The underground passage stretched on without end. The sound of Reiji's footsteps bounced off the stone walls, multiplying into hundreds of faint echoes that followed him like ghosts. The deeper he went, the colder the air became—thick, heavy, almost breathing with him. His lantern's flame wavered as if frightened to touch the darkness ahead.
He had entered the Labyrinth under orders from the Court, but he knew better than to trust their motives. Every mission they gave him was a test; every shadow another set of eyes watching. Still, he pressed on, because beneath this maze of corridors was a name whispered in the underworld—the Keeper of Forgotten Voices.
A faint hum began to rise from the stone itself, like the resonance of a hidden mechanism. Reiji stopped. The flame stretched toward the sound.
Then—click.
The ground beneath him shifted, and the walls rippled like water. The corridor rearranged itself, sealing the path behind him and opening another ahead.
"Of course," Reiji muttered under his breath. "A living maze."
He moved forward, counting every turn in silence. Left, right, right again, down a flight of uneven stairs. The deeper he went, the stronger the humming became, until it vibrated in his chest. It was almost musical—a pattern of notes that seemed to repeat something, like a coded message.
Then he heard it: a whisper.
"Who walks among echoes?"
Reiji drew his blade but said nothing. The voice came from everywhere—behind him, beside him, even beneath the stones. He tightened his grip.
"I came for answers," he said finally. "From the Keeper."
Silence. Then a low, echoing laughter that didn't sound entirely human.
"Answers demand a price, Shadow of the Court."
Reiji frowned. Few in the underworld ever used that name.
"Then name it."
A faint blue light appeared ahead, outlining a massive chamber beyond the twisting corridor. He stepped into it cautiously. The space opened into a circular hall, the walls carved with runes that glowed faintly like veins of light. At the center stood a mirror—cracked, fogged, yet pulsing with a dim heartbeat of blue.
Inside the reflection, he saw himself—but not quite. His reflection smiled back even though he did not.
"Your memories are out of balance," the reflection said. "One must be offered to walk out alive."
Reiji's expression hardened. "You think I'll just give up my mind?"
The reflection tilted its head. "Not your mind. Just the part that still hesitates."
Before he could react, the mirror shattered outward, the shards hovering in midair like suspended glass blades. Each piece reflected a different version of him—laughing, bleeding, kneeling, standing over a body he couldn't recognize.
He clenched his teeth. "So that's how it is."
The shards lunged at him.
Reiji spun, his blade slicing through the air. Each strike met glass and sent sparks of blue light scattering like fireflies. The walls responded to every impact, the hum shifting into a chaotic rhythm that almost resembled applause.
He fought not the mirror, but himself—every hesitation, every regret that had been buried beneath the layers of his missions. Every shard he cut down showed him a memory: the look in Kaede's eyes when he walked away, the bloodied insignia of his old unit, the night he took his first life for the Court.
When the final shard fell, the hum quieted. Only his breathing remained. The fragments melted into mist, spiraling upward until they condensed into a faint human form—the Keeper.
A tall figure, robed in tattered silver, eyes hidden beneath a hood of light. Its voice was layered, as if several people spoke in unison.
"You carry too many shadows, Reiji."
"Better me than the world above," he replied.
The Keeper's gaze flickered toward the mark on his hand—the sigil of the Shadow Court. "You will betray them. And you will not know when."
Reiji sheathed his blade slowly. "If that's prophecy, keep it. I deal in choices, not fates."
The Keeper extended a hand, and the labyrinth walls began to shift again. "Then choose your next path. Each door leads to a truth you are not ready to face."
Three corridors opened before him. One glowed faint red, pulsing like blood. The second shimmered with pale light. The third was pure darkness—no reflection, no sound.
Without hesitation, Reiji stepped into the dark.
The Keeper's voice echoed behind him, soft, almost mournful.
"The deeper the shadow, the more it remembers the light."
The passage swallowed him whole.
He emerged into another hall—smaller, emptier, yet lined with rows of statues. Each figure bore the same face: his own. They held blades, tomes, and masks; each wore a different emotion—rage, sorrow, indifference.
Reiji walked among them, brushing dust from one of the statues. Its eyes glimmered faintly, almost alive.
"This place…" he murmured, "…isn't a labyrinth. It's a reflection."
He understood then: the labyrinth wasn't meant to keep people out. It was meant to keep the truth in—to bury what the Court feared most.
At the far end of the hall, a single pedestal held a cracked tablet inscribed with a symbol he recognized—the Mark of the First Shadow, the origin of his order. He traced the symbol lightly with his hand. It pulsed once, as if recognizing him.
"Echoes don't fade," he whispered. "They wait to be heard."
He turned back, the torchlight flickering across his face. Somewhere behind those endless corridors, the Keeper watched, silent.
As Reiji vanished once more into the maze, the hum resumed—quieter, slower, almost like a heartbeat fading into sleep.
And above, far beyond the surface, the Shadow Court's agents felt the pulse in their marks—a tremor of warning none could explain.
The labyrinth had awakened.