The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the hiss of oil lamps that lined the forgotten corridor. Dust clung to every corner, as if time itself had abandoned the place. Ayan's footsteps echoed softly as he moved deeper, his senses sharpened—something was waiting for him here.
At the end of the hall, a figure emerged. Not cloaked in shadows, but in something more unsettling—a rusted iron mask, corroded and welded into place, hiding every trace of humanity. His presence felt suffocating, the weight of unseen centuries pressing into the room.
"You've walked too far," the man said, his voice scraping like blades across stone. "The Watchmaker doesn't welcome strays."
Ayan didn't flinch. Instead, he studied the mask. Rust and iron were not signs of weakness—they were signs of permanence. Whoever this man was, he wasn't a disposable pawn.
"I'm not here to be welcomed," Ayan replied coolly.
The masked man chuckled, a hollow, metallic sound. "Then you're here to be tested."
Without warning, the torches flickered and the walls began to shift, gears grinding behind stone. The corridor twisted into a maze. The rusted man's form blurred, vanishing into the moving labyrinth.
Now Ayan was not just against an enemy. He was inside a trial designed by the cult itself. A test of not just strength—but of his will, his patience, his ability to see patterns in chaos.
The rusted mask's voice echoed from every direction, mocking yet sharp.
"Let us see if the boy can escape time's jaws."