The three of them stood before the gaping mouths of the cave's next trial—three branching paths, each veiled in mystery, but all humming with a deep, unseen pressure.
The leftmost path looked strangely normal—worn stone, smooth walls, even a faint breeze flowing through. The kind of path that whispered false safety.
The middle path was cloaked in a crimson fog, tendrils of air twisting like coiling vines. The whispers there were louder—desperate, mocking, almost alive.
But it was the rightmost path that demanded attention. Twisted, jagged stone teeth lined its entrance, the shadows within swallowing even the faintest light. It reeked of rot and something older than fear. No sane person would walk into that.
"I'll go through the middle," Kaito said, his eyes scanning both of them. "It looks like a trap, but it also looks like the only one meant to scare us off, not kill us outright."
The young man—still clutching the side of his ribs where he'd been bruised during the run—nodded. "Then I'll take the left one. Something about it feels… unfinished. Like it was never meant to be seen again."
Herwoj didn't speak. His eyes were locked on the horrific cave to the right.
From the moment he stood in front of it, something had changed.
A black line had appeared—no, emerged—from his own body. A thin, smoky thread, almost invisible to the others, seeping from the left side of his torso and stretching into the cave like a tether. It pulsed like a heartbeat. It wasn't pulling him—but it was calling to him.
He didn't know what it meant. But after everything that had happened… he couldn't ignore it.
"I'm going right," Herwoj finally said.
The other two looked at him, Kaito's expression unreadable. "That one looks like death."
"I know," Herwoj replied quietly. "But something's waiting for me in there."
There was no time for argument. The walls trembled faintly—remnants of the monster still hunting somewhere behind them.
Without another word, the three went their separate ways, the air growing colder as they stepped deeper into the unknown.
And the cave, watching silently, closed its mouth behind them.
The tunnel Herwoj walked into reeked of rot and forgotten time. Black moss pulsed faintly beneath his boots, and the deeper he went, the more it felt like the cave breathed.
He whispered under his breath, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.
"Why… Why did I even choose this path?"
He glanced down again at the dark line stretching from his torso, threading through his flesh like a phantom tether. It pulled him forward—toward something only he could see. Something silent. Demanding. The line disappeared into the dark, as if it was part of the cave itself.
His boots squelched as he stepped into ankle-deep puddles of cold liquid—murky, almost bloodlike. He didn't flinch. Not anymore.
"Things are moving too fast…" he murmured, his voice hollow.
He thought of Carmicheal.
"Am I just a pawn to you? Another move on some broken board?"
He wasn't sure anymore. He'd read some of this—the script of the world—but now that he was living it, it was all unraveling. Too many twists. Too much silence between answers.
Suddenly, a soundless wind blew through the tunnel.
The temperature plummeted.
Then came the mist.
At first, it was a shimmer, like invisible static warping the air. But soon, it thickened—colorless, yet undeniably present. It enveloped everything. Time slowed. The cave echoed with silence.
And Herwoj felt it.
That memory.
That curse.
Scene Shift: Highschool Memories
He was fifteen again. Standing in front of his locker. Alone.
Six fingers on each hand.
His eyes — one deep amber, the other ghostly blue.
White streaks through his black hair. Pale skin.
A face they called demonic.
He had Waardenburg syndrome. He wasn't deaf like the textbook said he should be. But people looked at him like he wasn't human. Like a glitch. Like something that shouldn't exist.
And his body.
A lean, abnormal frame. Too thin. Too quiet. Skin too pale.
Waardenburg syndrome, they'd said. Just a condition.
But for them, it was a curse. A punchline.
"Hey freak. What's it like having six fingers? Bet it helps with scratching your demon horns."
Laughter. From behind. From the side. From everywhere.
Hands shoved him. A book slammed into his back.
He didn't cry. He never cried.
He just kept his head down and prayed that one day, something would change.
But it got worse.
One day, they locked him in a maintenance closet for six hours.
"Be grateful we didn't burn you alive."
He scratched at the door. Whispered to himself to stay sane. No one came.
When they finally let him out, they laughed.
"Guess the demon couldn't break through wood. Useless cursed thing."
Herwoj never told his mom.
Because she already had too much to carry.
"I don't want to remember this…" he muttered, falling to his knees. "Why now…?"
Then — the worst memory returned.
Then came the day the house burned.
He remembered running—running with a knife in his hand.
But he hadn't stabbed anyone.
He remembered the fire, the neighbors, the blood.
His mother collapsed at the foot of the stairs.
His father arrested—screaming that it wasn't his fault.
And the voices…
"You did this, Herwoj…"
His mother's voice. But not hers. Twisted. Drenched in guilt.
"You were the reason I screamed. You brought the madness."
He clutched his ears.
"STOP!"
Back to the Cave
Herwoj dropped to his knees.
The mist tightened around him like a vice.
"STOP STOP STOP!!!"
From his chest, cracks burst outward—black lightning spiraling across the cave walls. Dark energy—shimmering like ink in water—began to flood the tunnel. It looked like a cursed void given form, swallowing the light, screaming without sound.
