The desert felt endless.
Each step crunched on gravel and loose stone, every breath scraped his throat raw. The ash sea behind him had been hell, but at least it was predictable. This place was worse, harder, sharper, like the land had grown teeth.
Eros trudged forward, the straps of the crossbow cutting into his shoulder. The daggers on his belt tapped against his thigh. He carried more than ever in this nightmare, yet the weight only made him feel heavier. Prepared, maybe, but also haunted. Every piece of gear was stolen from a husk, reminders clinging to him like grease.
The sky was sick with color, yellow bruised with gray, as if the sun itself had been poisoned. Heat rippled off the black stones. He wiped sweat from his brow with a strip of rag and kept going.
He should have felt safer with food, water, and steel. He didn't. Halix's smirk still lingered. Weapons were only as reliable as the hands that held them, and those hands were gone now, stiffening in the ash.
A ridge of stone rose ahead, jagged as broken ribs. He slowed when he noticed markings cut into the rock. Circles, lines, crude but deliberate. He traced one with his finger: a sun swallowed by the jaws of a serpent.
The Reader's Notes stirred at the back of his mind. He didn't need to summon it; the book was already watching. The symbol on its pages flickered faintly, echoing the carving.
"Great," Eros muttered, stepping back. "Road signs in hell. Very reassuring."
He kept moving. More carvings appeared along the path, some half-erased, others fresh enough to sting beneath his fingertips. Always the same serpent swallowing the sun.
He adjusted the crossbow, bolts rattling inside their quiver. At least he wasn't walking in naked this time. That had to count for something.
The thought barely settled before the ground shifted.
At first it was only a faint scratching, like claws on glass. Then the earth split open at his feet. He leapt back as something black and glistening surged out.
A beetle.
No, not a beetle. Not anymore.
The size of a dog, its shell glossy, ridged with sick green light. Mandibles clicked with the sound of bones breaking. Its legs gouged the stone as it turned toward him, hissing. Another erupted from the ground, then a third, bodies clattering too fast for their size.
"Of course," Eros growled. "Out of all the things to kill me: bugs."
The first lunged. He ripped the crossbow from his back and loosed a bolt. It struck low in the abdomen, sinking deep before the thing squealed and toppled on its side, legs twitching like broken springs.
The second slammed into him before he could reload. He hit the ground hard, teeth rattling. Mandibles snapped for his face. He shoved the stock of the crossbow between them as the wood groaned. With his free hand he tore a dagger from his belt and rammed it upward.
The blade punched through the gap between shell and neck. Black ichor sprayed across his arm. The beetle convulsed, shrieking, then collapsed on top of him.
He shoved the husk aside, rolled to his knees, panting. His dagger dripped. His arms shook. He was alive.
The third circled, mandibles clacking, waiting. He raised the crossbow, but the string sagged, the wood already cracked.
The beetle hissed and leapt.
Eros rolled, pain lancing his ribs. He slashed, sparks skidding off the shell. It turned fast. Too fast. He raised the crossbow like a shield, and its mandibles bit deep into the wood.
He kicked with both feet, shoving it back. The crossbow almost snapped in half. Probably useless now. He snarled, dagger clenched, and waited.
When it lunged again, he sidestepped, jamming the broken stock into its jaws, then drove the dagger up into its belly. The shell split. Hot black blood poured over his hand.
The beetle shrieked once, then stilled.
Eros staggered back, chest heaving, arms aching. He glanced at the steaming remains and wiped the blade on his sleeve.
"Not today," he muttered, hoarse but steady. "Not bugs."
So maybe he should be glad. He hadn't died once, and for a first time wielding real weapons he'd managed well enough. «Never hurts to pat yourself on the back, huh?» he thought. Then he paused. «I spend half the day talking to myself. With that and everything else… wouldn't be a shock if I lost my mind.»
He tossed the thought aside as quickly as it came.
«Not like I was ever completely sane to begin with, I guess.»
He checked the broken crossbow, thought about tossing it, then strapped it across his shoulder. It wasn't completely broken, it was still usable but it wouldn't last more than one or two shots at most.
And who know's... even splintered wood might be useful here.
He pressed on.
The land grew stranger. Ruins dotted the horizon: columns snapped in half, stone blocks scattered in heaps, walls leaning as though shoved by a giant's hand. Carvings lingered on the surfaces, faint outlines of suns eclipsed, serpents coiled around circles.
The air grew heavier. Each breath carried the taste of metal and sulfur. It coated his tongue, churned his stomach. He pulled Halix's scarf tighter around his mouth. It stank of sweat and berries, but at least it filtered the worst of the poison.
The ground began to hum. At first he thought it was his ears ringing from the fight, but the vibration deepened, rattling his boots. A low, constant buzz, like a swarm buried under stone.
"Yeah," he whispered. "Perfectly normal. Just a singing desert."
He climbed a ridge and stopped at the top, pulling the Reader's Notes into his hands. The map shimmered, the serpent symbol glowing brighter. The ink pulsed, black and alive, as if breathing.
He traced the valley line below. Then he saw it.
Half-buried in stone and ash, its entrance cracked and sagging, stood the ruins of a temple. A portico tilted to one side, pillars broken like snapped bones. Faded murals sprawled across the facade—serpents coiled around spheres, devouring suns in endless repetition. The air leaking from the doorway was hot and wet, foul with venom and rot.
