Chapter 76 – Echoes of the Lost Tribe
The first thing Blake felt was heat.
It pressed against his face like a furnace, dry and smothering. When he opened his eyes, all he saw was gold light bleeding through a haze of dust. The floor beneath him was stone—smooth, ancient, humming faintly beneath his palms.
Blake noticed Lysa laying in front of him covered in dust.
"Lysa…" he coughed, voice hoarse. "You alive?"
A low groan answered. "Barely."
She sat up slowly, brushing grit off her cloak. Her pale hair was tangled with sand and ash. They were both still in their gear, but the air around them was different—heavy, muffled, like sound itself didn't want to travel here.
Blake stood and squinted down the long hall ahead. It stretched into shadow, lined with towering pillars carved with faintly glowing sigils. The faint hum of magic pulsed through the floor like a heartbeat.
"Where the hell are we?" he muttered.
"The pyramid," Lysa said softly, studying the walls. "We must've been dragged in when it activated."
He kicked at a stray chunk of stone. "Figures. One giant turtle gets killed, and now we're in an ancient deathtrap."
Lysa smirked faintly. "You volunteered for this."
"I volunteered because John wanted to do this."
Despite the tension, his voice kept her grounded. They began walking side by side, their footsteps echoing faintly. The air was cooler deeper inside, though it carried a scent of metal and something burnt.
For a while, neither spoke. Then Blake said, "We should find the others."
"I know."
"They're tough. —they'll handle themselves." He paused, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "Still… doesn't feel right. We need to find everyone quickly."
Lysa nodded but didn't reply.
The silence stretched until Blake sighed. "You've been weird lately."
She blinked. "What?"
"You know—off. Quiet. Sneaking out at night, listening at doors, acting like you're waiting for something to happen."
Her jaw tensed. "That's none of your business."
Blake stopped walking, frowning. "Maybe not. But if something's wrong, we need to know. We're a team, remember?"
Her eyes flashed briefly, a flicker of anger—or fear. "I said drop it, Blake."
He raised both hands. "Fine. Dropped. Just saying—it's getting hard to trust you with all this happening."
She turned away. "Keep walking."
He exhaled through his nose and followed.
They reached the end of the corridor, where a doorway gaped open into a square chamber. The walls were smooth, plain, and bare. In the center stood a single slab of black stone that might've been an altar or a coffin—there was no way to tell.
Blake glanced around. "Great and empty room with a coffin in the middle. Always a good sign."
Lysa stepped past him cautiously, scanning the corners. "Be careful—"
The door behind them slammed shut.
The sound was thunder, shaking the floor beneath their feet. The glowing runes along the walls flared crimson, one by one, like veins pulsing with blood.
Blake spun, slamming his shoulder into the sealed door. It didn't budge.
Lysa pressed a hand to the door, her breath trembling. "There's a ward on it. It's not just locked—it's sealed."
The temperature dropped suddenly, breath misting in the air. A faint vibration moved through the stone under their boots.
"Tell me that's just the wind," Blake whispered.
Lysa didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the center of the room—the slab of stone.
It was moving.
Dust slid down its edges as the top began to shift, just slightly, scraping against the base with a low grinding sound.
Both of them froze.
After a long moment, the movement stopped. The red glow dimmed again, fading to a faint, sickly orange.
Lysa stepped back until she hit the wall. "We're not alone," she whispered.
Blake raised his hammer, eyes fixed on the slab. "Yeah… no kidding."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The air tasted of stone and iron.
They didn't move. Neither dared to breathe too loudly.
Then, from somewhere deep in the pyramid, they heard a sound—distant, echoing, like a door slamming far below.
It sounded like someone—or something—else had just woken up.
The darkness was thick as oil.
John's boots crunched against gravel as he walked down the narrow tunnel, his hand dragging along the wall. Ember's light flickered from his shoulder, painting the passage in shifting amber.
"How did we get in here?," he muttered.
Alaric's voice whispered in John's mind.
"Because of your curse, the realms recognize you. Most who come to this pyramid never pass its threshold—they only fight the surface monsters. But you… you step into the true realm hidden beneath. The world itself opens to you in ways it shouldn't. That's also why you were able to get the spear and enter revenak."
John replied "does that mean we are inside of a realm that's connected to the pyramid?"
"It does," Alaric replied from within his mind. "A realm sustained by memory and blood. Be wary—the air itself watches."
He reached a corner where the tunnel widened into a low-ceilinged room. The light from Ember spilled ahead, glinting off smooth walls covered in faint carvings. The air smelled of salt and old incense.
He stepped inside.
The floor was bare stone. The only object in the room was a massive slab in the center—half altar, half table—surrounded by primitive drawings carved into the walls.
