||Echoes Beneath the Stone||
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Seven stepped forward, his boot crunching over fractured stones as the valley's path revealed itself. The mist no longer clung to the ground but hovered above like a fading memory, offering a clearer view of the ancient terrain. The runes etched into the cliffs glowed brighter now—red, then gold, then a blue so deep it seemed to drink the light around it.
Each glow pulsed with the same rhythm as the Core's beat, as if syncing with a heart buried within the world itself. The cliffs surrounding him whispered with wind, but sometimes, between those gusts, Seven heard something else. Whispers not made by air.
He stopped. One hand rested on the pommel of his weapon, and his other pressed against his chest. The mark embedded deep in his soul throbbed faintly, reacting not to danger—but to proximity.
It's near.
The Core was close. He could feel its influence not just around him but within him—like gravity bending his thoughts, instincts, even emotions. His memories flickered. Not just of the Amalthea labs, not the pain or the steel rooms—but something older, like fragments of time not his own pressing forward, trying to make themselves known.
He shook the feeling off and stepped into the narrow passage that led deeper into the cliffs.
-------
The deeper he walked, the more he noticed the path changing. The broken stone beneath his feet gave way to an uneven stairwell, hand-carved and ancient, leading down into a narrow gully between two canyon walls. Every inch of the cliffside was covered in tangled vines and sigils so faded they could barely be distinguished from cracks in the rock.
He descended.
Each step brought him further away from the light. Above, the sky thinned into a pale ribbon between the cliffs, and below—only darkness waited. No torches. No magical guiding lights. The Infinite Planes, as omnipotent as it was, offered no notifications. No assistance. As it should be.
This was his trial.
Halfway through the descent, he heard it again: the whispers.
Not imagined. Not wind. Words—barely perceptible but spoken with intent.
He paused, focusing, filtering everything else out.
"Devourer...Unshaped…Unworthy…"
The words flitted around him like insects in summer heat. They were spoken in different tones, none familiar. Male. Female. Ageless. He looked up, expecting to see illusions or ghosts—but saw only bare stone.
[Caution: Mental interference detected. Passive resistance engaged.]
Seven exhaled sharply. His heartbeat steadied. The Infinite Planes didn't hand out frivolous messages, so for it to issue a caution like this meant something real was pressing against him. Something that even the Infinite Planes thought worthy of notice.
He knew one thing for certain: whatever waited at the end of this path, it wasn't simply a gate to power. It was a filter. A crucible. The kind that erased the unworthy without remorse.
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At the base of the staircase, the air changed again.
Cooler. Wetter.
The path opened into an underground cavern, massive and echoing, the walls dripping with condensation. Ancient roots hung from the ceiling like skeletal fingers, and deep pools of stagnant water reflected a twisted mirror of the world above.
Seven took a careful step forward, his footsteps echoing unnaturally. His senses stretched out, wary. This place was unnatural in every conceivable way. No sound of wildlife, not even the subtle stirrings of insects. Nothing lived here. It felt like the world had forgotten this place—or perhaps had sealed it off intentionally.
He turned his gaze to the far end of the cavern. There, a narrow path of stone bridges stretched over black water, leading to a monolithic slab. It stood tall and silent, shaped like an archway without a door, filled with nothing but darkness.
Seven approached cautiously, the sound of his breath the only thing reminding him he was still tethered to reality. As he walked the stone bridge, he caught a glimpse of something beneath the surface of the water—movement.
He stopped.
The water, still as glass a moment ago, rippled. Something vast moved below, stirring as if it had sensed him. Seven didn't draw his weapon. If whatever it was wanted him dead, he would already be gone. But his focus sharpened.
Whatever swam beneath the stone bridges was old.
And it was watching.
As he reached the archway, the runes on its surface glowed with a pale white light, much softer than those along the cliffs, yet no less potent. They spiraled around its frame, humming with restrained force.
He stepped closer—and something in his soul reacted. The mark on him pulsed in response, and the glow on the arch intensified.
Without warning, the space within the arch twisted.
From emptiness bloomed a field of stars—real, shifting stars. The kind not seen from any planet or plane. The kind only born in realms without names.
And then he saw it.
The Core.
Or rather, a vision of it—an eye, vast and closed, floating among those stars. It wasn't mechanical, nor entirely organic. Its texture shifted like smoke and crystal, breathing slowly.
And it was watching him too.
Then, in a voice that was neither external nor internal but beyond, the Core spoke.
[You stand at the threshold of understanding. Speak, bearer of the mark.]
Seven remained still, breath shallow. There was no need to lie to an entity like this. No use pretending strength he didn't yet have.
"I don't understand what you are," he said. "But I'm here because I must be. I need answers. Power. Control over the chaos that built me, tried to break me, and hunts me still."
There was a silence, as though the Core itself considered his words.
Then:
[Then step forward. And be undone.]
The arch pulsed, and the stars vanished. In their place—a corridor.
He didn't hesitate.
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The corridor was unlike anything he had seen. Walls of shifting crystal and stone, moving as if alive, opened with every step. The pressure increased, bending gravity and sound. His ears rang. His thoughts fractured and reformed.
A test of will.
As he moved, images emerged—hallucinations, dreams, visions. Amalthea's labs. The cold table. Syringes. Scientists with eyes like hollow tunnels. His own body on the operating table, twitching, restrained.
He saw his younger self screaming. Bones breaking. Muscles tearing. The sound of his own voice distorted.
He blinked—and the scene changed. He stood on a battlefield, blood-soaked. Faces of people he didn't recognize screaming his name. Calling him Seeker.
No… that wasn't now. That was the future. A future not yet written but hinted at.
Then the corridor darkened, and the weight of a thousand voices bore down on him.
"You are a failed construct."
"You were made, not born."
"You are less than nothing."
"You cannot carry the Core."
Seven dropped to one knee, teeth gritted. The voices weren't just sound—they were needles digging into his mind. He felt his doubts rising, memories of defeat, helplessness, isolation.
He felt weak. Alone.
But he wasn't.
He clenched his fists.
"I chose this path," he growled. "I wasn't born, no. But I'm more than what they made me. And I will not kneel to whispers."
The mark on his soul blazed.
[Assertion confirmed. Identity stabilization: 87%. Proceed.]
The corridor shook. The voices faded like mist before sunlight.
And the path opened.
---
Seven stepped into a chamber unlike the rest. It was circular, filled with floating glyphs and rings of energy that rotated slowly. At its center, a sphere hovered—crackling with power, its form constantly shifting between matter and energy.
This wasn't the Core.
But it was a fragment.
An anchor.
He approached.
[Touch to claim resonance. Risk level: High. Mental collapse: Possible.]
Seven stared at it. This was not a prize. It was a crucible.
He reached forward.
The moment his fingers made contact, the sphere exploded with light.
And his scream—silent but soul-wracking—echoed across the planes.