Shadow whip lashed out, a hungry black serpent snapping at the Conduit’s form. It struck with a sickening thud, not tearing flesh, but dissipating into the swirling void. No scream. No visceral wound. Just a momentary ripple across the creature’s obsidian surface. Alabaster grimaced. His breath hitched. The despair from moments ago still clung to the edges of his mind, a cold, insidious whisper. He pushed it back. Focus. Survival. Always. Another surge of power, a rapid command for the shadows to coalesce, to form razor-sharp shards. They stuttered. Flickered. His will, usually absolute, met resistance. The shadows seemed… thin. An odd emptiness echoed within him. Not a physical ache, but a void where his magical essence usually hummed. A low thrum, like a distant, dying chord. What was happening? He tried again. A simple spell, a burst of dark energy from his palm. It sparked, a pathetic flicker, then died. The Conduit, a towering, silent monolith of pure void, pulsed. A slow, rhythmic expansion and contraction, like a monstrous heart. Every pulse felt like a subtle draw. A gentle tug. Then a sharper, more insistent pull. A siphon. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. This monstrosity wasn’t just attacking his mind. It was feeding. Draining him. Drawing his magical essence, the very wellspring of his power, directly from his core. His mastery, his terrifying gift, was being corrupted, hollowed out from within. Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to bloom. He fought it down. There was no time for fear. Only adaptation. His hand shot to his back, retrieving the familiar hilt of Nightfall. The greatsword, black as a moonless night, felt heavier than usual. Its weight, usually an extension of his will, now felt like a dead burden. No, not dead. Just… unresponsive to the subtle flow of magic he usually imbued into it. He needed to fight differently. Gone were the elegant sweeps, the shadow-infused slashes, the instantaneous teleportations. This would be brutal. Raw. Swinging Nightfall in a wide arc, he closed the distance. The Conduit’s silent presence seemed to swell. It didn't move, didn't evade. It just absorbed, a hungry black hole in the fabric of reality. The massive blade bit into its obsidian surface. Not a clean cut. More like a dull impact against dense rock. A shower of sparks, a screech of metal on something impossibly hard. The Conduit shuddered. A faint crack webbed across its surface, like ice spiderwebbing under a hammer blow. Alabaster grunted, pouring every ounce of physical strength into the strike. His muscles screamed. He felt the familiar burn, the strain of raw effort. This was different. This was visceral. He pulled Nightfall back, the hilt vibrating in his grip. The Conduit’s surface, where he’d struck, slowly began to reform. The cracks mended themselves, the blackness swirling to erase the damage. It was regenerating. He knew then. This wouldn’t be a quick kill. It would be a grind. A battle of attrition he was ill-equipped for, now that his primary weapon – his magic – was compromised. His breath ragged, he drew Eventide from its sheath, the shorter, wider blade a counterpoint to Nightfall’s reach. Twin blades. Pure steel. Pure strength. No magic. Just him. He lunged forward, a flurry of strikes. Nightfall cleaved, Eventide thrust. A relentless, desperate assault. Each blow landed with a clang that echoed in the oppressive silence of the chamber. He twisted, ducked, spun. The Conduit remained largely impassive, its slow, siphoning pulse a constant, mocking rhythm. He felt the constant drag, the slow leak of his power. It was like bleeding from an invisible wound. His spells, once effortless extensions of his will, were now distant memories. He was stripped bare, relying solely on muscle and steel. It was a terrifying thought. To be Alabaster Shadeweller, master of all weapons, all spells, and to have his spells reduced to nothing. It was a wound to his very identity, a reminder of his fatal flaw – his dependence on his power, his belief that it *must* be enough. But this was not failure. Not yet. This was a test. A brutal, agonizing test of his physical limits. He roared, a primal sound torn from his throat. Nightfall became a blur. Eventide a deadly gleam. He focused on the same spot, striking again and again where the previous cracks had formed. He wouldn’t allow it to regenerate faster than he could damage it. Each swing was deliberate, fueled by a grim fury. Sweat beaded on his brow, mingling with the dust of the crumbling catacombs. His arms ached, his shoulders burned. But he kept going. He had to. He imagined the Conduit as a physical entity, a rock face, a mountain of black ice. Something that could be chipped away, fractured, broken by sheer, relentless force. The Conduit pulsed faster now. The cracks, deeper this time, remained. The regeneration was slowing. He was making progress, agonizingly slow as it was. But the draining continued. He felt weaker, not physically, but spiritually. The raw essence that fueled his existence was being drawn out, leaving him hollow. A cold dread began to seep in, not of the Conduit itself, but of what he would become once it was finished. His movements grew heavier. His blows lacked the pristine precision of before, replaced by a savage, almost wild abandon. He was fighting like a cornered animal, relying on instinct and brute force, a stark contrast to his usual calculated artistry. He spun, narrowly avoiding a sudden, unseen ripple in the air that hummed with dark energy. The Conduit was fighting back, subtly, indirectly, its very presence a weapon. One last swing, a desperate, two-handed overhead chop with Nightfall. The blade bit deep, a grating, tearing sound echoing through the chamber. A deeper fissure opened across the Conduit’s form, glowing faintly with an internal, sickly purple light. He pulled the blade free, gasping for air. The Conduit pulsed erratically. A deep, guttural sound, like stones grinding together, emanated from its core. With a guttural roar, the Conduit begins to sprout tendrils of solid shadow, reaching for him like ravenous black vines.

Chapter 7: Siphon of Power