Chapter 5: The Last Life
Xarath leaned heavily against the cold stone wall, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. He held his sword loosely in one hand, the blade chipped and dulled after hours of relentless use. The air in the tomb was suffocating, thick with the scent of mildew and decay. Before him lay the twisted remains of yet another trap—razor-sharp spikes that had shot up from the ground mere moments after he had thrown himself clear.
He reached into the satchel at his side and pulled out a vial of crimson liquid—the nineteenth of twenty healing potions gifted to him by the mysterious merchant. Xarath stared at the vial, his fingers trembling.
How much more of this can I take?
The potions had saved his life time and time again, knitting together his broken body after every trap and trial the tomb had thrown at him. But they did nothing for his spirit. Each time he healed, he was only thrust back into the fray, and the weight of his survival pressed heavier on his shoulders.
I'm alive because of these potions… but at what cost? Will there even be anything left of me to claim the book when this is over?
He uncorked the vial and drank, the liquid burning his throat as it rushed through him. The warmth spread like wildfire, and the deep gash in his thigh began to close, the searing pain ebbing away. Xarath took a shaky breath and forced himself back to his feet.
"This tomb won't defeat me," he muttered, though his voice was hollow.
The Endless Gauntlet
From the moment he had entered the tomb, it was as if the structure itself was alive, bent on his destruction. Xarath had barely stepped past the threshold when the first trap had activated—a hail of poison-tipped darts that he had narrowly dodged, only to stumble into a pressure plate that triggered a massive stone slab to fall from the ceiling.
He had managed to roll out of the way, but the slab caught his leg, shattering the bone. His screams had echoed through the empty corridors as he dragged himself to safety. That was when he had used the first potion, the crimson liquid fusing the bone back together as if nothing had happened.
The traps only grew more complex and brutal as he ventured deeper.
Trap 1: The Whirling Blades
Xarath had entered a corridor lined with spinning blades, each one moving unpredictably. He had tried to time his movements, but a misstep sent a blade slashing across his side. Blood gushed from the wound, and Xarath barely managed to pull himself into a crevice to down another potion.
Trap 5: The Collapsing Floor
A narrow bridge stretched across a deep chasm, but as Xarath stepped onto it, the stones began to crumble beneath his feet. He leaped to the other side, but not before a falling stone struck his shoulder, dislocating it. He groaned in pain as he drank another potion, the warmth resetting the joint.
Trap 10: The Acidic Mist
In a chamber filled with a strange green mist, Xarath's skin began to burn. The acid seemed to seep through his clothes, eating away at his flesh. He staggered forward, barely able to see, until he found the exit. His entire body felt like it was on fire as he collapsed to the ground, fumbling for another potion.
Trap 15: The Dart Maze
A labyrinth filled with invisible triggers, Xarath had been struck by countless tiny darts, each one laced with a numbing poison. He used three potions in rapid succession just to keep moving, his body screaming in protest.
Trap 19: The Crushing Walls
Two massive stone walls began to close in on him as he entered a narrow corridor. Xarath sprinted forward, the walls pressing closer with every step. Just as he reached the end, a sharp spike shot out from the wall, piercing his arm. He yanked himself free and drank the penultimate potion, his strength waning but his resolve unbroken.
The Final Trial
Xarath staggered through the narrow, crumbling hallway of the tomb, his body battered and broken. His hands trembled as he uncorked the final healing potion the merchant had given him. The elixir glowed faintly, its light a stark contrast to the oppressive darkness surrounding him. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the vial.
"This is the last one," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse and barely audible. I've used nineteen already… Nineteen times I should have died.
With a grim determination, Xarath raised the potion to his lips and drank. The familiar rush of warmth spread through his body, knitting together torn muscles and sealing deep gashes. But the pain never truly left. The potions healed his body, but they couldn't erase the sheer exhaustion that clung to his very soul.
The Tomb's Cruel Design
The tomb had been a gauntlet of death and despair. Razor-sharp spikes, collapsing floors, poison darts—each trap was more intricate and deadly than the last. Xarath had faced them all, his reflexes pushed to their absolute limit.
There had been moments when he was certain he wouldn't survive. Moments when a spike pierced his leg, or a blade sliced through his side, leaving him crumpled on the cold stone floor. Each time, he had reached for one of the potions, his resolve bolstered by the faint hope that he would make it to the end.
But now, as he approached the final door, Xarath was out of options. No more potions. No more second chances.
The Door of Promise
At last, Xarath stood before the great stone door. It was massive, carved with intricate runes that seemed to pulse with a faint, ominous light. His heart swelled with relief, a rare smile breaking through his weary expression.
"I made it," he whispered. "After everything… I made it."
He took a tentative step forward, his hand reaching out to touch the door.
The Final Trap
A faint click echoed through the chamber, barely audible over Xarath's own ragged breathing. His eyes widened in realization, but it was too late.
A hidden blade shot out from the side, slicing through the air with deadly precision. Xarath's headless body collapsed to its knees, his lifeless hand still outstretched, the fingertips grazing the cold surface of the door.