In the museum corridor, all the armours shudder at once. The guards lined along both sides of the corridor, who had stood silent for a thousand years, are now alive. Their swords rise, their feet lift from the floor. A terrifying metallic sound. As if ten war bells are ringing together.
The armours are rushing forward. With every step, the floor trembles. Their swords slice through the air with a whistling sound, creating a dreadful music.
The armours are coming. Alive.
But what is this?
Even more terrifying.
The hollow faces of the armours suddenly open. Where smooth stone had been moments ago, there is now a huge mouth. A horrifying biting mechanism filled with needle-like teeth. Each tooth is as sharp as steel, and from every gum a black liquid drips down.
And it strikes.
The nearest armour lunges at Halem with its massive sword. The blade lets out a dreadful whistle as it cuts through the air, passing just over Halem's head. At the last moment, Halem leaps aside, his hair flying in the wind of the sword.
The other armours advance as well. A force that knows no mercy. The sound of their steps makes the entire corridor shake.
Mursalin, whose intelligence and speed are their only hope in this situation, pulls out an ancient book from his waist. The book is bound in black leather, with golden letters written in an unknown language on its cover. His fingers flip through the pages rapidly, searching for a specific line. There is now a strange, mystical glow in his eyes, as if the power of ancient knowledge has awakened within him.
Mursalin reads a sentence very slowly, but with clear pronunciation. That ancient sentence, each word thousands of years old. His voice takes on an otherworldly quality, as if he is not merely speaking, but some ancient power is speaking through him. Each syllable creates vibrations in the air, a blue aura gathering around him.
Then a deep roar bursts from his chest,
"Go away!"
These words are not just speech. They are a command that comes from the core power of Elrul. There is such authority in his voice that the entire corridor shakes.
A deep tremor shakes the whole corridor. Dust falls from the stones of the walls, small pieces of rock drop from the ceiling. A sinister roaring sound echoes, as if the entire museum has awakened.
The armours, which had been charging toward them at full speed just moments ago, freeze halfway. Their swords, only inches away from Halem's and the others' flesh, stop there. A strange sight. As if memory itself has stopped, as if the whole world has turned into a single image.
Silence. A terrifying, ear-piercing silence. Only the sound of the five youths breathing rapidly. Their hearts are still pounding fast, fear and relief mixed in their eyes.
Then?
Everyone, whose bodies are still trembling with adrenaline, rushes toward the door at the far end of the corridor. There is no longer any attempt to hide the sound of their footsteps, only the urge to survive. There is intense relief on every face, but they know the danger is not over yet.
Mursalin's firm hand grips the door handle, Mir's eyes glance back to make sure the armours are still frozen.
They have survived this deadly situation. But they know that even more terrible dangers are waiting ahead
.
The madness inside the corridor, the ancient rage that awakened moments ago, seems to retreat back into the memory of stone. But it does not fade, it only waits. The Balan Museum never forgets anything. It only gathers layers.
Outside, at the same moment, the night of Tenmorih grows deeper. The stars in the sky slowly shift, as if the hands of an invisible clock are moving forward. Pale moonlight slips from behind the clouds and touches the castle spires, then withdraws. As if it does not wish to take responsibility, even after touching them. The sky knows what is awakening inside this fortress. So it keeps its distance.
Below the city, the fog thickens. Roads, rooftops, alleys, everything is slowly covered in a silver silence. The guards walk, unaware that tonight history has taken a breath once more. There is a heavy feeling in the air, as if some ancient destiny has begun to move again.
The black stones of the museum lift their heads toward the sky. The symbols carved into them flare briefly in the dim light, then fall silent again. They are witnesses. Not judges, only keepers of proof. Who entered, who returned alive, who vanished. They remember it all.
The night moves on. The stars turn. Time does not stop.
And the Balan Museum, the tomb of forgotten glory, has once again pulled someone into its depths. Onto a path from which returning no longer means coming back as the same person ever again.
In the deep silence of night, when the world faces its darkest moment, five young men stand inside a vast chamber, hoods over their heads, dressed in black.
