heat washed over him, intense enough to make the air shimmer.
He didn't flinch. Instead, he flowed into movement, his body instinctively reacting faster than his conscious mind could process the lesson.
He dropped his center of gravity, bending his knees deeply, almost crouching, while simultaneously twisting his torso.
The fireball roared overhead, singing in the air but missing him completely.
As he rose from the crouch, his left leg snapped out in a controlled, piston-like side kick.
It connected not with crushing force, but with precise impact just below the dragon's ribcage, a sharp *thud* echoing in the cavern.
The creature wheezed, staggering back, the fire in its gullet momentarily choked off.
"Control." The word echoed in his mind, a mantra overriding the Saiyan blood that thrummed for decisive, overwhelming violence.
He pressed the advantage on the first dragon, which had recovered and was turning back towards him.
He advanced, not with a sprint, but with measured, gliding steps Ouka had drilled endlessly – heel-to-toe, maintaining balance throughout the transition.
As the dragon swung a clawed forelimb in a wide, powerful arc, Zamasu didn't retreat. He stepped 'into' the attack, inside its reach, his body coiling.
He absorbed the minimal impact of the limb brushing his mythril bracer with a subtle shift of his shoulder, then uncoiled, driving his right palm forward in a straight thrust.
It wasn't a killing blow; it was a focused push.
The heel of his palm struck the dragon's lower jaw with a sharp 'crack'. Not enough to shatter bone, but enough to snap the creature's head back violently, stunning it.
He then felt – the subtle shift, unconscious correction.
As he executed the palm thrust, a micro-adjustment in his hip alignment, a fraction more engagement of his core muscles, a perfect distribution of force from his grounded foot through his torso and into the striking limb.
It wasn't a conscious thought; it was his physiology—the fusion of Saiyan battle instincts and the Kai's inherent grace and body awareness—optimizing the crude technique he was learning.
The movement felt smoother, more efficient, the force delivered more precisely than even a few minutes ago.
It was as if his body recognized the 'pattern' of efficiency and was streamlining it on the fly.
The second dragon, recovering from the kick, charged again, head low, aiming to gore him with its horned forehead.
Zamasu met the charge. He widened his stance slightly, sinking lower, bracing. He didn't rely solely on his durability.
The dragon slammed into him. Stone cracked under Zamasu's boots as he absorbed the impact, his body acting like a rooted tree.
He wasn't blown back; he barely slid an inch.
Using the creature's own forward momentum, he grasped one of its horns with his left hand.
With a powerful twist of his hips and shoulders, he channeled his strength through flawless biomechanics, turning the dragon's own momentum against it.
The creature's bulk was wrenched off balance, lifted into the air by sheer technique and force, before crashing onto its side with a thunderous impact that sent tremors rippling through the cavern floor.
Dust and fungal spores filled the air.
He finished them quickly then, two precise, karate chops to the base of their skulls. Enough force to sever the spinal cord, no more.
"FWOOSH, CLINK!"
He extracted the magic stones—vibrant iridescent-purple pulsating with energy—and dropped them into his pouch, along with a few tough scales that might fetch a modest price.
For the next several hours, Zamasu became a moving focal point of controlled violence on Floor 16.
He sought out encounters, deliberately engaging them.
He fought off packs of Needle Rabbits—not by dodging their spines, but by deflecting them with pinpoint control.
Every motion of his wrists and forearms, sheathed in gleaming mythril bracers, was calculated to be minimal yet effective.
The sharp clink of spines glancing off metal echoed in rhythm with his steady breathing, a calm beat amid the chaos.
He faced Stone Tortoises, their shells impervious to casual blows.
Rather than wasting strength trying to brute-force through their defenses, he employed precise striking techniques Takemikazuchi had taught him—compact, efficient blows that targeted weak points with surgical precision.
He confronted swarms of Killer Ants, not obliterating them with shockwaves, but using controlled sweeps of his legs and precise finger jabs to dispatch them one by one or in small groups, focusing on footwork to avoid being surrounded, constantly adjusting his stance on the uneven, sometimes slippery terrain.
Throughout it all, the unconscious refinement continued.
His initial stances, while technically correct, had carried a hint of stiffness, an intellectual application rather than embodied knowledge.
