The Lake

Zac took a long moment to rest, to let the storm within him subside. He stripped off his black bone armor, piece by piece, and plunged into the murky waters of the lake that had engulfed his sanctuary. The water was cold, a glacial baptism that washed the ash and blood from his skin, but could do nothing against the stain on his soul. He floated there, a pale body in dark water, his gaze lost in the darkness of the immense vault, and he thought.

He thought back to his punishment, to the phrase that had become his mantra and his curse: 'there is no escape'. Until now, he had interpreted it as a fatality, a simple condemnation to failure. But now, after seeing the very architecture of this world break and reform, he began to see something else. A system. A structure. He made the connection to the game Hades from his former life, which had four levels: Tartarus, Asphodel, Elysium, and Styx.

Four circles that coincided with his personal hell. The first, the cavern of the skeletal spider, a realm of hunger and the corruption of Ungoliant. The second, the furnace of the Balrogs, a remnant of Morgoth's wrath. The third, the domain of the Nameless Things, the worm architects of the void. And the fourth... that fleeting vision, glimpsed at full speed as he ascended to the surface. That boneyard of ages, that infinite necropolis filled with bones and specters. Four levels, four guardians, four trials. He hoped, with a fervor that was more despair than faith, that there were no others. That the structure was finite, like in the games he knew. An end, however terrible, was preferable to an eternity of new horrors.

The lapping of water against the rock brought him back to reality. The lake continued to fill, slowly, inexorably. He considered his strategy. The experiments with his skills had terrified him. It was out of the question to use their full potential, to let himself be transformed into a complete monster. But 999... 999 points did not trigger the final curse. It was the limit, the edge of the precipice. A power almost perfect, without the cost to his soul.

He got out of the water, donned his armor, and took Morngul in hand. He tested his strength. He swung it through the air, the blade whistling a melody of death. Then he struck a rock pillar. The impact was cataclysmic. The stone exploded in a shower of rubble. By his own judgment, he thought his raw strength, in this state, approached that of the Balrog he had faced. He felt his own corruption, at 700%, to be in phase with this brutality, fueling it, justifying it.

[Falls of the Night]

[Tears of Regret: 0]

[Coward's Stealth: 100/1000]

[Healing Stagnation: 282/1000]

[Forge of Brutality: 999/1000]

A little discretion for approaches, enough healing for mistakes, and overwhelming power for the rest. He set off into the caverns, once again.

The path to the Balrogs' cavern was a pilgrimage through his own battlefield. The geological scars of his confrontation with the demon were everywhere. Collapsed tunnels, floors vitrified by black fire, echoes of destruction that lingered in the air. He finally arrived before the titanic black rock staircase. But this time, he didn't try to climb. He stopped.

Now that he knew the trick, he took the time to analyze. And he saw what his panic had partly hidden from him before. The runes. They were not Elvish, nor Dwarvish. They were angular, cruel, a script made of spikes and hooks. The Black Speech of Mordor. The inscription on the One Ring came back to him, the only phrase he knew: 'Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul…' It was the same grammar of hatred.

As he approached, Morngul began to react. A faint vibration ran through the blade, a purr of contentment, like a predator returning to its territory. Fascinated, Zac let his sword guide him. It seemed to exult, and in the silence of his mind, he thought he heard that whisper again, no longer words, but concepts, impulses. A thirst for knowledge as black as its thirst for blood.

Driven by this invisible force, he began to study. For entire days, he remained there, motionless, deciphering the thousands of symbols that littered the staircase. He lost himself in the study of this evil art. He remembered what he had read. The magic of the Elves was an art of creation, of preservation, of song. The magic of the Shadow was an art of domination. These runes were not for building, but for binding, for compelling, for twisting reality itself. They did not enchant the stone; they enslaved it, forcing it to repeat an illusion infinitely.

It was a science of tyranny carved in rock. And the more he studied, the more he understood. Driven by Morngul's whispers, he was no longer just trying to understand the trap. He was looking for a way to use it. He was looking for a flaw in the grammar, a verb of power that he could turn against his jailers. He was no longer fighting with just his fists and his blade. He was beginning to fight with the enemy's words. It was a dangerous path, an intellectual seduction that threatened to corrupt his mind as surely as the Echoes had corrupted his soul. He knew it. And he didn't care.