The walls were gold-veined sandstone, lined with etchings that shimmered faintly when he moved. Every inch of it felt ancient… alive.
'Alaric's voice murmured in his mind. "The pyramid shifted reality around you. You're inside one of its domains now."
John pushed himself up, scanning the corridor ahead. "Fantastic. A walking maze that eats time and space."
He took a few careful steps forward. Ember followed, floating just above his shoulder. As they moved, the walls pulsed faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat, like the pyramid itself was breathing.
Then, ahead, John heard the echo of stone grinding shut.
The passage opened into a wide chamber — the same one from the second image. The ceiling arched high overhead, glowing faintly with embedded crystals. Strange markings spiraled across the floor in looping patterns like constellations.
Ember fluttered down and landed beside him, letting out a nervous chirp. The creature's flames dimmed, ears flat.
Then came the noise.
A shrill, keening cry — half scream, half chant — echoing from above.
John looked up just as something dropped from the ceiling.
The creature hit the floor in a crouch, sand bursting outward in a ring. The creature that stood before him looked like a caricature of the pyramid itself brought to life. Its body was squat and stone-like, shaped like a miniature pyramid with jagged ridges for teeth carved along its edges. A single, oversized eye glared from beneath its golden peak, glowing with manic energy. In one stubby hand it held a crooked blade that dripped with strange, shimmering fluid.
It wasn't alone.
More dropped — three, four, five — until nearly a dozen surrounded him, circling. Their chittering voices filled the air in that strange, broken dialect.
John lifted a hand, ready to summon flame. Ember growled low beside him.
But they didn't attack.
They tilted their heads, clicking softly to one another, and one of them — smaller than the rest — stepped closer. It reached out a long, stone-like hand and touched John's boot.
Then it turned and pointed toward the far wall.
The surface there was covered in carvings — lines so intricate they almost shimmered in Ember's light. The creatures gestured frantically toward it, then back to him, as if begging him to look.
"They're not hostile," Alaric said quietly. "These are echoes — fragments of what once lived here. The walls remember by using the murals."
John approached slowly, keeping his guard up. The carvings pulsed with faint light as he drew near. Ember's glow reflected off the lines, making them move, rearranging themselves into a story.
The first mural showed people — short, graceful, adorned in gold bands — walking beneath the pyramid's light. They worked the sands into crops, shaped storms into rivers. They were happy.
The next carving darkened. A black sun rose over the horizon, and from it came shadows — long-limbed creatures with jagged heads, like the ones in the fourth image. The sky above them split, and the people's light dimmed.
John's brow furrowed. "The darkness overtook them…"
He moved to the next wall.
The tribe's warriors gathered under a massive figure — The leader clad in a crimson-stained cloak and crowned with a geometric helm that hides all weakness, he carries the great blade not as an executioner's tool but as a standard of authority.
The chains around him suggest order rather than bondage—links that bind chaos under his rule.
Amid the smoke and ruin, he appears like a sentinel-king of a fallen realm: silent, unyielding, and destined to bear the weight of judgment
But the next image made John's chest tighten.
It showed the leader falling — impaled by black energy, his body shattering into pieces that scattered through the air. Behind him, the people screamed as their light extinguished.
And then, the cycle began.
The carvings twisted — people kneeling before altars, blood spilling into runic channels. Their souls rose from their bodies and were drawn into the pyramid's heart. In the next scene, the same people stood alive again — reborn — only to be dragged once more to sacrifice.
Endless. Unending.
John's throat tightened. "It's a loop…"
"A prison," Alaric said softly. "They were caretakers once. When the darkness corrupted their leader, the pyramid sealed itself — trapping their souls within. Now it feeds on them, eternally recreating their lives to keep its energy alive."
The small creatures gathered at his feet began to tremble. Their voices rose — not in anger, but grief. Their bodies flickered like dying candles.
John reached out and brushed his fingers against the carvings. The surface was warm — pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
"These people…" he whispered. "They're still here."
"Not alive," Alaric corrected. "Not dead, either. You're standing in their echo. This realm is the scar their suffering left behind."
The chamber dimmed as the murals faded again, returning to stillness.
Only the faint hum of the pyramid's core remained.
The creatures shuffled backward, bowing low, their glowing eyes dimming as they sank into the sand — returning to whatever dream had summoned them.
John stood alone.
Ember chirped quietly, pressing against his leg.
John whispered, "I'll find a way to end it. No one deserves to be trapped like this."
"Be cautious," Alaric said. "Realms like this don't let go of their chains easily. They break those who try."
John turned toward the dark corridor ahead, where faint light flickered deep within — a pulse, like the pyramid's heart calling to him.
He squared his shoulders, the air growing heavier with every breath.
"Then it'll have to try harder."
He walked into the dark, leaving behind the murals — and the quiet ghosts still watching him go.