Chapter 9: Echoes of the Lost

Chapter 9: Echoes of the Lost

Ray lingered for a moment, glancing back at the fading glow of the orb he had left behind. Its pale light had guided him through the last stretch of corridor, but now the shadows crept in once more. The pulsing walls, slick with condensation, seemed to breathe around him. Each gentle throb made the air feel heavier, as if the labyrinth itself were alive and listening. He tightened his grip on the broken metal shard in his pocket. His throat was still dry, and his stomach ached with hunger, but he pressed on, determined to find a way out—or at least learn more about this strange place.

As he ventured deeper, Ray tried to recall every corridor he had passed through, every odd shift in the architecture. The dim, flickering lights made it difficult to track distance, and sometimes a passage that looked straight would bend unexpectedly or lead him back to where he started. Yet, despite the maze's chaotic appearance, he sensed a kind of pattern lurking beneath the surface. Certain corridors felt older, the walls cracked and crumbling, while others seemed almost new, their fleshy surfaces pulsing more frequently, as though they had formed only recently.

His mind wandered back to the desert trial. 'That place felt endless, but it was nothing compared to this,' he thought. At least in the desert, the rules had been simpler: survive the heat, find water, evade the beasts. Here, the labyrinth itself seemed to shift the rules at will. 'Is it really changing, or am I just going in circles?' The question gnawed at him, but he had no answers.

Eventually, he spotted a faint discoloration on the floor—a dull, rusty stain trailing along the corridor's edge. His heart pounded. Blood, dried long ago. Crouching low, he ran a fingertip over the stain. It flaked off like old paint. Something had happened here, and not recently. He stood up and followed the trail around a corner, his pulse quickening with each step.

The corridor opened into a wider chamber. Pale light flickered over broken debris scattered across the spongy ground. Ray's eyes landed on what looked like a collapsed campsite: a rusted lantern, a few scraps of cloth, and a small pack torn open at the seams. Next to it lay a human skeleton, the skull lolling at an awkward angle, its empty sockets seeming to stare at him in accusation.

Swallowing hard, Ray approached. The stench of decay was faint—whatever had happened here must have happened long ago. The skeleton's bony fingers still clutched a curved dagger, its blade corroded and useless. A battered notebook lay nearby, half-buried in the strange, fibrous floor. Ray reached out, carefully picking it up. The cover was too worn to read, and most of the pages inside were stuck together with some dark residue.

Flipping gingerly through what few loose pages remained, he found only smudged ink and torn edges. No words were legible, just blotches of black and brown. 'They must've tried to record something,' he thought, feeling a pang of sympathy for the unknown explorer. He set the notebook aside, hoping to revisit it if he found a way to separate the pages without destroying them.

A series of scratches on the wall caught his eye. Unlike the slow, pulsing lumps elsewhere, this section of the chamber was marred by deep, desperate gouges. Some looked like random slashes, but others formed symbols or letters that he couldn't decipher. One series of marks, however, was clearer: a crudely drawn arrow pointing toward a tunnel on the far side of the chamber. Next to it, scrawled in shaky lines, were the words "No return."

Ray felt a chill crawl up his spine. 'Were they warning themselves, or someone else?' He glanced at the skeleton again, wishing he could ask what horrors they had faced. But the dead offered no answers. He forced himself to stand, the small pack and rusted lantern clutched in one hand. Maybe there was something salvageable inside.

He rifled through the pack, finding little of use: a small metal cup, a torn map of a place he didn't recognize, and a broken compass with its glass shattered. Disappointed, he stowed the cup and the scrap of map in his pocket. The lantern had no oil left, but he kept it anyway—metal could be repurposed if needed.

A sudden shift in the air made him pause. It felt like a draft, a cool breeze brushing past him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. 'I'm not alone.' He set the lantern down quietly, gripping his metal shard in one hand. The chamber was silent save for the steady drip of water somewhere in the distance. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. He slowly turned, scanning every flickering shadow. Nothing moved, but the tension pressed in on him like a coiled spring.

He inched toward a passage leading out of the chamber, guided by faint streaks of light that seeped through the uneven walls. Each step was measured, careful not to make too much noise. The corridor narrowed, and the pulsing walls on either side seemed to close in, forcing him to walk sideways at one point. The air grew thicker, carrying a stale odor that made his stomach turn.

As he crept forward, his foot suddenly snagged on something. Heart hammering, he looked down and realized he'd stumbled over a dislodged chunk of the labyrinth's strange flooring. It looked like it had been torn away by force, leaving a jagged pit. A dark fluid oozed from the edges, slowly dripping into the hole beneath. Ray swallowed, quickly stepping around it. He didn't want to guess what might be below—or what might have caused the damage.

The corridor opened into another wide expanse, this one partially illuminated by clusters of faintly glowing fungus that clung to the walls in irregular patches. Their soft, pale light revealed more signs of past explorers: a dented helmet, a rotted rope, a few scattered coins. 'So many came here,' Ray thought, 'and none of them found a way out?'

He knelt by the rope, testing it with a gentle tug. It disintegrated in his hands, crumbling into dust. 'Old,' he thought, brushing off his palms. 'Very old.' The fungus pulsed faintly, as if reacting to his presence, and he wondered whether it was feeding on the labyrinth or the labyrinth was feeding on it. Either way, it made his skin crawl.

Time seemed to stretch on as he walked, passing corridor after corridor, each one revealing more silent evidence of those who had come before. Sometimes it was just a few stray footprints hardened in what looked like dried mud. Other times, it was more gruesome: skeletal remains slumped against walls, rusted blades embedded in the floor, claw marks etched into stone. The deeper he went, the more he realized that each discovery told a story of desperation and defeat.

Yet he kept going. 'I have to,' he reminded himself, though the reasons why felt hazy. Survival, yes—but also the hope that if others had tried to navigate this place, maybe one of them had succeeded. If so, their notes or remnants might lead him to an exit. Or at least show him how to avoid the labyrinth's deadliest pitfalls.

The sense of being watched never left him. At times, he thought he saw a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision—just a shift in the shadows, gone as soon as he turned his head. Once or twice, he paused, listening intently, certain he heard a soft footstep echo his own. But the corridor would remain empty and still, leaving him with only the unsettling echo of his own heartbeat.

Finally, just as he paused to rest against a wall that felt disturbingly warm beneath his palm, he heard it—footsteps. Not the uneven shuffle of a wounded animal or the scraping of something monstrous. These were deliberate, measured steps, echoing faintly from somewhere behind him.

He froze, heart thudding. His first instinct was to hide, but there was nowhere to go—the corridor was too narrow, the walls too smooth to offer any real concealment. Swallowing his fear, he slowly turned around, lifting the broken shard in a trembling hand.

A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the passage.

In the dim, pulsing light, their gazes locked. Neither said a word.