The silent expanse of the Realm of Emptiness stretched endlessly around Arman. A pale mist drifted across the ruined plains, shadows of ancient towers half-swallowed by the fog. He stood still, his eyes locked onto the man before him—the spirit with the scarred arm and sunken gaze.
"Alright," Arman said, rolling his shoulders. "Let's do this."
The spirit gave a faint nod. "To move beyond your limits, you must first make your body... empty."
"Empty?" Arman repeated, furrowing his brows.
"Yes," the spirit said. "Feel your body. Feel the power flowing through it—the power of Emptiness. Now suppress everything. Silence your thoughts, still your spirit. Make yourself a shell. Only then can you push beyond human boundaries."
"And how exactly does that help?" Arman asked.
"Because an empty shell is unburdened," the spirit replied. "No weight. No resistance. Only pure movement. Once you reach that state, use your muscles to build momentum—but if your momentum falters, the attempt fails. You crash."
Arman nodded slowly. "Got it. Empty the body, build momentum, move."
"Let's see if you can," the spirit said, stepping back.
Arman closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply through his nose... then exhaled through his mouth. Calm. Steady. Six slow breaths later, his heartbeat slowed.
He shifted his stance—right foot forward, left slightly behind, a small gap in between.
Now, he searched within.
He tried to feel it—that strange, colorless presence from before. The Emptiness.
And there it was.
A liquid-like orb, hovering inside his core. Pale, translucent. Quiet, yet impossibly deep.
He tried to circulate it through his body. The instant he did—
Nothing.
The flow collapsed. The energy dissipated.
Arman's eyes snapped open. "Damn it!"
"Again," the spirit called.
Arman reset. Deep breaths. Focus. Calm.
He reached inward once more, feeling the formless power of Emptiness. This time, slower. Gentler. And then—
It moved.
It flowed like liquid through his veins, coating his muscles, threading into his limbs.
His body felt lighter.
He summoned all his physical strength, then added his spirit energy. And then... he merged both with the Emptiness.
The colorless energy deepened—turning black, like liquid void.
Arman directed it through his body. His veins bulged. His muscles swelled, pulsing with pressure.
Then he moved.
A burst of energy propelled him forward—like a cannonball tearing through the mist.
But halfway through—he faltered.
His balance tipped. His momentum shattered.
And then—
CRACK!
Face-first into the ground.
The mist scattered. Dust rose in a lazy cloud.
The spirit strolled over, hands behind his back. "You lost your momentum."
Arman groaned, still on the ground. "Aren't you supposed to help me up?"
"Oh, I could," the spirit said with a shrug. "But you're not that weak, are you? Quit whining and get up."
Arman sat up with a grunt. "Fine. So where did I go wrong?"
"You overloaded your body," the spirit said simply. "Too much pressure. Your muscles became stiff. That weight ruined your flow and broke your momentum."
Arman clenched his jaw, wiping the blood from his nose. "So I need to balance strength with fluidity?"
"Exactly," the spirit replied. "The art of Dash is not just force. It's precision. Timing. Flow. You'll get it… eventually."
Arman pushed himself to his feet, eyes blazing. "Then let's go again."
The spirit smiled, just a little. "That's more like it."
Arman stood tall again, shoulders squared, determination blazing in his eyes.
He reset his stance, closed his eyes, and took in another deep breath. Calm. Steady. Empty.
This time, he let go of everything—his thoughts, his doubts, even the pain from crashing face-first earlier.
He made himself an empty shell.
Then, without hesitation, he summoned every ounce of his physical strength. Spirit energy surged within him. He merged it all with the power of Emptiness—now a swirling black void flowing through his veins.
Then—
Boom!
He moved.
Like a bolt from the heavens, he dashed across the misty realm. His body sliced through the air, wind pressure erupting behind him. The ground beneath cracked from the force.
But something was off.
He didn't stop.
He shot right past the target zone, momentum carrying him far ahead.
"I did it!" Arman shouted, spinning around with a grin.
The spirit raised a hand, shaking his head. "Yes... you did. But not perfectly."
"Huh?" Arman blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You overshot your landing. Again."
"What?!" Arman groaned, slumping. "You've gotta be kidding me!"
"Again," the spirit ordered, his voice calm but firm.
Arman groaned louder. "You're relentless…"
"Do it again."
Grinding his teeth, Arman returned to position. Again, he emptied himself. Again, he channeled the void.
Attempt after attempt.
Sometimes he stopped too early. Sometimes too late.
But he kept going. Over and over.
"I'll get it this time. I swear," he muttered through gritted teeth.
He took one last breath—and launched forward.
This chapter is already very visceral and shows rather than tells, but one paragraph that could benefit from a bit more showing and specific sensory detail is this one:
> "This time, something changed.
His movement was different.
Faster.
Much faster.
Wind howled behind him. The air shimmered with pressure. Multiple afterimages scattered behind him like ghosts trailing his path.
And then—
He curved.
He zigzagged through the mist in a blur—shifting angles, warping the straight line into chaos.
And yet—
He stopped.
Exactly where he needed to."
This time, something changed.
His body felt like it had shed all weight. No tension. No resistance.
He moved.
Faster.
The world blurred around him.
Much faster.
The wind screamed past his ears, a howl that drowned all thought. Pressure wrapped around his frame like coiled snakes, threatening to tear him apart—yet he held.
Behind him, afterimages burst into existence like echoes left behind in time—flickering silhouettes, each mimicking his last motion.
He didn't think. He reacted.
A twist of his ankle—his body veered left.
A slight tilt of the shoulder—he darted right.
His trajectory shifted again, and again, as if he were water flowing around unseen obstacles.
The mist couldn't catch him.
Even the ground couldn't predict his steps.
Then—
Stillness.
He landed exactly where he meant to—no stumble, no drift.
Silence followed, heavy and reverent, the cracked earth beneath his feet still quivering from his sudden halt. The mist parted around him. The ground still shook.
"I did it!" Arman gasped, turning to the spirit. "I really did it this time!"
But his vision blurred.
His knees buckled. His body gave out.
His eyes went blank, and he began to fall.
Just before he hit the ground, the spirit caught him by the shoulders.
He stared at the unconscious boy in his arms, eyes narrowing with quiet awe.
"You damn brat…" he muttered.
"Yes, you did it. But that wasn't Blink Dash…"
He looked up at the zigzagging afterimages still fading into the mist.
"That was something else."
A pause.
"Phantom Dash."