[ Let it be known: twice the same number invites Judgment ]
[ Judgment: Forfeit ]
[ He who bears hatred shall grant thy relief ]
The words hung in the air like a divine proclamation—unyielding, cold, and absolute. They weren't simply read; they were felt, vibrating in Ryan's bones, echoing deep within his chest.
Ryan had been bracing for a riddle, something cryptic he could untangle. But this? A pronouncement of judgment. And not just judgment—forfeit. His mind raced. Forfeit what? My life? My freedom? He had done nothing wrong… or at least, nothing he thought deserved this.
There was no clever puzzle this time, only the chilling decree: The one who hates you will be the one who gives you relief.
The words clawed at his thoughts, stirring memories and questions. Who in his life truly hated him? A face? A name? No answer came.
Slowly, the glowing text began to unravel, each letter breaking apart into shimmering fragments, like embers torn from a dying fire. One by one they drifted upward, fading into the dark void above until nothing remained.
The dice before him began to move. Not just a casual roll—it spun, faster and faster, its edges cutting arcs of light through the dimness. The engraved numbers gleamed as if lit from within, each rotation humming with a strange energy. The air shifted, pulling toward it in a steady, unnatural draw.
It wasn't the room being pulled in. It was him.
The tug was relentless, wrapping around his body like invisible hands. His hair and clothes stirred in the pull. The sound was like a deep, resonant inhalation—the world itself taking a breath.
Ryan didn't run. He didn't fight. His legs remained rooted, not from paralysis, but from an odd, grim acceptance. Piece by piece, he was lifted from the ground, his form dissolving into streams of light and shadow. Like a strip of cloth pulled into a swirling void, his body stretched and vanished, slipping past the dice's spinning edges.
The last thought that crossed his mind before everything went black was not of fear, but of curiosity: Where will I be when I open my eyes?
Ryan opened his eyes to warmth surrounding him. It was as if he was wrapped in a velvet cocoon, every muscle loosening. He didn't know where he was, but it felt… relaxing. Comforting. Satisfying. Is this water? he thought.
He was in a pool—not small in size, but shallow, no more than three feet deep. Resting his back against the wall, he looked around. The pool was inside a grand hall, the air carrying a faint humidity that clung to his skin. Tall marble pillars lined the sides, each topped with a small, glowing lamp that cast soft golden light across the water. Hundreds of mirrors adorned the walls, reflecting the light in countless shifting patterns.
Ryan caught sight of himself in one of them. His skin was fairer, his body more muscular. Shocked, he stood. The sight of his own well-built frame startled him.
He was better—healthier. The dark circles under his eyes were gone. His posture was strong, his mind calmer. The old sleeping monk had stripped away his depression, anxiety, and overthinking.
He sat back down in the water, resting his arms, feeling the perfect heat soak into him. The faint scent of rosewood filled the air, deepening his relaxation. The dirt and wear from his journey had washed away; his skin carried the fragrance of the bath. Steam swirled gently around him, softening the edges of the hall like a dream. This was no ordinary place—surely the private bath of a wealthy noble, perhaps a mansion owner with hundreds of rooms.
Looking at the mirror directly ahead, he saw his face—wet hair, clear eyes, unmarked skin. What does it take to afford such a palace? he wondered.
Minutes passed. He knew it was time to leave, yet he didn't want to. Such a luxurious bath was rare. He smiled at the thought.
Then—footsteps. Light, quick, and many of them, growing louder with each heartbeat. Ryan froze, his senses sharpening. Before he could even shift in the water, the door flew open with a violent CRASH, the sound ricocheting through the marble hall like a clap of thunder. The lamps along the pillars trembled in their frames.
Dozens of women poured in like a tide—maids dressed in pristine white robes, their steps brisk and deliberate. But at the center of them all walked one figure who stole the air from the room. She carried nothing but a towel, her every step slow, regal, as if the world itself made way for her. It took Ryan less than a heartbeat to realize—he was in the princess's bath. The maids hadn't been tending the room for him. They had been preparing it for her.
