The sands of the Northern Continent howled like wolves. The wind tore at Garfield Van Turner's cloak, dragging grains across his face until it felt like fire. Yet his eyes, cold and unyielding, were fixed on the stone structure that loomed half-buried in the dunes.
It had no right to exist here.
The desert was endless, flat, devoid of life except for the predators that thrived in silence. Yet before him stood a colossal archway carved from black basalt, veined with silver lines that pulsed faintly like the remnants of veins in a corpse. The air was thick around it, as if the world itself rejected this place.
The world called it the 'Tomb of Suffering.'
But Garfield was not the world.
As he stepped closer, the sand shifted away unnaturally, revealing glyphs etched into the stone arch. The letters were alien, jagged curves mixed with sharp vertical strikes, like a script born from agony itself. His eyes narrowed. Somewhere deep in his chest, his mana stirred violently, as if trying to recoil.
And then he saw it.
At the very crown of the arch, nearly erased by centuries of storms, was a name. The faintest echo of letters, half-buried in stone.
TOMB MAIZEL.
The word struck him like a hammer. His head throbbed. For a moment, he almost staggered.
Inside his mind, the Being stirred.
"…Maizel… the Seventh of…"
The voice warped. Distorted. Like glass cracking in water. Garfield gritted his teeth as the sound vibrated through his skull, fragmenting into whispers.
"…the blood of… no… not now…"
The voice cut off.
Garfield's eyes narrowed. He had learned enough in his short life to recognize deliberate silence. The Being knew something. Something about Maizel. And it had chosen not to finish.
He pushed the thought aside. Answers would come later.
For now, only the tomb mattered.
---
He stepped forward. The arch swallowed him, and instantly the world changed.
The desert vanished behind him like a dream forgotten upon waking. The heat was gone, replaced by a damp chill that sank into his bones. The air smelled of stone and blood. Ahead stretched a hallway lined with statues — warriors carved from obsidian, their heads bowed, weapons in hand.
But it wasn't the statues that drew Garfield's attention. It was the eyes.
Each statue's sockets were filled with faint white flames. They flickered as he passed, following him. Judging.
Garfield ignored them, though the pressure weighed heavy on his shoulders. He walked slowly, every step echoing like thunder.
'This place is alive.'
The Being's voice slithered back, calmer now. "Careful, child. Tomb Maizel tests all who enter. Flesh and soul alike. Few survive."
Garfield did not slow. "I am not few."
Silence. Then a low chuckle, ancient and cold.
---
The hallway stretched for what felt like miles until finally it ended in a vast chamber.
The ceiling disappeared into darkness. The floor was a mosaic of shattered bones pressed into black stone. At the center of the chamber lay a pool of water — no, not water. Garfield's nose caught the metallic tang instantly.
Blood.
A circular pool of blood, still as glass, as though untouched by time.
And above it floated a single shard of crystal, glowing faintly with violet light.
Garfield's body tensed. He could feel the mana radiating from it — not wild, not unstable, but 'deliberate.'Every pulse was like a heartbeat, synchronized with his own.
The Being whispered. "The First Trial."
The pool rippled.
Garfield's reflection stared back at him, distorted in the crimson surface. But then — it moved.
His reflection smiled.
Garfield froze. Slowly, his double rose from the blood, climbing onto the stone floor with liquid dripping from its limbs. It looked exactly like him — every scar, every line — but the eyes glowed red, burning with malice.
It spoke in his voice.
"You are nothing, Garfield Van Turner. A broken heir. A disgrace."
Garfield's jaw tightened. He did not answer.
The double drew a blade from the blood itself, a long black sword humming with crimson energy.
"You will fail. Just as you always have."
Garfield extended his hand. Mana surged from his veins, flooding his palm until the air distorted. The floor cracked beneath him. His eyes burned with icy resolve.
"Then die proving it."
The chamber erupted.
---
The battle began in silence, broken only by the clash of mana against steel. Garfield's double moved like lightning, blade cutting arcs of crimson energy through the air. Garfield countered with raw force — no refined spell, only the sheer weight of his mana, forming shields that shattered but reformed instantly.
Every strike shook the chamber. Statues cracked. Dust rained from above.
The clone laughed, voice twisted. "This is why you will always lose. Power without control. Mana without purpose."
Garfield's eyes narrowed. The words cut because they were true. But truth did not matter here. Only survival.
He pressed his palms together. Mana condensed between them, forming a sphere so dense the air screamed. His veins bulged. Blood trickled from his nose.
The clone lunged.
Garfield roared. "—Fireball!"
The sphere exploded into flame the size of a meteor, engulfing the chamber. Heat seared the walls. The mosaic of bones shattered, scattering ash.
When the fire dimmed, the clone was gone.
Only Garfield remained, standing in the center of ruin, his chest heaving, eyes still cold.
---
The Being's voice returned, quieter this time. "…You faced yourself. And you did not break. That is the first step."
Garfield spat blood onto the floor. "Spare me riddles."
But inside, he felt it. A shift. The tomb had acknowledged him.
And ahead, deep within the shadows, a second door opened silently.
---
Garfield stared into the darkness, the name still echoing in his mind.
