Chapter Twenty-Five – Echoes of the Past
The ruins loomed ahead, twisted and half-consumed by time. The remnants of ancient walls stood defiant against the elements, their surfaces carved with sigils so eroded they were barely legible. Despite the crumbling structures, an undeniable weight pressed upon the land—as if something still lingered, something that had never truly left.
Stark exhaled sharply. "You know, I'm starting to think this was a terrible idea."
Fern adjusted her glasses, scanning the ruins with a calculating eye. "The presence here is abnormal. It's like reality is… fraying."
Gilgamesh stood motionless at the edge of the ruins, his gaze sweeping over the forgotten structures with an expression unreadable as ever. Then, without a word, he stepped forward.
The air trembled as he moved.
Not from power—not directly—but from something older. The very fabric of the world seemed to acknowledge his presence, as though the land itself remembered him.
Fern and Stark exchanged uneasy glances before following.
The deeper they ventured, the heavier the silence became.
Then—
A faint hum vibrated through the stones. A whisper of something ancient stirring beneath the earth.
Gilgamesh stopped abruptly. His golden eyes narrowed.
"Something is beneath us."
Fern knelt, pressing her palm against the ground. A small pulse of magic spread outward. A moment later, her expression turned grim. "There's… a chamber below. Sealed away by layers of wards."
Stark sighed. "Great. Because that never means trouble."
Gilgamesh tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "You fear the unknown, yet you walk toward it. I find that amusing."
Stark huffed. "Yeah, well, call it survival instincts."
Without another word, Gilgamesh raised a single hand. The ground rumbled in response. Cracks raced outward from where he stood, and with a single flick of his wrist, the earth collapsed inward, revealing a spiral staircase descending into utter darkness.
The air that rose from the depths was thick with age—and something else.
Something watching.
Fern swallowed. "This magic… it's unnatural."
Gilgamesh stepped forward, his golden armor gleaming faintly in the dim light. "Then let us correct it."
And with that, he descended.
Fern and Stark hesitated only for a moment before following.
The staircase wound downward far longer than it should have. Time lost meaning in the descent, the air growing colder, heavier with each step.
Then, finally, the passage opened into a vast underground chamber.
Massive stone pillars reached toward a ceiling barely visible in the shadows. At the heart of the room stood a monolithic gate, covered in runes that pulsed with a faint, sickly glow.
And in front of that gate…
A figure knelt.
Or rather—what remained of one.
Dressed in the remnants of ceremonial robes, the skeletal remains of an elf rested against the stone, long decayed yet still clutching a dagger against its chest, as though it had willingly ended its own life.
Stark shuddered. "Yeah, this is definitely cursed."
Fern stepped forward cautiously. "These runes… They're binding something inside."
Gilgamesh studied the gate, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze toward the skeletal figure.
The air shifted.
A whisper brushed against the edges of their minds.
"He still watches…"
Fern gasped. "That voice—"
The bones of the ancient elf shuddered.
And then—
The corpse moved.