The princess crossed the threshold, and for a moment the air itself seemed to still. She was naked, save for the towel draped lazily over one hand—not covering, merely held. Her skin glowed with the soft radiance of polished ivory, untouched and flawless. The graceful curve of her hourglass figure drew the eye, and her long black hair tumbled down her back like a waterfall of midnight silk. She moved as though every motion was a performance.
Ryan didn't just glance—he stared. His gaze lingered, tracing every line, every shadow, committing her to memory as though afraid the vision would vanish.
Then their eyes met.
Her black irises widened in a sudden jolt of recognition—or perhaps shock—and her lips parted. The scream that followed shattered the stillness, high and sharp, slicing through the hall like a blade through silk.
The maids froze, their heads whipping toward the pool in unison. For a heartbeat, there was only silence and disbelief. Then their expressions broke into horror. A man—in the princess's bath.
Chaos erupted. They screamed, voices overlapping in panic. Some rushed to cover her, wrapping the towel clumsily around her shoulders. The princess turned and fled the hall, her hair whipping behind her, while the rest of the women scattered like startled birds, their slippers slapping wildly against the wet tiles. The air filled with the sharp scent of rosewater mingled with the noise of frenzied footsteps and echoing shouts for help.
Ryan's eyes darted around. No hiding places. Only one door—and they had come through it. Then he spotted small glass windows high near the ceiling, meant for air to pass through. Too high to climb without a plan.
One by one, the maids left, until the last slammed the door shut, locking it from outside.
Ryan glanced up at the ceiling window. With a quick push off the wall, he leapt, grabbed a ledge, pulled himself up, and squeezed through.
He landed on the roof of a long tent-like structure, the canvas sagging under his weight before sliding him toward the edge. Grabbing a hanging curtain, he slowed his descent and dropped into a corridor. He was inside a castle—tall arched ceilings, crimson banners, and royal emblems stitched into every fabric.
There were no guards nearby. The crest looked familiar. Unsure why, he pulled the dice from his sack, checking each side. None matched the emblem. Still, he was certain he'd seen it before—maybe in a book or film.
Leaving the thought aside, he focused on the riddle. How could he find someone who hated him here, in a place where he knew no one? The only possibility was that someone familiar from his life was here—someone he had once offended.
He hid whenever guards passed. Then a deep bell tolled, followed by shouts: "Intruder in the castle!" Guards scattered, their armor clinking as they searched.
Ryan sprinted through the winding corridors, his breath quick and sharp, eyes darting for somewhere—anywhere—safe. Then he saw it. Rising above the rest of the palace's rooftops stood a building unlike any other, its walls lined with gold trim and its entrance guarded by soldiers clad in armor that caught the torchlight like molten fire. If there was a treasury anywhere in this place, it had to be here. He guessed it would be locked down outside but deserted within.
Keeping low, he made his way around the guards, eyes locked on a narrow ceiling window just beneath the roof's overhang. In one smooth motion, he scaled the wall, fingers scraping against cold stone, and pulled himself inside. His feet landed silently on a polished corridor floor that gleamed so brightly it mirrored his own shadow.
He moved forward cautiously and pushed open a carved wooden door, expecting vaults of gold and towering piles of treasure. But instead—
It was a bedroom.
Not just any bedroom, but one fit for the gods themselves. The air was cool and perfumed with something sweet, expensive, and impossible to name. A colossal bed stood at the center, its frame carved from pure gold, each post crowned with glimmering jewels. The canopy shimmered faintly in the light, draped with silks so fine they looked like woven moonlight. Diamonds and emeralds sparkled in intricate patterns across the walls and furniture, and the same strange emblem he had seen earlier was etched into every surface—bedposts, carpets, even the handles of the wardrobes.
He was still taking in the sheer opulence when—
The door swung open.
A man stepped inside, his very presence bending the air around him. His robe shimmered with gold thread that caught the torchlight in shifting waves, like molten sunlight woven into fabric. A crown rested on his brow, each jewel in it burning with its own fire. Behind him, two guards stood tall, their armor gleaming like polished steel under the flickering light.
Ryan froze.
The king's eyes found his, locking with a weight that seemed to crush the space between them.
And in that breathless instant, Ryan knew.
He remembered where he had seen that emblem before.
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Any guess ?
Where he has meet the king ?