The guards' orders were clear.The crew of the Tartarusios obeyed in silence as they were led forward — their boots clanking against cold metal, the echoes of their steps swallowed by the endless dark ahead.
They finally got to see it for themselves — the true face of the Labyrinth.A hollow world where even sound seemed afraid to travel. The air was damp and metallic, and from far within came faint, chilling echoes that could have been voices… or just the structure itself groaning in its ancient sleep.
From the mist ahead, a shape emerged — a chubby man in a faded blue uniform, holding a flickering tablet in his hand. His uniform barely fit, his face pale from the artificial light. Behind him stood six more guards, armored and silent. The man looked at the crew, squinting through the gloom, then raised his voice.
"Welcome to the Labyrinth," he announced, his tone heavy and cruelly casual. "Probably the last place you'll ever see. So listen carefully."
His words cut through the silence like a blade.
"You'll each be given a uniform — and a claw tool. You'll need it if you want to survive down here, so you'd better hold on to it. In this place, there are no limits to where you can or can't go. It's vast… you'll see for yourselves soon enough. There's only one rule."
He paused, the grin fading from his face.
"You don't climb up. If you do… you'll be shot on sight. No warning. No mercy."
He looked down at his tablet, then back at them with a tired smirk.
"One last thing," he said. "We don't serve food in there. Once a week, we drop a package on the third level. It's not much, but it's all you'll get. Things tend to get… expensive in there."
He took a slow step back, lowering his voice as though repeating a prayer he'd said too many times before."So… may God have mercy on your souls."
The words hung in the air like the toll of a funeral bell. The crew exchanged uneasy glances. The realization was sinking in — they weren't prisoners in a conventional sense. They were offerings to something deeper. Something alive.
After receiving their rough gray uniforms and crude claw tools, they stood in silence as the colossal gates began to close behind them. The sound was deafening — a roar of iron grinding against stone, sealing them away from everything they'd ever known.
Oscar turned to his crew, voice firm but laced with unease. "Head count," he ordered.
They gathered close, torches flickering in the stale air. One by one, the names were called — but some were missing.
"Youri," Oscar said, glancing around. "Where's Youri?"
Nolan looked at him, frowning. "I don't know, Boss. I don't think they even took him off the ship with us."
A quick count confirmed it — ten more were gone. The kitchen staff. Tom and two other pilots. Vanished. Probably hidden aboard the Orbiton's cockpit or the emergency deck before the Baraken soldiers searched the ship. Lucky — or clever. Either way, they were beyond reach now.
Oscar clenched his jaw. "We move," he said quietly. "We've got enough to worry about."
The road ahead loomed — the entrance to the first level of the Labyrinth.
As the crew stepped forward, the last traces of the outside world vanished. No wind. No hum of engines. Only the rhythm of their own footsteps and the distant pulse of the earth itself.
The path sloped downward, carved from jagged black stone that glimmered faintly under the torches. It wasn't a tunnel — it was a canyon trapped inside the planet, narrow and steep, its walls bristling with metallic spikes that glowed faintly blue. Some crackled with static, others dripped with a strange liquid that steamed when it hit the ground.
Bjorn brushed a hand along the wall — the stone vibrated under his palm, humming softly. He pulled back, eyes wide. "It's alive," he whispered.
They pressed on.
The air thickened, tinted with violet haze that swirled with every movement. The ground beneath them trembled, not from their steps, but from something massive breathing far below — as though the Labyrinth itself had lungs.
"Stay close," Oscar murmured. "No one wanders."
The road twisted like a serpent, dipping into darkness, rising again into patches of dull light. The iron spikes along the path seemed deliberate — forming cryptic patterns, almost like writing. At one point, the walls tightened around them, the air turning hot and stale before the stone suddenly released, sighing open again.
They came to a bridge — fractured slabs of black stone, suspended over a vast, bottomless pit. From below came whispers, faint but human.
"The others," Nolan muttered. "The ones before us."
They crossed in silence.
And then the world opened.
The crew stepped out of the narrow passage — and into the first level of the Labyrinth.
The sight froze them in place.
A colossal cavern stretched before them, so vast its ceiling was lost in a haze of smoke and shadow. Jagged bridges crossed the chasm like veins, connecting rusted platforms suspended by ancient chains. Rivers of molten ore cut through the stone, casting a pulsing orange glow that flickered across the walls like the heartbeat of a dying world.
Everywhere, people worked.
Hundreds — no, thousands — of prisoners. Some hacked at the rock with their claw tools, their strikes echoing like the ticking of a clock. Others hauled glowing stones in crude carts, their bodies skeletal and scarred. Faces gray from exhaustion, eyes sharp as blades.
The air burned to breathe. The smell of sweat, oil, and dust was suffocating.
Bjorn's voice came low. "This… this isn't a prison. It's a city."
He was right. The deeper they looked, the more it resembled one — a twisted, subterranean civilization. Walls built from old ship parts, pipes welded into towers, entire shanties stacked atop each other. Faint lights hung from cables, flickering through fog that smelled faintly of rust and ozone.
And amidst it all — trade.
Figures cloaked in rags huddled around makeshift fires, bartering glowing minerals for food, tools, or vials of strange liquid. Crystals, shards, metallic dust — the new currency of the damned.
Oscar watched an inmate hand over a handful of red stones in exchange for a rusted blade. "Even here," he muttered, "they built a system."
Mahin nodded. "Survival always has a price."
As they walked, whispers followed them. The inmates watched — silent, curious, but cautious. The newcomers were always noticed. Few lasted long.
Then, from the haze, a figure approached.
Old. Bent. Wrapped in a torn cloak that dragged along the ground. His beard was long and gray, his eyes pale blue — piercing even through the smoke. He stopped before Mahin, staring for a long moment, trembling.
"You," the old man rasped. "You're the hero, aren't you?"
Mahin froze, unsure how to answer. The man let out a wild, rasping laugh that echoed off the metal walls.
"So they sent you to the pits of hell too," he said. "To think they'd sink this low… sending their own savior to rot with the rest of us."
Mahin stepped closer. "Old man — why are you down here? What did you do?"
The man's laughter grew louder, cracking into madness. His eyes glistened in the faint orange light.
"What did I do?" he shouted. "I gave life to my only son."
His laughter turned hollow — a sound that didn't belong to a sane mind. Around them, the other prisoners turned away, unwilling to hear more. Somewhere in the distance, the faint toll of the Labyrinth's bells began to ring — deep, metallic, and slow — marking the end of another day beneath the surface.
And so began the Tartarusios crew's first night in the Labyrinth — a place where time, mercy, and hope had long since died.