Now, his transitions between stances became fluid, almost anticipatory.
When shifting his weight, his body seemed to 'know' the optimal point of balance without conscious calculation.
When blocking or deflecting, his muscles engaged and released with perfect economy, conserving energy, redirecting force effortlessly.
His Saiyan side gave him a hyper-adaptive body—nerves and muscles that learned and adjusted quickly with each fight.
Meanwhile, his Kai biology was feeding him a natural sense of how energy moved through his body, helping him instinctively refine his movements.
Together, they made his fighting style faster, smoother, and far more efficient than anything a normal person could achieve.
He wasn't just learning; his body was 'evolving' the techniques on a cellular level.
He paused beside a cluster of softly glowing blue crystals, wiping a light sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his mythril-clad wrist—a gesture more rooted in habit than actual need.
The iridescent metal gleamed softly, unmarred by the combat. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers.
The raw power was still there, a vast ocean held behind a dam. But the dam was stronger now, the flow more directed. He felt… sharper. More connected to his own movements.
A flicker of curiosity stirred within him—unfamiliar, yet oddly compelling. Takemikazuchi's martial style was grounded in practicality and efficiency, refined within the boundaries of human potential pushed to its absolute limit.
He recalled a particular stance—wide-legged, low to the ground, arms held loosely and confidently at the sides. It radiated calm power, an aura of readiness that seemed unshakable.
Goku's stance.
Zamasu adjusted his footing, spreading his legs wider than any technique Ouka would've approved of.
He lowered his center of gravity and raised his hands—palms open, positioned away from his body. Immediately, he noticed the difference.
It felt… exposed. Vulnerable, especially to low sweeps or quick strikes—weaknesses that Takemikazuchi's tighter, more guarded form avoided.
And yet, this stance projected a different kind of strength. It was open—inviting, even—like it was daring an opponent to come forward. There was a strange confidence in that vulnerability.
He held the pose for a moment longer, feeling the tension in his thighs, the shift in how his core muscles engaged.
An analytical part of him noted its strengths: excellent stability against frontal pressure, and ideal for generating power through full-body movements.
But it came at a cost—less protection on the sides, slower transitions to defense.
It didn't quite suit the kind of tight, controlled combat he needed within the Dungeon's confined, unpredictable spaces.
Still, the principle of grounding through posture—anchoring power from the earth up—was valuable. He made a mental note of it and moved on.
Then he shifted again. His feet drew closer together, one placed slightly ahead of the other. He lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and puffed his chest just enough to project confidence.
One fist hovered loosely near his hip, the other raised to guard his face. The posture was unmistakable—arrogant, defiant. Vegeta's stance.
It radiated aggression, a blatant challenge directed straight at the opponent's centerline.
Zamasu immediately sensed the change within himself—his energy coiling tighter, the subtle tension in his legs and back signaling a readiness to launch forward at any moment.
There was a primal satisfaction to it, a posture that appealed to the Saiyan part of him. He felt It wasn't just technique—it was a statement.
But then Takemikzuchi's voice echoed in his mind: "Arrogance leaves openings. Pride gets you killed. Structure protects."
Zamasu reconsidered. The stance, while powerful and intimidating, it might have flaws. It left him slightly overcommitted to offense and exposed on the sides.
Psychologically, it could be useful—unsettling an opponent or projecting confidence. It was a strong platform for launching high-impact attacks.
But in the unpredictable, close-quarters combat of the Dungeon, it lacked the balanced foundation he was striving to refine.
Still, it had its value. He cataloged the posture and its effects—another piece of data.
He returned to his neutral stance—Takemikazuchi's stance. Grounded, balanced, precise. It felt like coming home after an intriguing but ultimately impractical detour.
The fundamentals were still king: balance, alignment, efficiency.
The other stances had their merits—useful as situational tools or expressions of intent—but for someone who has little martial experience, they were not useful.
This was the foundation, the discipline that anchored everything else.
With his form reset and focus renewed, Zamasu moved on, eyes scanning ahead for the next challenge.
Chapter 29 end
Current power level - 134(high level 4 - low level 5 with ki) just to lever you know charged attacks are multi continental.
Oh yeah if this chapter felt weird, just know I used chat to write the fights cause i can't do it. I proof read.