Zuka wandered through the twisting tunnels, his footsteps echoing off the cold, ancient stone. He had no clear destination, yet something unseen tugged at his instincts, pulling him forward.
The deeper he moved, the more the tunnels began to shift. Faint pulses of energy hummed from the walls—an eerie, otherworldly presence he couldn't quite place. Time became muddled, each turn warping his perception until direction itself felt meaningless.
Abruptly, he stopped. His golden eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a familiar stone idol, its hollow eyes carved in silent mockery. He had passed it before. More than once.
I'm walking in circles.
His frustration flared, but he forced himself to remain calm, scanning the dimly lit passage for anything out of place. That was when he saw it—a faint inscription, nearly hidden beneath grime and time.
"Let your instincts guide you."
The words lingered in his mind like an echo from another life. Slowly, he ran his fingers over the ancient script, its meaning stirring something deeper within him.
I've seen this before. I remember reading these words in a book. The Codex of Naijara.
The Naij were known to be masters of concealment, their existence woven into the fabric of myth. Their illusions weren't mere tricks of the eye—they were veils upon reality itself, imperceptible to all but the free-minded and the enlightened. Only those who could let go of logic and see beyond sight could pass through them.
He exhaled and shut his eyes. This time, he didn't rely on logic. He didn't try to navigate. He simply moved.
The change was subtle at first. The air thickened, and the sound of his own footsteps seemed to stretch, like the space around him was shifting. The tunnels pulsed, almost breathing, and in the corner of his vision, walls that had once been solid seemed to ripple like mist.
He kept moving.
The stone under his boots became smoother, the narrow passages widening into grander, arching halls. He could feel it now—the labyrinth was reacting to him.
Moments later, he stood before a massive door, towering above him. Intricate glyphs pulsed across its surface, casting an unnatural green glow into the chamber.
Zuka placed a hand against the wood and sighed.
Elderstone Timber.
How did they find such a rare wood?
Elderstone is infamously difficult to work with, its density making it nearly indestructible. This door is no ordinary barrier
Such a pain. Would have been less of a hassle if I had my magic.
Reaching into his robe, Zuka retrieved a small metal box. A name was carved into the lid in precise, deliberate strokes:
Elixir of the Warborn.
Inside, five vials rested in individual slots, their glass bodies shimmering in the dim light. Each contained a swirling liquid, shifting in color as though alive. He plucked one from its place and turned it in his fingers. Along the body of the vial, an inscription stood out against the smooth surface:
Class I – Ogre's Brew.
Without hesitation, he pulled the stopper and drank.
Heat surged through his limbs. His muscles coiled, veins pulsing with newfound strength. A raw, unshackled energy thrummed beneath his skin as his body adjusted to the potion's effects. His strength had doubled.
He exhaled, letting the rush settle, then returned the metal box to a pocket sewn into the lining of his trousers. His robe, regal as it was, served no purpose here. It would slow him down.
With a practiced motion, he slipped it from his shoulders, folding it neatly and setting it aside.
Beneath, his battle attire gleamed in the chamber's faint glow.
- A sleeveless black combat tunic, embroidered with gold along the seams, designed for unrestricted movement.
- Layered vambraces of dragonoidforged steel, etched with ancient Dragonoid sigils.
- High-waisted black combat trousers, reinforced with enchanted fibers for resilience.
- Golden-plated greaves, marked with his royal insignia, designed to channel the force of his strikes.
The energy coursing through him made the air feel lighter. His senses sharpened. He could hear the faint hum of magic in the walls, the subtle shift of dust particles in the air. His movements felt faster, sharper.
His fingers curled into a fist. Energy crackled along his knuckles, flickering like contained lightning as he stepped toward the door.
The first punch sent a shockwave through the Elderstone. The second fractured its surface. And with the third, the entire structure shattered, shards scattering across the chamber floor.
The air beyond was thick with decay, heavy with the stench of something unnatural. A low hum reverberated through the walls, a sound neither mechanical nor alive. The sickly green glow that lined the chamber pulsed erratically, fading in and out like a dying heartbeat.
Zuka stepped forward, golden eyes sweeping over the sight before him.
Rows upon rows of bodies lined the walls, shackled in place by iron bindings.
Elves. Beastmen. Giants. Humans. Hundreds of them.
Their skin was pale, drained of all vibrancy. Their eyes, hollow. Their breaths, slow and shallow, clinging to life by the barest thread.
Once, they probably had been warriors. Mages. Rulers. Now, they were little more than husks.
His gaze dropped to the floor. At first, he only saw the corruption of dark sigils, inscribed in precise, intricate patterns into the stone. But as he stepped closer, he saw something more.
A mark, woven into the design.
The sigil of a snake coiled tightly around the figure of a man.
It pulsed with remnants of dark magic, the energy curling outward like unseen tendrils, hungry for something beyond mere flesh. Zuka felt it pressing against his senses, an unnatural pull toward something ancient and vile.
His breath was slow, measured. A chill crawled down his spine.
This presence… It's intense
His jaw tightened.
Noir was right.