Mahin looked at the old man.Something about him stirred a memory — faint, ghostlike — yet the years and the Labyrinth's cruelty had twisted the figure beyond recognition. His face was lined and scarred, his eyes dull with exhaustion. Still… there was something there. Something powerful.
Gathering his voice, Mahin asked, steady but unsure,"Who are you, old man?"
The old man looked up, shadows flickering across his face. Slowly, he removed his cloak.And Mahin froze.
The world seemed to stop breathing.
It couldn't be.But it was.
The face before him — bruised, ragged, aged beyond belief — was unmistakable. A ghost from the very heart of Baraka's past stood before him.
Kaiser the Second.Father of the reigning Emperor.Once a man of unyielding will, whose name had commanded legions and whose word had shaped the empire itself.
Now, he was a shadow of that greatness.
Mahin's knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground, bowing his head.The old emperor laid a trembling hand on his shoulder. His voice was calm, low — worn by years of silence.
"Rise, hero," he said. "I am no emperor. That man died long ago. Look at me — do you see a ruler in these eyes?"
Mahin said nothing. The emperor's words hung heavy in the air.
"There is nothing but suffering in them," Kaiser whispered.
The crew exchanged uneasy glances, their disbelief etched on every face.How could this be real? The emperor himself — the very symbol of Baraka's power — cast down, forgotten, lost to history and buried alive in the empire's own creation.
Kaiser's gaze drifted across them, and for a fleeting second, a faint smile touched his lips.
"Newcomers," he said, his voice echoing faintly through the tunnels. "A word of advice: do not linger long in the lower levels. What dwells there... has no name."
Then, with a quiet laugh that carried no joy, the fallen emperor turned and vanished into the fog — swallowed by the red gloom of the Labyrinth.
Mahin stood frozen, the image burned into his mind.The man he had once sworn allegiance to — now reduced to a ghost wandering the underworld.
He turned to Oscar, his voice unsteady but resolute."We have to find him. We have to get the emperor out of here."
Oscar blinked, startled. "How do you suppose we do that?"
"We'll find a way," Mahin said, his voice firming. "You said you still have allies outside. Didn't you?"
Oscar frowned, a shadow crossing his face. "Listen," he said slowly, "there's nothing I want more than to get out of this hell and back to my time. But if you've got an idea, now's the time to speak it."
Mahin hesitated. "What do you mean, 'back to my time'?"
Oscar exhaled, a wry smile ghosting across his lips. "You really don't get it yet, do you? We're not from your time. We came here from the future — from ten thousand years ahead. Something went wrong with the corridor. We didn't just fall through space... we fell through time."
Mahin's world tilted.The ground might as well have vanished beneath his feet.The air left his lungs as the words sank in — ghosts, time travel, gods.It was all madness.
He fell to his knees, trembling.
Oscar looked down at him, his tone softening."I know how it sounds. But believe me — in our time, your empire is dust. The Baraken name is nothing but a whisper."
Mahin raised his head slowly, his expression transforming from disbelief to fierce resolve."Then I have one request."
Oscar folded his arms. "Let's hear it."
"Help me find the emperor and escape this place. Do that, and I swear on my honor — I will do everything in my power to return you to your time, no matter the cost."
Oscar studied him for a long moment. Then, for the first time in what felt like ages, a glimmer of something human flickered in his eyes.
He reached out his hand."Alright, Captain Mahin. You've got yourself a deal."
Their hands clasped — soldier and wanderer, past and future — bound by desperation and the faintest ember of hope.
And together, they turned toward the path ahead.
The road to the second level of the Labyrinth began where the air itself turned red.
There was no clear doorway — no marked descent — only a narrow fissure cut into the rock, from which waves of heat rolled upward like the breath of a buried god. The walls sweated molten light, dripping in slow rivulets that hissed when they hit the ground. The crew could see their reflections in the glow — distorted, wavering, like ghosts trapped beneath fire.
The further they went, the heavier it became. The air thickened, heavy with iron and ash. Every breath scraped the throat raw. Sweat poured down their faces, only to dry a moment later in the furnace air. The walls pulsed faintly, veins of magma running through them like blood beneath burned skin.
It wasn't silence down here — it was noise that never stopped. The constant hiss of gas escaping cracks in the earth. The rumble of molten rivers below. The low metallic moan of the Labyrinth itself, alive and restless.
The path was a narrow bridge of black stone winding above a canyon of flame.Below it, the molten rivers twisted like serpents, lighting the cavern from beneath in shades of red and orange. The heat shimmered in waves, bending light, making the air dance like liquid glass.
Every few meters, the bridge split into branching tunnels — some collapsed, others leading deeper. Metallic spikes jutted from the walls, their tips glowing white-hot. Strange markings had been carved into the rock — circles, runes, and lines scorched black by centuries of heat.
Mahin walked first, his face set in grim focus. "This place wasn't made," he said loudly. "It was carved."
Nolan looked down at the glowing rivers beneath them. "If it gets any hotter, we'll burn before we reach the next level."
Bjorn pointed ahead — the path dipped, turning into a tunnel that pulsed with the glow of moving magma. The sound from within was deafening — a roar of boiling stone and metal.
They entered single file.
Inside, the walls were smoother, carved by heat and time. Streams of molten rock oozed through cracks, pooling in glowing pits that illuminated the floor in flickering orange. The ground trembled constantly.Now and then, a jet of flame burst from the walls — not natural, but mechanical, guided by ancient vents that still functioned.
As they descended, the light dimmed — the magma receding deeper, until only the dull pulse of heat remained. A faint wind howled through the cracks ahead, carrying a metallic scent and the distant clang of metal.
The second level awaited.
It was said that this level was where the Labyrinth's heart began — where the molten rivers fueled the great machines buried beneath the world. Down here, the prisoners mined the glowing veins of energy itself, forging weapons, power cores, and contraptions for reasons no one fully understood.
And somewhere, deeper still, beneath the red glow and the endless roar — the molten heart of Baraka itself beat in the dark, alive and watching.