Ikai Liu reached out his hand, but the inscription, which had been clearly visible before, began to disappear, crumbling into invisible grains of sand.
This moment seemed not just a physical act, but also a symbol of the loss of his former life, which was gradually fading away like the text.
Every grain of sand that fell to the ground reminded him of the memories he could not hold onto, of what had once been important.
"They know who I am. And they don't want me to remember."
This thought pierced him like a cold blade.
Who were these "they"? Why was the truth being hidden from him? The questions multiplied like waves on the sea, crashing one after another. He realized that his identity was being threatened in this new world.
He sat down next to the stove, staring into the void. The void was not just a lack of things. It was a deep abyss that reflected his inner turmoil and fears.
Everything was different now. He felt that something or someone in this place had knowledge of his past.
This entity may have been watching him, observing his every reaction. And it insisted that he not be. The sand within him shuddered, as if reacting to this prohibition.
"Min Jae must not."
It was as if someone in the heart of the Void was trying to claw out his essence. The memory of Earth, of the past, of the body that was once his, was at risk of being erased.
Ikai Liu walked on, as if running, though his feet sank in the dust. The name was forbidden to be, so it still meant something.
Ikai Liu. This was the name that the body bore. But who bore the pain?
The transition was almost imperceptible, a crack in the wall, a jagged gap between the bones of the columns. He crawled through where there should have been a dead echo... but the silence crunched.
He crawled into a passage that was too narrow, and it seemed to go on forever. The stone, bare and cold, rubbed against his shoulders, causing discomfort and pain.
The scrape of his skin against the rough surface was particularly acute.
Every movement was difficult, and with each breath, he felt as if the air was becoming thicker, like clay. It wasn't just about breathing; it was as if he was sinking into oblivion, something that weighed heavily on him, taking away his strength and confidence.
The first thing he heard in this obscurity, a whisper, obscure and mysterious.
"…should not…"
He froze, his heart racing. But it was his voice, even though it didn't come from his mouth.
Ikai felt vibrations emanating from the walls, as if they were alive. It was unsettling and frightening. Before he could process what was happening, the walls began to speak his thoughts.
"This... is not mine..."
He whispered, and his words echoed back to him.
"...not yours..."
They responded with a delay, as if there was an entire universe between them and his feelings, full of unsolvable questions and fears.
He closed his eyes to focus. And in that moment, as his mind sank into a deep darkness, he felt the walls around him begin to close in.
It wasn't just a physical process, it was a reflection of his inner struggle. He knew that if he didn't find the strength to overcome it, he would remain a prisoner of his own thoughts forever.
The voice that echoed in Ikai's mind didn't belong to him. It didn't even belong to the Star, the brilliant entity that had always been there.
It was something different, something raw, but at the same time familiar. It was an order that could not be ignored.
His inner world was filled with tension. The words, spoken with bewilderment, seemed to cut into his consciousness, leaving a mark.
"Don't repeat. Create."
They did not echo, nor did they spread across the empty walls, but instead filled the space around him, making him wary. The walls seemed to be waiting. Every detail, every sound, everything suddenly became important.
He slowly opened his eyes. Impossible sensations filled him, as if he had just awakened from a long sleep. The space around him gradually took on a clear shape... as if escorting him out of the catacombs.
It took Ikai a moment to realize that he had escaped from the labyrinth of the catacombs. These underground structures, like sea foam, receded without offering any resistance.
***
Silence enveloped him, preventing him from understanding what had happened. Only the fine dust on his shoulders and the dark stain under his nails reminded him of his recent stay in this gloomy place.
This place should have been foreign to him, but now it had left an indelible mark on him.
He walked for a long time without a specific destination. His only desire was to leave this eerie space.
The sand beneath his feet no longer whispered, but instead scratched against his feet, as if protesting against his presence. Every step was difficult, and the air around him grew heavier.
The landscape changed, and he found himself surrounded by an endless desert, where the silence was overwhelming.
Finally, Ikai Liu came across something unexpected. In front of him was an abandoned camp, its traces still visible.
The burnt remains of campfires, the charred wooden structures, and the scattered belongings all hinted at the once-bustling activity. The remnants of tents swayed in the wind like ghosts of the past.