''Tomb Maizel.''
What was hidden here? Why had the Being faltered at that word?
His lips curled into the faintest of smiles.
He would find out.
Even if he had to tear Maizel himself from the grave.
....
The second door opened without sound, and yet Garfield felt it in his bones.
A tug. A pull. As though invisible fingers reached into his chest and dragged him forward.
He wiped blood from his lips, the metallic taste still lingering. His eyes narrowed as he stepped past the ruined chamber.
The corridor ahead was narrower, darker. Torches lined the walls, their flames blue instead of red, casting distorted shadows that stretched and twisted unnaturally. The air was colder here — not merely damp, but *personal.* The kind of cold that reminded him of nights alone, of hunger gnawing his stomach, of silence that pressed against his ears until he thought he would go mad.
He knew this feeling.
Loneliness.
The Being stirred faintly, but said nothing.
Garfield walked.
The walls whispered. At first it was nonsense — wind curling like breath. But then it sharpened, took shape.
"—worthless."
Garfield froze. His hand twitched.
The word was his father's voice.
The whisper returned, louder this time, echoing. "A child of shame. A child who cannot inherit."
Garfield clenched his fists. The air around him distorted with mana, unstable. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he forced his feet forward.
Another whisper. His mother's voice.
"Why did you have to be born like this, Garfield…?"
His chest ached. He tried to push it aside, but the corridor shifted. The torches flared, their flames twisting upward, and suddenly the walls melted away.
He was no longer in Tomb Maizel.
He was in the manor of his childhood.
---
The grand hall stretched endlessly. Chandeliers glowed above, tapestries of the Turner bloodline draped proudly on the walls. Everything smelled faintly of incense and dust.
And standing before him — were they.
His father, tall and broad, clad in the ceremonial robes of their house. His mother, delicate, beautiful, eyes sharp as blades. And beside them, his brothers. All perfect. All beloved.
Except him.
The illusion was flawless. Too flawless. Garfield's throat tightened despite knowing it wasn't real.
"Garfield Van Turner." His father's voice was thunder. "Why do you still linger? You were a mistake from the beginning."
The words struck like knives. Garfield's breath caught, his mana flickering uncontrollably. He had heard these words before — not once, but countless times. They haunted his nights, followed his steps.
His mother's eyes glistened. But it wasn't sorrow. It was disgust.
"You should have been left to die. A cursed child should never walk among us."
His brothers laughed. Cold, mocking, sharp.
Garfield's knees trembled. The weight of memory was heavier than battle, heavier than mana itself. He had fought monsters. He had faced blood and death. But this—
This was the wound that never healed.
The Being whispered faintly, almost regretful. "…The tomb is showing you yourself. Do not bend, child. Do not break."
But Garfield's heart was fracturing.
---
The illusion shifted. Suddenly he was younger. A boy of seven, small, frail, clutching a wooden toy sword in his hands. He was in the training yard, the sun high above.
His brothers circled him, real blades in their hands.
"Come, cursed one. Show us your strength."
They attacked. The boy Garfield blocked clumsily, fell, blood spilling from his lip. His brothers laughed. His father watched from the balcony above, silent, uncaring.
Again and again. The scene repeated. The boy stood, fell, bled, was mocked. His brothers grew taller, stronger. He remained broken.
And each time, the laughter cut deeper.
Garfield — the man — stood there, watching his younger self collapse again and again. His chest was tight. His breath ragged. He wanted to close his eyes, but the tomb would not let him. It forced him to see.
"Pathetic."
The word rang out. His father's again.
The boy wept silently, clutching his broken toy sword.
Garfield's fists shook. Rage surged inside him. Not against his family — but against himself. Against the weakness he once was.
The illusion leaned in, close, whispering in his ear.
"You will always be this child."
---
Something broke.
Mana exploded from Garfield's body like a storm. The illusions wavered, distorted, flickered. His eyes burned like ice as he glared into the false figures.
"No." His voice was low, but it cut like steel. "That boy is dead."
The air screamed. His mana tore the illusions apart, shredding them into fragments of smoke. His father, mother, brothers — all dissolved, their laughter echoing briefly before vanishing into silence.
Garfield stood alone in the darkness. His chest heaved, his eyes still burning.
But inside, he felt something new.
The wound was not gone. It never would be. But he had faced it. He had seen himself — the child of rejection, the cursed boy, the broken heir — and he had not looked away.
He had endured.
And the tomb, for the first time, seemed to recognize him not as prey, but as kin.
---
The Being finally spoke, its voice soft, almost proud.
"…You did not run. You did not deny. That is strength, Garfield Van Turner."
Garfield wiped the blood from his mouth, his expression cold.
"Strength is not enough."
He turned to the corridor ahead, where another faint light glimmered.
"I will have more."
And with that, he walked forward, leaving the illusions — and the boy he once was — behind.
.....
The corridor twisted into black stone stairs that spiraled downward. Garfield's boots echoed with each step, the sound hollow, too loud in the suffocating silence. His breathing steadied now, but his mind remained raw from the illusions he had shattered.
The Being was quiet again, as if leaving him space to process. But Garfield knew the silence wasn't kindness. It was preparation.