Eros tightened his grip on the dagger.
The Reader's Notes flared in his mind, the serpent blazing, mocking. He shoved the book away with a snarl.
He stared at the dark entrance, the hair on his arms prickling. The current of air that rolled out wasn't mere wind. It felt like breath.
"If this is just the door," he muttered, "I don't want to meet the landlord."
He stepped closer.
The temple waited.
***
The air inside was thick, syrupy with rot.
Eros crossed the arch and felt it cling to his skin. Not just heat. The walls sweated moisture, and the stench was worse: venom, mildew, something long dead. He pulled Halix's scarf tighter, but the bitterness still pressed through.
He was afraid. He could have refused to follow the book's "plot." But then how the hell was he supposed to get out? He was a mess, tangled in doubts. Survival was all that mattered.
Facing a god? That was madness. «Who comes up with this stuff?» he thought. «I should file a complaint with the author.» The idea almost made him laugh. He did laugh. Not because it was funny, but because the sound helped keep his fear from choking him. Every part of him screamed to turn back.
«Well, I can always come back from the dead, right?» Then he shook his head. «No. I don't want that cold again, that emptiness. And worst of all… that pain when you're standing at death's door.»
His boots crunched on stone dust. Each step echoed too loudly, rebounding down cracked corridors until it sounded like someone else walked with him. He glanced back. Nothing. Only the entrance, already swallowed by shadow.
He forced himself forward. "One foot in front of the other. Just don't trip into hell itself."
The walls closed in. Symbols twisted across the stone, suns devoured by serpents, eyes carved wide and unblinking. They seemed to follow his torchlight.
A sound drifted through the corridors. Not wind. Not stone. A murmur, dry and sibilant, like hundreds of tongues on teeth. He froze. The sound ebbed, leaving only his heartbeat.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Perfectly normal. Nothing creepy about a building that whispers at you."
The passage split. He chose the left, guided by instinct or maybe the itch of the book in his skull.
Something cracked beneath his boot. Bones. Fingers, a jaw, a ribcage crushed flat. A rusted spearhead jutted from the pile.
He swallowed. "Guess I'm not the first idiot here."
The next step nearly killed him.
The floor sagged. He threw himself forward as the tiles collapsed into an acid pit. Bones bobbed in the bubbling green slick. The stench clawed his nose.
He hit hard on his shoulder, pain blooming sharp. For a moment he lay there, panting.
"Traps. Because monsters weren't enough. Hell even has architects."
He shoved himself up and kept moving.
The next chamber opened into a hall of broken statues. Human forms, faces erased, mouths frozen in screams. Some had holes in their chests, as if something had been carved out. Their shadows stretched long, fingers reaching across the floor.
Eros wove between them, pulse quickening. Every breath felt too sharp. His skin prickled. Something massive was waiting deeper inside.
The trap came without warning.
A slab clicked beneath his boot. His chest locked.
A mechanism groaned. A dart hissed. Pain exploded in his side. He looked down at the black-fletched bolt lodged in his ribs.
His fingers shook. Heat spread fast, numbing his limbs. His knees buckled.
"No… not like this," he gasped.
The floor opened. He plunged into darkness.
The fall ripped the air from his lungs. The torch went out. The stench hit next. A thousand slithers surrounded him.
He blinked and froze.
Serpents. Dozens, maybe hundreds. Scales black and slick, eyes milk-white. They writhed and hissed, bodies hot against his skin. Fangs snapped inches from his face. One coiled around his wrist, another looped his throat.
He tried to move, but the venom had locked his body.
He understood then. The dart wasn't meant to kill… just to hold him still.
A head rose before his eyes, jaws opening wide.
The scar on his belly flared.
Heat seared through his veins, burning the poison. His muscles twitched, then answered. The serpents tightened, but the fire only grew.
A scream ripped out of him, half rage, half agony. He tore one serpent free and drove the dagger through its skull. Another lunged; he stabbed blind, ichor splattering his chest. He kicked, stomped, fought like an animal.
The scar burned, but the fire gave him back his body.
He staggered toward the wall. His fingers found a crack, bleeding as they dug into stone. He climbed, slipping twice, fangs scraping his boots. With a last heave he dragged himself over the ledge, collapsed, and rolled away from the pit.
He lay trembling, lungs tearing at the air. He was alive. Barely.
The hissing below faded. He forced himself up, ribs screaming, vision swimming.
The torch was gone. Only carvings glowed faintly ahead, pale green lines etched into stone. He staggered toward them, one hand pressed to his side.
The corridor widened into a wall carved in relief.
A mural stretched across it, vast and alive with sick light: a serpent swallowing the sun whole.
Eros froze.
Because it wasn't just a mural. It was a door.
Two slabs of stone formed the serpent's body, the seam between them leading inward. The air seeping through was hotter than the desert, heavy with venom and shadow.
Eros wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand. His breath trembled.
"Well, Eros… time to meet a god in person… and try not to let it kill you first," he whispered.
He gripped his daggers tighter, staring at the serpent's open jaws.
The chamber of the god lay beyond.
And it was waiting.