As I approach the unassuming wooden building, its weathered exterior seems to whisper secrets of the past. A surge of determination wells up within me, propelling me toward the door. The air feels charged, every step amplifying my resolve. Reaching out, my hand hesitates for a moment before gripping the rough, splintered handle. Slowly, I push the door open, its movement unleashing a loud symphony of creaks that echoes through the stillness. The sound seems almost too loud, breaking the fragile silence like a warning. My heart quickens as I carefully peer inside, scanning the dim interior with wary eyes. Shadows dance across the walls, hinting at unseen corners and hidden dangers. A mix of curiosity and caution keeps me rooted to the threshold, every sense on high alert. What secrets lie within this enigmatic structure? Only time will tell, as I step cautiously forward.
After stepping inside the house, I paused, bracing for something—anything—to happen. But the silence remained undisturbed, heavy and oppressive. Relieved yet wary, I moved further into the dim interior, my eyes adjusting to the faint light filtering through grime-coated windows. Ahead loomed an ominous staircase descending into the depths of the house. The air grew colder, carrying a faint, musty scent that hinted at long-forgotten secrets.
My instincts told me what I sought lay below. With a steadying breath, I stepped forward, each creak of the wooden stairs echoing like a warning. My senses stayed on high alert as I descended, shadows shifting with each step. At the bottom, another door emerged from the gloom, illuminated by a faint glow. Above it hung a weathered sign: "You who have made it this far, enter and obtain the secrets to this fallen city."
Excitement surged through me, silencing my doubts. The thought of completing this godforsaken quest consumed me, driving me toward the door, anticipation quickening my pace.
Slamming the door open, I forgot all caution, my anticipation overwhelming any lingering fear. I stepped forward, my breath caught in my throat, ready to face whatever awaited me. But to my surprise, there was no grand revelation, no hidden treasure, nor a lurking danger. Instead, all that lay before me was a rundown basement, its damp walls cracked and cloaked in shadows.
At the centre of the room stood a solitary wooden table, its surface weathered and warped by time. Atop it rested a quill, a small bottle of ink, and a single, pristine piece of paper. The sight was both anticlimactic and oddly foreboding. I couldn't help but wonder: was this it? Or was there more to this scene than met the eye? My pulse quickened again as I cautiously approached the table, the silence of the room pressing heavily around me.
Walking forward, I scanned my surroundings, every nerve on edge. The dim light revealed nothing unusual—no traps, no hidden mechanisms, nothing that hinted at danger. The air was thick with musty stillness, and each of my cautious steps echoed softly in the confined space. Despite the apparent lack of threat, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched.
After a few tense steps, I arrived in front of the wooden table. The piece of paper resting atop it seemed ordinary at first glance, its edges slightly yellowed with age. Just as I reached out to inspect it, a familiar blue screen blinked into existence before my eyes. The glow of the screen cut through the gloom, its appearance so sudden it made me step back instinctively. My heart raced, knowing this meant I had reached the next stage—but what challenge awaited me now?
Looking forward, I focused on the glowing blue screen, my curiosity outweighing my apprehension. The text on it shimmered faintly, as though alive, and slowly came into clarity.
[Congratulations on reaching the final stage of Floor 1.]
[To pass this test, you must make a choice. You may ask any question, and it will be answered truthfully. However, to succeed, you must demonstrate wisdom by providing a satisfactory question related to the objective of this floor.]
Seeing the glowing words, I fell into deep thought, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on me. What question could I possibly ask to not only satisfy my curiosity but also prove my wisdom and secure my passage through this trial?
Obvious choices came to mind—questions like What happened to this city? or What was that monster I encountered earlier? These seemed likely to lead to a satisfactory answer, offering insight into the mysteries surrounding this place. However, there was no guarantee. What if these questions were too simple, too expected? The test might demand more than surface-level inquiries.
Then there was the temptation to ask something completely unrelated, like What is the true purpose of the tower? Such a question could satisfy my personal curiosity, but I knew it would likely result in failure. The test wasn't about fulfilling my own desires—it was about demonstrating insight, understanding, and careful thought.
I paced back and forth, my eyes drifting to the quill and paper. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as I wrestled with my decision. Minutes turned into what felt like hours, my mind cycling through possibilities, discarding and revisiting ideas.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the answer struck me—a question so fundamental and profound that it would guarantee my success. Grasping the quill with renewed determination, I prepared to write, confident in the wisdom of my choice.
My hand gripped the quill tightly, the weight of the moment bearing down on me. I brought it to the ink bottle, carefully dipping the tip into the dark liquid, watching as it absorbed just enough to write without leaving an excess. Every motion felt deliberate, almost ceremonial, as if this act held more meaning than I could fully comprehend.
With the quill ready, I turned my attention to the paper, its blank surface seeming to invite the gravity of my question. This was the canvas upon which my fate would be decided. I took a steadying breath, my resolve solidifying. Slowly, I lowered the quill, the tip hovering just above the surface for a moment. Then, with deliberate precision, it made contact.
The quill began to glide smoothly across the paper, guided by my hand and the weight of my thoughts. Each stroke felt purposeful, imbued with the depth of my decision. Seven words emerged, elegantly written, their meaning clear and profound.
As I finished, I sat back, staring at what I had written. The words felt alive, resonating with the importance of this moment. I hoped they would carry the wisdom and insight needed to prove my worth and move me forward.
Thinking of the words I had written, I couldn't help but chuckle softly. They were so simple, almost absurdly so, yet undeniably clever in their intent. The question itself carried an air of irony and practicality, perfectly suited for the challenge. I had written: "How do I perfectly pass this trial?" A straightforward question, yet one that left no room for failure.