The atmosphere was one of abandonment and sadness. He felt a pang in his chest.
This camp might have been the last resting place for those who had not returned.
The fire pit was still warm, its ashes glowing faintly in the dim light, as if the fire had been extinguished only moments ago.
The cups were scattered nearby, and each had faint lip prints on it, as if the last person who had drunk from them had left an invisible mark of their presence.
A crumpled, tattered letter lay on the ground. It had handwritten marks on it, but there was no ink—only deep indentations pressed into the paper, as if the words had been etched into it by force of will.
Bones. Small and porous, they were arranged in a peculiar pattern, as if someone had carefully shaped them into something.
It was not a complete form, but a suggestion, a hint of a design that teetered on the edge of recognition.
They seemed to whisper of an unspoken story, a mystery waiting to be unraveled.
But the most striking thing was the emptiness that surrounded them.
There were no signs of entry or exit, no scents to hint at the presence of living beings, not even the whisper of an echo, that ethereal resonance that usually lingers in places where emotions run high.
The emptiness stretched out in all directions, heavy and suffocating, as if all the air had been sucked out of it, leaving behind a deafening silence.
There was too much emptiness. It was almost unnatural, as if someone had carefully erased all traces of life from this place, leaving behind only fragments, hints, and questions.
"It's as if someone was trying to imitate life... but they were never truly alive."
[The first cell is open].
[Object: Sandglass.]
He reached into his chest, where the star glowed white, and pulled out the Sandglass.
The artifact, cold and heavy in his hand, had been retrieved from the deepest recesses of the catacombs.
As soon as his fingers touched her, the star in his chest hummed softly, its quiet resonance echoing in his ribs, as if setting in motion a delicate, ancient mechanism.
The glass itself seemed to shudder slightly, as if it were being controlled by some invisible force, which now pulsed in time with the rhythmic beating of his own heart.
"I wonder what I will see?"
The palm flared, and a sudden burst of light seemed to ignite the air around it. The glass began to pulse, its surface rippling like water disturbed by an invisible force, and he brought it closer to his eyes, peering into its depths with a mixture of anticipation and fear.
The world was about to change, he knew it. The camp was about to come to life, to reveal its secrets, to show who had been here before him.
It seemed that the very fabric of time and space was trembling with the tension of anticipation, as if the universe itself were holding its breath.
"Nothing happened. Or rather, something did happen, but it wasn't what I expected."
He saw or rather, he didn't see anything. It seemed that the very space around the camp had been turned inside out, its dimensions distorted beyond recognition.
It was as if something in this place was hidden from prying eyes, sealed by a force that defied comprehension, hidden not only from his own eyes, but even from the distant stars that watched over the world.
The darkness that filled the void was viscous, impenetrable, thick as soot, and weighted with a lack that seemed almost tangible.
It hung in the air, suffocating and relentless, a darkness that seemed to exist beyond the laws of physics, beyond the realm of possibility. It was a darkness that shouldn't have been there, but it was there, consuming everything in its path.
"It can't be that dark in here!"
And then, just when he was beginning to despair, something stirred in the blue depths of the Sand Glass.
At first, it was a faint flicker of light that danced on the edge of perception, but then it grew stronger, more distinct.
It was an emblem – a moon-shaped cross, its form both familiar and alien. It was more than just a symbol; it was something deeper.
It was an inverted belief, a reflection of truth turned upside down, a reminder of a world that once existed but was now lost in time.
For a moment, the emblem flared brightly, illuminating the darkness around it with a cold, otherworldly light. And then, just as suddenly, it disappeared, leaving behind only an echo of its presence and a sense of unease that hung in the air like a warning.
He dropped the glass.
It didn't break, but it fell into the sand and froze, as if it were afraid.
"I wasn't allowed in."
"Not because I'm weak... but because someone had set up a protection. Much earlier. Much deeper."
He looked up. Above the fire pit, a tiny piece of wood driven into the sand. Burned. With a crescent moon carved into it.
The Coffin and the Cross. The echo that wasn't there.
Ikai slowly retreated.
He felt: he was expected here. Or, worse, created.