The tomb was not finished with him.
The stairs ended in a wide chamber, far larger than the one before. The ceiling soared so high it was lost in shadow. Black pillars lined the edges, each etched with shifting runes that seemed to breathe. At the centre of the chamber stood a monolith of obsidian, jagged and tall, glowing faintly with a dark violet light.
The moment Garfield stepped inside, the air grew heavy. Mana pressed against his skin like invisible chains, weighing him down.
And then the monolith split.
A crack ran down its centre with a sound like bone snapping. From the fracture spilled a mist, thick and purple, curling like living smoke. It gathered, coiled, condensed.
And from it emerged the guardian.
---
It was tall — nearly three times Garfield's height. Its form shifted between solid and spectral, sometimes stone, sometimes flesh, sometimes shadow. Its face was hidden by a mask of bone carved with the sigil of Maizel: a seven-pointed star, broken down the middle. Its body bristled with jagged scales, wings of tattered shadow unfurling behind it. In one clawed hand, it held a blade not of steel, but of crystallized mana, pulsing with a heartbeat of its own.
The Being stirred at last. Its voice was grave.
"…A Warden of Maizel. They were forged from the forgotten bloodline, children molded into guardians. This one… was once human."
The Warden lifted its head. Its hollow eyes burned violet, fixed on Garfield. When it spoke, its voice was layered — human, beast, and something else entirely.
"You… who bear the stench of rejection. Why do you walk these halls?"
Garfield's mana flared, the ground cracking beneath his boots. His voice was cold, unyielding.
"To claim what lies within."
The Warden tilted its head, as if amused.
"Then prove yourself, heir of nothing."
---
The chamber shook. The Warden lunged.
Garfield barely had time to draw mana into his veins before the blade of crystallized mana sliced downward. He twisted aside, the strike carving a fissure into the stone floor where he had stood. The force of the blow sent shockwaves rippling, knocking chunks of stone loose from the pillars.
Garfield retaliated instantly. His palm flared with fire, and he unleashed a massive **Fireball**, the spell roaring like a miniature sun. It struck the Warden squarely, detonating in a blinding flash. The explosion rocked the chamber, fire licking the pillars.
But as the smoke cleared, the Warden still stood. Its scales were charred, cracked — but it did not fall. Instead, it raised its claw, and with a screeching sound it pulled the fire into its own body, absorbing it.
Garfield's eyes narrowed.
"It feeds on mana."
The Being's voice was grim.
"Not feeds. Reflects. It was made to consume the power of intruders. To survive this, you must strike with more than raw force."
The Warden lunged again. This time Garfield leapt high, landing on one of the pillars. He thrust his hand forward, chanting under his breath. Mana twisted, condensing — not into flame, but into pressure.
The air rippled.
"Graviton Collapse.''
A sphere of crushing force exploded around the Warden. The ground caved in, stone pillars cracked, the monolith behind it shattered into shards. The Warden staggered, its body splintering under the immense pressure.
For the first time, it roared.
A human roar — distorted, broken.
Garfield faltered. His eyes widened. For a heartbeat, beneath the monstrous form, he saw a face. A boy's face. Pale, scarred, no older than twelve. His lips moved, whispering.
"…help…"
And then the vision was gone. The Warden's form snapped back, its violet flames flaring brighter.
Garfield's jaw tightened.
The Being whispered. "…They were children taken, fused with forgotten blood. The Maizel line did not guard willingly. They were forged from suffering."
The knowledge ignited something bitter in Garfield's chest. But he could not stop. If he hesitated, he would die here.
---
The Warden raised its blade, violet lightning crackling along its length. The air screamed as the strike descended.
Garfield roared, summoning everything in him. Mana surged, uncontrolled, boiling in his veins. He hurled it forward, shaping it into flame, into pressure, into raw destruction.
"Meteorfall!''
From the ceiling of the chamber — or perhaps from beyond — a colossal orb of fire and stone ripped downward, tearing the air as it fell. The impact was apocalyptic. The explosion consumed the Warden, devouring the chamber in white fire. The pillars shattered, the stone floor split apart, chunks of obsidian raining like meteors themselves.
The roar of flame drowned everything.
And then silence.
When the smoke cleared, Garfield knelt amid the wreckage, his body trembling, mana sputtering in his veins. His chest heaved with ragged breaths.
Before him, the Warden lay broken, its mask shattered. Its body was half-dissolved, violet mist spilling like blood. It looked at him — not with rage, but with relief.
The face of the boy appeared again, clearer this time. His lips moved.
"…free… at last…"
The Warden's body dissolved into nothing, leaving only fragments of its shattered mask on the stone.
Garfield reached out, fingers brushing one shard. It pulsed faintly, as though alive, before sinking into his palm. His veins burned for a heartbeat, then steadied.
The Being finally spoke. Its voice was heavy, almost reverent.
"…You have taken the shard of Maizel. Few could have endured. Fewer still could have freed one of his children."
Garfield clenched his fist around the warmth in his palm. His eyes burned with cold resolve.
"I will endure more."
And he stood, walking deeper into the darkness of Tomb Maizel.