The enormous hall feels like the last remnant of an ancient civilisation. Every inch is wrapped in mystery, every corner filled with unknown fear. The scale of the chamber is so immense that its ceiling disappears into darkness, as if it stretches up to the sky itself. The walls are made of black marble stone, carved with mysterious symbols and signs. Marks that unsettle the human mind the moment they are seen.
Far ahead, only unbroken darkness.
The floor is completely covered in mosaics. But these mosaics are not simple decoration. They carry cryptic symbols, carvings written in dead languages from a civilisation thousands of years old. The letters seem alive; staring at them too long makes it feel as if they are moving, trying to speak. Some spread a silver glow, some are deep black, and from others a faint bluish light spills out.
A strange smell drifts through the air. The sharp scent of burnt copper, mixed with something else, something unfamiliar, beyond human experience. There is an ominous warning in this smell, as if something is waiting, patiently, silently, but with certainty.
When the door closes behind them, the deep interior of the museum holds its breath once more.
Everyone looks back.
The final hour of the night. When the world is in its deepest sleep, the museum remains awake. The entire building feels as if it is holding its breath, like a beast waiting to strike. Every room, every corridor, every hidden passage. Everything is silent, yet within that silence there is a living presence.
The door has closed behind them. The sound of this closing is not like an ordinary door; it is the sound of finality. The heavy wood meets the stone frame without a sound, yet within that silence lies a grim conclusion. And instantly, darkness swallows all noise, as if sound itself has vanished from the world.
Mursalin, a deep shadow of thought on his face, pulls out a lamp from his pocket. His fingers tremble slightly with anxiety at this moment. As he lights the lamp, a strange scene unfolds.
The light of the lamp is blue. Deep, shimmering blue, like the colour of the deepest part of the ocean. But this light does not burn with confidence, as if the very existence of light is afraid here.
As the light spreads across the floor, the cruel geometry of the mosaic is revealed. Patterns that feel not like decoration, but as if they were created for some terrible purpose.
Vesha's lips have gone dry with tension. His bright eyes are fixed on the floor, as if searching for a hidden signal. His voice is as soft as a whisper, yet sharp intelligence cuts through it.
"One path," Vesha whispers. "But which one?"
Mursalin slowly kneels down. His fingers trace over the mosaic on the floor. Letters shaped like a serpent devouring its own tail. This symbol is not merely a design; it is a cycle, an endless circle carrying mystery. Deep worry fills Mursalin's eyes. His shoulders are tight, his body ready for every danger.
"This is the language from before the Balan Empire. It speaks in riddles. And in punishment."
There is the weight of absolute truth in Mursalin's words.
The Balan Empire. That lost civilisation so skilled in the art of Elrul that they could bind it into stone. Every word of theirs is a mystery, every design a trap. One wrong step, and the floor will erase itself, throwing the offender into the bottomless abyss below. An abyss with no end.
Halem moves forward with firm resolve. He extends one foot toward the floor, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. Beads of sweat gather on his forehead, revealing his tension.
Mursalin's eyes instantly track Halem's movement, and he realises at once that danger is near. His hand shoots out with lightning speed, gripping Halem's wrist tightly. His strength is such that Halem stops immediately.
"Don't go…"
There is a panicked warning in Mursalin's voice, completely unlike his usual calm nature.
Halem steps back in fear. A look of shock crosses his face, followed by a flash of understanding in his eyes.
Mir looks around. Searching for something. To test it, he picks up a small pebble. A harmless piece of stone that may have been lying there for centuries. Then he throws it.
A simple stone, but what happens next is beyond imagination.
The floor ignites.
Quite literally ignites. In a dreadful, ominous light.
The moment the stone touches the floor, that spot turns into a black void. No, not a void—reality itself seems torn apart. The stone vanishes. As if it never existed at all. The void is so dark that even light cannot escape once it enters. It is not just a hole; it is a fragment of nothingness, where existence itself is erased.
A terrible realisation spreads across the faces of the five youths. Fear and awe fill their eyes.
The silence that follows is heavier than before. A silence that hurts the ears, that presses against the heart. In this stillness, the echo of their racing heartbeats fills the space.
Halem's body trembles, but not from fear… from understanding.