The walls trembled.
Ceiling fractures spread like spiderwebs.
Then the mist turned red, his memory clashing with reality. And in that war of minds, his very soul began to fragment.
Eyes wide. Bloodshot. Herwoj screamed.
"CARMICHEAL!!!"
A beat.
Silence.
Then—
From somewhere inside his body, Carmicheal's voice spoke, cold and clear.
"Yes. I'm here."
Herwoj, now possessed, his body trembling like a haunted blade, raised his head.
From his eyes—Carmicheal looked outward.
And what he saw—
A single sword, standing in the middle of the mist-filled chamber, untouched by time. Floating an inch off the ground, perfectly balanced.
Dark. Elegant. Ancient.
A violent vortex of energy seeped from it, drawn to Herwoj's outburst. It fed off it.
The cursed mist clung to it like a cloak.
Carmicheal smiled through Herwoj's lips.
And whispered:
"That's the final piece."
Carmicheal appeared in his domain — a space of golden gears and shattering mirrors, the mental world he built to interact with Herwoj.
With a snap, he pulled Herwoj's consciousness back.
Herwoj collapsed into the marble floor, his expression dull. No emotion. Just blankness.
Carmicheal sighed. "Ugh. When will he snap out of this?"
He smacked his own head with both hands before inhaling deeply, composing himself, and kneeling beside Herwoj.
"Hey. Listen. The energy is under control. I helped you suppress it. But we need to move. That sword you saw — it's meant for you."
Herwoj blinked slowly.
"…Thanks," he said quietly.
He stood, still shaken, and stepped back into the physical world.
The sword was still there, embedded in the floor. As he approached, the ground pulsed — once.
Then, a voice.
Low. Echoing from the walls.
"You are not worthy."
The sword began to shift. Its blade bent, twisted, and shattered.
Herwoj stepped back as shards of iron floated in the air, assembling themselves with terrifying precision into a living armor.
A suit of dark, iron-clad plates now stood before him — not empty. Breathing. Moving.
It had no eyes. Only glowing scars where its face should be.
The mist warped behind it, mimicking wings, and the sound of heavy chains dragged behind its steps.
The figure that stood before Herwoj was not merely armor, but something ancient and imposing, forged in a time when emotions bled into steel. The plates of metal didn't shine like polished steel—they absorbed light, matte and blackened, scarred with cracks that pulsed faintly with flickers of red, as if rage still lived within.
The armored figure stood tall, motionless, until a flash of silver spun through the air. A sword—old, jagged, and humming with restrained power—landed before Herwoj with a metallic clang.
"If you can land a single hit," the figure said, its voice metallic and hollow, echoing like a forgotten oath spoken from the bottom of a well, "I will allow myself to be wielded by you."
Herwoj's grip tightened. He charged, driven by instinct, by pride, by desperation.
Steel clashed with shadows.
Each strike from Herwoj was fast, focused, yet the armored phantom brushed them aside effortlessly, like an elder swatting away the tantrum of a child.
"This is the strength that brought you here?" the phantom scoffed, parrying Herwoj's blade without even looking. "No weight. No meaning. Did the cave pity you and let you crawl deeper?"
Herwoj snarled, his breathing quickening. Rage flared—sharp and molten—but quickly cooled. He paused. Oddly… he felt calm. Not from confidence, but from something else—clarity.
A memory stirred. A specific sensation. A different way of thinking.
He stepped back, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek, and summoned his status screen.
The phantom didn't wait. It came down on him with an overhead slash—brutal, final. Herwoj blocked, but the force hurled him across the room like a ragdoll.
CRACK.
His back slammed against the cave wall, a burst of blood spraying from his mouth. His vision flickered.
Carmichael's voice rang inside his head, calm yet intense.
"Use the energy from before—the hatred, the fear. Let it burn. Let it guide you."
"No," Herwoj muttered, wiping blood from his lip. "I trust myself."
He stared at the hazy screen floating in front of him—distorted, twitching, flickering like an unstable signal. Not even the system seemed to know what he was doing.
"…Yes," he whispered. "Everything's in place."
Carmichael hissed, "What are you doing, boy?"
Herwoj's fingers moved fast across the screen, writing in a language that didn't belong to this world. Curves, sigils, backward characters—like the scribbles of something not quite human.
Another strike came. The phantom didn't hold back this time. The sword came down, cleaving into Herwoj's chest with bone-shattering force.
Thud.
He collapsed. The air trembled.
Carmichael's voice cracked, "How long is that damned idea going to take?"
Herwoj grinned weakly, blood staining his teeth.
"I'm done."
The phantom raised its sword for the final blow—one last strike to erase this foolish mortal.
And then—
He vanished.
In an instant, Herwoj reappeared beside the armored figure, his own blade already mid-swing. A whisper in the wind, a flash of motion too quick for the eye.
Steel tore through metal.
The sword struck the phantom's abdomen—deep, decisive, and real.
A pause.
The silence was heavier than the blow.