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N/B : Yoy!! Guys Don't forget to check my other works: [ Shadow Monarch Ă Harry Potter. ]
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Third POV:
The halls of Level 6 stretched endlessly before Akai, a seemingly infinite fractal of despair carved from living rock. They were dimly lit by flickering torches ensconced in rusted iron sconces, their flames guttering low as if starved for oxygen, casting just enough light to reveal the terrifying outlines of the passageway but not enough to banish the deep, clinging shadows that pooled in every crevice and doorway. Stone walls, slick with a perpetual, cold dampness, were scarred with deep scratches, some fresh and stark against the dark stone, others ancient and smoothed by time, a layered history of countless failed escapes and final, frantic struggles. They towered on either side, converging in the darkness ahead into a vanishing point that felt like the mouth of some great beast. Pools of stagnant water, black and iridescent with a foul film, dotted the uneven floor, reflecting the twisted, leaping shadows that danced across the floor like tormented ghosts. Chains dangled from above in chaotic profusion, swaying with an eerie, unseen rhythm, occasionally clanging against the walls with a hollow, mournful sound that echoed through the labyrinthine corridors, a sound that seemed to carry whispers on its tail.
The air reeked of mold, of wet stone, of old blood soaked so deep into the foundation it had become part of the atmosphere, and of despair, a metallic tang of fear that was thick enough to taste at the back of the throat, coating the tongue with the flavor of utter hopelessness. Every step he took echoed like a hammer on a drum, a solitary proclamation of life in a realm of silence, yet the silence between the sounds felt heavier, almost alive, a listening presence that resented the intrusion. The occasional distant roar, a sound of pure, undiluted rage, or a tortured scream that was cut off with abrupt finality, served as a grim reminder that a swift, brutal death lurked in every shadow, behind every corner, waiting for a moment of weakness.
Akai's boots crunched over broken stone and debris, over the ever-present carpet of bone fragments, as he moved carefully, his body still aching from the fight but humming with his new strength, his eyes constantly scanning the corridors, trying to map the impossible twists and turns. His brow furrowed in concentration and frustration. "The hellâŠthis place is like a maze designed by a madman. Who the fuck built it? And why make it so damn big?" The questions were pointless, but they filled the silence, kept his mind from dwelling on the scale of his imprisonment.
Suddenly, a new sound cut through the ambient dreadâheavy, deliberate footfalls echoing from a side corridor behind him. They were slow, measured, the confident steps of someone who owned these halls. Akai turned slightly, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of a rusty dagger, and saw the massive form of a Level 6 Guardian materialize from the gloom. He was a hulking brute, taller and broader than even Gorran, his face a roadmap of old scars, one eye milky and blind. A massive, studded iron baton swung at his side, a tool designed for breaking bones, not enforcing order.
Before the guardian could even open his mouth to demand identification or issue a threat, Akai moved. It wasn't a thought-out decision; it was pure, survivalist instinct. His fist, empowered by his increased strength, shot out like a cannon, a blur of motion fueled by adrenaline and the desperate need to maintain the element of surprise. It connected squarely with the man's jaw. The sound was horrificâa wet crunch of cartilage and bone, mixed with the clatter of the keys on his belt. The brute's head snapped to the side, and he stumbled back violently, his bulk crashing against the damp wall with a sickening, meaty thud. He slid down to the floor, groaning in pained, wet confusion, his one good eye rolling back in his head. Dust and ancient mortar rained down from the impact, and the flickering torchlight danced across Akai's blood-smeared face, highlighting the cold determination in his eyes.
Akai shook his hand, flexing his fingers. A sharp pain lanced through his knuckles. He rubbed them and muttered under his breath, "Fuck⊠his face is so hard. Feels like I just punched a brick wall. Looks like my teacher's ass." He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, and wiped a fresh bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. "Anyway⊠of course there will be guardians in this place. Should've expected a welcoming committee."
As the guardian groaned on the floor, struggling to regain coherence, Akai's eyes glimmered with a sudden, brilliant thought. A plan was forming, audacious and simple. "Wait⊠if I do this right, it would be easier for me to walk through this place. Why skulk like a rat when I can march like I own the place?"
