The deeper Garfield went, the more Tomb Maizel seemed to breathe.
Not with air, not with lungs, but with memory. The walls exhaled whispers in voices that were not their own, thousands upon thousands of threads weaving into a single tapestry of sound. It was not madness, not yet—but it was close enough to make weaker men claw their ears until blood ran.
Garfield walked unfazed. His cloak dragged softly over stone, his boots pressed into dust that had not been disturbed for centuries. His expression was the same as ever—cold, detached, analytical—but his mind sharpened like a blade. Every whisper was a fragment. Every fragment could be gathered.
The Being lingered as a shadow just beyond his sight, its voice weaving directly into his head.
"Do not listen too deeply, child. These echoes are not truths. They are scars. And scars are dangerous."
Garfield did not slow. "Scars reveal the wound that was inflicted. If I see enough of them, I will know where the blade struck."
A pause, then a hiss of disapproval.
"Your hunger blinds you."
He almost smiled. Almost. "And your fear betrays you."
The corridor widened into a vast circular chamber. The walls rose higher than any hall he had yet seen, climbing into a dome so far above it vanished into shadow. Across the curved stone stretched more glyphs, endless, like a book carved into the flesh of the world. They crawled across every inch of surface, intersecting, twisting, flowing. And as Garfield stepped inside, they pulsed faintly, glowing like veins filled with molten gold.
The whispers grew louder. Some were clear, others broken, but all were in that alien tongue. His head throbbed.
One voice, sharp and clear, rang out among them:
"…the Fourteenth… never… erased…"
Garfield tilted his head. He closed his eyes and simply listened. The words swam in his veins, scraping at his skull, but he forced himself to endure.
The Being's voice snapped harshly:
"Stop! To immerse yourself is to drown. The tomb will consume your mind before you find what you seek."
Garfield opened his eyes slowly, blood trickling from one nostril. He wiped it with the back of his hand and answered in a tone of ice:
"Then I will drown, and I will climb back out. That is what you fear, isn't it? That I will succeed where even you failed."
The Being was silent.
Garfield turned back to the glyphs. He could not read them directly, but meaning brushed against the edge of his consciousness. Every stroke, every mark thrummed with intent. He traced one with his finger, ignoring the way his flesh seared against the glowing grooves.
His vision blurred. Images bled into his mind—an ocean black as ink, thirteen thrones suspended above it, each tethered by luminous chains of gold. The thrones were occupied by radiant figures, their shapes indistinct, yet their presence suffocating.
And then—at the edge—an empty throne. Chains snapped, dangling loose.
The vision tore itself apart. Garfield staggered back, clutching his chest as his mana roared wildly, threatening to burst free of his veins. His breathing came harsh and ragged, but his eyes burned with something colder than fire.
"Thirteen," he whispered. "And one more."
The Being materialized faintly, its form more defined than usual, robes of shadow swirling without wind. Its voice lowered to something close to pleading.
"You must not seek the Fourteenth. That absence is forbidden for a reason."
Garfield met the shadow's gaze with steady defiance. "Everything forbidden is simply something someone else failed to control. I will not fail."
The chamber quaked faintly, dust falling from the dome above. The whispers shifted, some breaking into laughter, others into sobs. The glyphs along the walls writhed, rearranging themselves with agonizing slowness. Garfield narrowed his eyes, following the movement until they formed a single, enormous phrase stretching across the chamber's heart.
The Being whispered quickly:
"Do not read it!"
But Garfield already had.
"Chains of fate," he translated softly. "Eternal law. Even gods bow."
The words carved themselves deeper into his mind, burning there, unshakable. He inhaled through clenched teeth. Every instinct told him he was walking a razor's edge—but that was where he thrived.
The whispers died suddenly, leaving behind only silence. The glyphs dimmed, retreating back into lifeless stone.
The Being drifted closer, its form flickering.
"You press too far. One more step, and you will awaken what should not stir."
Garfield's lips curved into the faintest trace of a smile.
"Then perhaps it is time something stirred."
He turned, scanning the chamber one final time. His mind recorded every detail—the broken patterns, the erased throne, the chains of fate. He was building a puzzle, and every missing piece only made the picture clearer.
The path forward lay through the shadows at the far end of the chamber, a narrow archway half-swallowed by collapsed stone. Without hesitation, Garfield stepped into it.
Behind him, the whispers began again, softer this time, but aimed only at him. He could feel them curl against his ears, promising, taunting, begging.
"…devourer… architect… pawn of none…"
Garfield ignored them. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, as cold and ruthless as ever.
The tomb was speaking to him. Testing him. And he would answer not with reverence, not with fear—but with domination.
As he vanished into the dark passage, the Being lingered at the chamber's edge, watching, silent.
For the first time, it wondered—not whether Garfield would survive, but whether the tomb itself would.