The tension in the room rose — the Emperor was testing them. After all, they truly were humans pretending to be gods.
Zoma stepped forward, her projection flickering with restrained power. Her voice was straight and unwavering. "Kaiser Baraka, Emperor of the Baraken Empire," she said, "you claim us to be imposters! We come from a world far beyond your comprehension — one you cannot even imagine. But fine, everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt. So I'll show you. In two days, the Empire's campaign in the Ohara region will fail, and all fleets stationed there will be lost as well."
Kaiser's expression shifted. His brows furrowed, his pride struck. Then, his voice thundered through the chamber. "You — a mere hologram, something crafted by men — dare to tell me that my army will fail?"
The hall fumed with tension. Kaiser Baraka was known for his pride, especially in the might of his empire's legions. Somehow, Zoma had struck a nerve deep within him.
But she didn't waver. "Do you know why you will face such defeat?" she asked, her eyes glowing faintly as she met his gaze.
Kaiser stood silent, his glare sharp as a blade.
"You will fail," Zoma continued, "because your technology lags behind. You have only begun your campaign of conquest — but you have no idea what lies beyond your reach. You will overextend yourselves and burn. So believe me when I say, in two days, you will summon us here again."
"Enough!" Kaiser roared. His voice shook the hall like thunder. "Get them out of my sight — and straight to the Labyrinth!"
He turned sharply toward Mahin. "And you, Mahin — for this insolence, you will join them. The people will be told that the mighty Hero of Dazar was lost in action. Take that as my final gift to you. At least this way, you may keep your honor."
Mahin's face darkened. He had just lost everything — and for what? A single act he thought would bring him glory.
Soldiers flooded into the chamber, their boots striking in unison. The Tartarusios crew could do nothing; Zoma's words had sealed their fate — ten thousand years in the past, prisoners of a proud empire. Shackles were clamped onto their wrists, cold and heavy. Zoma was taken to a different room — the DTI projecting her was sealed under heavy locks.
As they were escorted to the shuttle, Oscar turned to Mahin. "I'm sorry to have dragged you into this," he said quietly.
Mahin didn't answer at first.
Oscar asked again, his voice uncertain. "What is this Labyrinth?"
Mahin smirked bitterly. "A place no one who enters ever gets out."
As the shuttle soared above the Baraken skies, the horizon grew dark — and there it was.
The Labyrinth.
There were many prisons in the Empire of Baraka — some built to contain rebels, others to silence the inconvenient. But there was only one that bore no walls, no doors, and no return.
They called it The Labyrinth.
It stood at the edge of the world, carved deep into the crust of Baraka's northern continent — a monument to both fear and control. From orbit, it looked like an open wound across the planet's dark surface: a vast spiral of stone and metal, twisting endlessly inward until it vanished beneath the earth. No map had ever captured its full reach, and no prisoner who entered its depths had ever returned to tell of its end.
The entrance was a colossal arch of black iron, adorned with the sigil of the serpent devouring itself — the mark of eternal confinement. Around it stretched the Warden Plains, barren and cold, where the air itself carried the scent of rust and ash. Every step closer to the gate grew heavier, as though the ground resisted those who dared approach.
Inside, the Labyrinth was alive.
Corridors twisted upon themselves, walls shifting with the movement of unseen mechanisms buried in the rock. Passageways that existed one moment vanished the next. The walls pulsed faintly with veins of red and blue light — remnants of the ancient Baraken core engines that powered the place.
No one truly knew how it worked.
Some said the Labyrinth was built long before the Empire — a relic of an older civilization that the Baraka had merely conquered and repurposed. Others whispered that it had grown on its own — a living construct that fed on the despair of those trapped within.
From the inner halls, the sound of distant machinery echoed endlessly — the groaning of gears, the hiss of vapor, the hum of power deep beneath the stone. Every corridor seemed to breathe, exhaling mist that glowed faintly under dim light. Sometimes, faces appeared in the fog — fleeting, broken reflections of those long lost to its shadows.
Guards rarely entered. They didn't need to. Once a prisoner was thrown through its gates, the Labyrinth itself became the warden.
Its floors were wide enough to swallow armies, its ceilings so high they vanished into darkness. Towers rose and sank within it, shifting like pillars of a great, mechanical ocean. Bridges connected nothing, doors led to walls, and some paths twisted back to their beginning — only to end somewhere else entirely.
The Baraken called it a prison. But those who believed in older things called it a mouth — one that never stopped eating.
Every sentence handed down by the Empire that ended with the words "to the Labyrinth" was not punishment. It was erasure.
No family visited. Nobody was buried. The condemned simply vanished into its depths, and the Empire went on.
The group arrived at the doors of the Labyrinth. At the entry, something unexpected awaited them — the entire Tartarusios crew was there. The Emperor had made sure no one from their ship was left behind.
Confusion rippled through the faces of the crew, but when they saw Oscar approaching, their expressions brightened.
"Oscar! He's here — hey everyone, he's here!" they shouted.
Oscar looked at them, sorrow written across his face. "I'm sorry, guys," he said quietly. "We got into more trouble."
"Come on, Captain," said Nolan with a grin. "Chin up. At least we're all together. And if there's one thing I can say — no matter what, we've always made it out."
Oscar managed a faint smile.
Suddenly, the massive doors began to move. someone turned his head and shouted, "Hey, guys! I think they're welcoming us in!"
Everyone turned.
A deep, metallic groan rolled across the plains — slow and ancient, like the earth itself exhaling after centuries of silence. Dust rose in clouds from the cracked obsidian ground, and the air grew thick with the scent of iron and rot. Every sound seemed to fade, swallowed by the mechanical roar that followed.