He knelt quickly, his movements efficient. He rolled the massive, unconscious man over and began stripping the distinctive black uniform: a thick, long-sleeved jacket reinforced with leather patches at the shoulders and elbows, sturdy, steel-toed boots, and a heavy utility belt filled with keys, a small canteen, and a few other unidentifiable tools. The uniform smelled faintly of iron, stale sweat, and cheap soap, but it was clean and, surprisingly, it fit him almost perfectly, the fabric stiff and authoritative.
Akai held the large, heavy set of keys in his hand, eyeing the dozens of scattered keys that had fallen from the guardian's beltâkeys of all sizes and shapes, some modern, others ancient and ornate, undoubtedly keys to prison cells, guard offices, and maybe even camera control rooms. He smirked, his mind racing with the possibilities. "Come to me, baby⊠I'm sure you'll be useful." The weight of the keyring was a tangible promise of access.
He fastened the uniform securely, adjusted the belt so it sat comfortably on his hips, and slipped the keys into a large loop. Standing tall, he examined himself in the dim, reflective surface of a nearby puddle of waterâthe image staring back was not a prisoner, but a perfect, if slightly blood-spattered, disguise for a Level 6 guardian. The transformation was shocking. He looked the part.
"Let's go," he muttered to his reflection, the words a command.
He began walking again, but now his stride was different. He moved with a deliberate, confident pace through the dark, winding corridors, trying to mimic the rolling, powerful gait of the guards he'd seen. To himself, he began softly singing, almost absentmindedly, the old, familiar tune echoing off the stone walls, a stark contrast to the surrounding horror:
"Far over the Misty Mountains cold, To dungeons deep and caverns old, We must away ere break of day, To find our long-forgotten gold..."
The melody, a relic from a world of stories and adventure, helped steady his nerves, the familiar rhythm and words grounding him, creating a small bubble of sanity amid the overwhelming oppression. It was a shield against the silence that wanted to swallow him.
After about fifteen minutes of this cautious, disguised progress, the character of the corridor changed. The random scratches on the walls became more organized, almost like crude sigils. The air grew colder. Akai came to a halt before a large, unusually reinforced door, unlike the simple iron-barred gates of the cells. It was made of solid, aged oak banded with black iron, covered in deep scratches, dents, and dark stains. He paused, squinting at the damage, the history of violence etched into its surface. He ran a finger along the cold, pitted metal of a band and muttered to himself: "Why was I singing that song?It just⊠popped in. And⊠wait⊠see, I found something. This isn't a cell."
He grasped the heavy iron ring that served as a handle, inhaled sharply, and pushed. The door resisted for a moment, then gave way with a long, low groan that spoke of disuse, swinging open slowly on protesting hinges to reveal something unlike anything he had ever seen in his entire life.
A vast, cavernous chamber stretched out before him, so immense its far walls were lost in gloom. It was illuminated not by torches, but by a strange, sourceless, flickering green light that seemed to emanate from the very air, casting everything in a sickly, underwater hue. The walls were not bare stone; they were covered in intricate, spiraling carvings that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light, like they were veins carrying some unknown energy. Shadows did not simply lie here; they danced across the floor, twisting and coiling, forming shapes that seemed to move with almost intentional malice before dissolving back into the gloom. Massive, swirling pools of a thick, black, tar-like liquid bubbled sluggishly across the floor, and within their depths, towering, indistinct figures seemed to stir, shifting in the abyssal fluid. The air hummed with a palpable, electric energy, thick and heavy, making the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. It was a place of power, and of profound wrongness.
Akai stepped forward over the threshold, his eyes wide, his jaw tight. The guardian's boots made no sound on the strange, smooth floor of this chamber. "Holy⊠what the hell is this?"
The sheer, impossible magnitude of the chamber, its alien, non-Euclidean architecture, and the unseen, ancient presence it seemed to radiate left him utterly speechless, all song dying in his throat. This was no simple prison corridor. This was something else entirely.
And that's where it stopped.
[ End of Chapter 7.]
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