The Mirage Part 2

Minho pressed on, his steps regular despite the extraordinary lightness within the air round him. The corridor stretched with no end in sight, its seamless walls giving off a faint glow, neither warm nor bloodless. It wasn't unusual for the Tower to distort time and space, but something about this floor became… special.

The air became heavier right here, and it carried an atypical excellent—nearly like a whisper that by no means reached his ears. His footsteps felt muted, his presence insignificant in the vastness of the shape. The partitions regarded quieter than they needed to have been, their regular rhythmic hum subdued, almost muted. He paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder. There was nothing in the back of him but the faint shimmer of the hall as it receded into darkness.

The silence changed into unsettling, making his pores and skin prickle with unease. Minho tried not to dwell on it, forcing his focus onto the route in advance. The Tower was constantly a game of manage—of thoughts, frame, and worry. Losing awareness here could suggest losing the entirety. The hall twisted suddenly, bending in ways that defied good judgment, yet Minho's toes determined their manner without hesitation. It wasn't intuition guiding him—something deeper, older. The pull of the Tower, possibly. Or maybe it changed into the load of his past, riding him ahead. He tightened his grip on his dagger, its familiar weight grounding him. His frame ached from the in-advance trials, the wounds barely scabbing over; however, he pushed the pain aside. The Tower didn't reward the vulnerable or the hesitant. Strength got here from perseverance, not relaxation. After an extended stretch on foot, the corridor opened right into a circular chamber.

The transition changed into sudden, the seamless walls giving way to a widespread, open space. The air shifted slightly, cooler now, and his pores and skin prickled with unease. The ground beneath him gleamed like polished stone, but as his boots scuffed the surface, there had been no echo, just silence. The chamber became unnervingly symmetrical. Its partitions stretched excessively above, vanishing into a ceiling shrouded in shadow. Ribbons of faint light curled along the walls, their styles moving so slowly it became nearly imperceptible. Yet, the longer Minho stared, the more he felt they had been watching him. He moved closer to the middle, each step deliberate. The stillness pressed in opposition to him, heavy and suffocating. Minho stopped, his dagger nevertheless in hand, and crouched.

The ground became impossibly smooth, but as he ran his fingertips throughout its floor, something caught his attention. A faint crack ran through it—tiny, nearly imperceptible, but unmistakable as soon as visible. His forehead furrowed. He traced the crack together with his hands, feeling the faint ridge in which the polished surface gave way to imperfection. "Nothing here is perfect," he murmured to himself, status once more. The walls around him shimmered faintly, the mild flickering as if the chamber changed into adjusting itself. It wasn't the first time he'd seen the Tower shift; however, this turned into exclusive. Instead of feeling oppressive, as a lot of the Tower often did, it felt... hesitant.

Minho couldn't shake the feeling that something was incorrect, though the notion stayed buried under the floor of his thoughts. There turned into no time for doubt, not when each second mattered. The silence broke with a faint sound—a whisper of motion, subtle and soft. Minho grew to become sharply aware, dagger raised, his senses on excessive alert. A parent emerged from one of the archways that had abruptly regarded the inside of the chamber partitions. It was cloaked in shadow, its functions unreadable, yet its presence radiated familiarity. "You once more," Minho said, his voice consistent despite the tension in his chest.

The figure tilted its head, its voice low and unreadable. "You've made it some distance, Minho. Farther than maximum." "I don't care how much distance I've come," Minho snapped. "What do you need?" The dirge chuckled softly, the sound echoing unnaturally in the chamber. "What I want doesn't remember. What the Tower wishes... Properly, that's an extraordinary tale." Minho's grip tightened on his dagger. "If the Tower wanted me dead, it would've killed me already." The determination didn't solve it immediately. Instead, it stepped nearer, its form flickering like a mirage.

For a moment, Minho thought he saw cracks forming along its edges, faint fractures that bled mild. "The Tower isn't infallible, Minho," it stated ultimately, its tone nearly amused. "Even gods crumble when their foundation is weak." Minho stiffened, the phrases gnawing at him. But earlier than he ought to reply, the discern melted away into the shadows, leaving him on his own another time inside the chamber. He took a gradual, deep breath, inclining himself to cognizance. The ground under him felt consistent, the partitions resolute, but the faint crack he had visible remained etched in his thoughts. He couldn't shake the sensation that it intended something—something the Tower didn't need him to observe. Without any other word, he turned to the closest archway and stepped through.

The new corridor became narrower, the air denser. As he moved ahead, he observed the light along the walls pulsing faintly, as though in reaction to his presence. It wasn't just his imagination—the Tower was alive, and it became like him. Every step felt heavier, the silence extra oppressive. The weight of his beyond trials pressed towards him, reminiscences of blood and betrayal flickering within the corners of his thoughts. He shook them off, focusing on the course in advance. The hall bent sharply, leading him into every other chamber.

This one changed into smaller, more restricted ones, its partitions etched with atypical, glowing symbols. They pulsed faintly, casting an eerie light that danced throughout the floor. Minho approached cautiously, his dagger ready.

The symbols had been in contrast to anything he'd seen earlier than—intricate and alien, yet there was something oddly acquainted about them. He reached out, his arms hovering simply above the surface of the closest wall. The moment his hand moved closer, the symbols flared to life, their mild burning brighter.

A low hum filled the chamber, resonating deep inside his chest. Minho stumbled back, his heart racing. The hum grew louder, the sound intensifying until it turned into almost blinding. Then, simply as all at once as it had started out, it stopped. The chamber fell silent once more, the symbols dimming till they had been barely visible. Minho stood there, breathing heavily, his thoughts racing.

The Tower became trying out him, pushing him to his limits.

But for the first time, he felt that it was struggling—just like the cracks he'd seen weren't just in the ground, but inside the Tower itself. He didn't know what it was supposed to be, however he knew one aspect: the Tower wasn't invincible. With renewed dedication, he grew to become toward the next archway. The direction in advance turned into unsure; however, he could face something that came next. The Tower desired to break him, but Minho wasn't so broken without problems.

He stepped forward, ready for the next trial.