Chapter 2: The Search for Answers
The pain in Mingma's head had barely subsided, but the lingering ache seemed to carry a heaviness far greater than a mere injury. His mind buzzed with confusion and disbelief as his thoughts stumbled across a thousand different possibilities. Could he have truly died? Was this all some form of strange reincarnation? What could explain the haunting vision he saw in the mirror, the blood-stained hands, and the unyielding headache?
The idea of an ordinary death seemed impossible. The wound on his forehead... it was unnatural, a grotesque burn, coupled with the eerie grayish-white fluid he had seen in the mirror. Mingma shuddered as he placed a hand to his throbbing temple once more. The blood on his fingers felt cold, more like the remnants of something far darker than mere blood.
He needed answers, but where could he find them? His gaze fell back on the cluttered desk before him, where the notebook lay open like an ominous invitation to the unknown. The words on the page still burned into his mind, inked in the blood-red script: "I don't wanna die yet. I haven't fulfilled my promise yet. Someone is trying to kill me."
Who was it? Who was trying to kill him? And why did the words seem so… personal?and why do I feel so uncomfortable. His heart raced as questions swirled in his mind. Mingma stood up again, careful not to let the dizziness overcome him this time. With trembling hands, he pushed aside the chair and approached the open door on the left side of the room. He had to get out of this place—he had to find the answers.
The coolness of the night air outside the room hit him as he stepped into a narrow corridor. The wooden floor creaked beneath his weight, adding a layer of tension to the already suffocating atmosphere. His gaze flickered to the walls, which seemed to breathe with an unnatural stillness, as though the building itself was holding its breath.
He didn't know how long he walked, but eventually, he found himself in front of a heavy wooden door, unlike the others he had passed. It was darker here, the faint light of the moon barely penetrating the cracks in the stone walls. Something about this door, something about the air around it, drew him in.
With hesitation, Mingma pushed the door open, and the faint sound of grinding metal filled the air as he entered.
What he saw before him sent a chill crawling up his spine.
Before him stretched a vast, open space—an abandoned basement, surrounded by high stone walls covered in creeping vines. The ground was uneven, littered with broken statues and ancient relics, heads of goats and chickens, some half-buried in dirt. At the center, a raised stone platform sat bathed in eerie moonlight, its surface stained with dark marks that might have been blood. Ritualistic symbols and Sanskrit ruins were etched into the stones surrounding it, and the air was thick with the scent of something foul, something ancient.Above the raised stone platform, he saw the figure of a smiling doll whose eyes were carved into her forehead ,her smile was creepy,.
Mingma's legs trembled as he took a cautious step forward. The hairs on his neck stood on end, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow. There was something… wrong here.The aura felt to omnious The very atmosphere seemed to weigh down on him, as though this place was a relic of death itself.
Suddenly, his eyes caught something in the shadows—a figure, standing motionless at the far edge of the courtyard, partially hidden by the ancient pillars. His heart skipped a beat. Was it a person? Or something else?
Without thinking, Mingma began to approach, each step louder than the last, the heavy pounding of his heart in his chest almost drowning out the quiet whispers that filled the air. The figure remained still, unblinking, as if it had no awareness of him.
He was mere inches away when the figure turned, revealing its face.
Mingma gasped.
The person before him was familiar—too familiar. The face was the same as his own. His breath caught in his throat as he looked into his own eyes, a mirror image of himself staring back, only far more hollow, far more… dead.
The figure smiled slowly, a grotesque grin that seemed to stretch too wide for the face to contain. "You should not have come here," it said, the voice as cold and empty as the grave. "The truth is not for you."
The figure raised a hand, and before Mingma could react, the world seemed to spin. His vision blurred, and everything around him began to dissolve into a vortex of light and shadow. A terrible pressure squeezed at his skull, his brain pulsing with sharp pain.
"No..." he whispered hoarsely, unable to fight the sensation. "No… I need to know!"
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything went still.
Mingma found himself back in the room, heart racing, the image of the other version of himself lingering in his mind. He breathed heavily, his chest tight, but there was no time to process the strange encounter. His body still ached, and the blood on his hands still stained his skin.
The notebook on the desk—he turned to face it once more. The words seemed to burn into his mind, demanding his attention. "Someone is trying to kill me."
The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning.
It wasn't just a vision, and it wasn't a dream. The figures, the warning, the blood—it was all connected. And the answer, the reason for this strange rebirth, the purpose of his suffering, was somehow tied to this very place. This ancient, sacrificial ground. I need answers.
Mingma had been brought here for a reason. Someone—or something—had orchestrated all of this.
And now, he had no choice but to uncover the truth, no matter the cost.