The blood from Aurora’s hand still soaked the altar, the glow of the ancient hieroglyphs pulsing in time with the dark energy that now seemed to saturate the air. The tomb, once a cold and quiet resting place, was now alive with a dangerous, unseen force. As the Blood Rite concluded, an oppressive weight settled over the chamber, pressing down on Alastor and Aurora like a tightening vice.

The tomb itself seemed to be watching them.

The temperature dropped sharply, the air turning icy and bitter. Alastor felt a chill creep up his spine, an instinctive warning that something had shifted. The hieroglyphs carved into the walls, once faint and passive, now blazed with a furious intensity. Their light flickered, as if stoked by a force older and darker than any magic he had encountered before.

Aurora glanced at him, her face pale, her hand still dripping blood. "Do you feel that?"

Alastor nodded, his senses on high alert. "Something’s wrong."

A low, rumbling sound began to reverberate through the stone, like the growl of a beast awakening from a centuries-long slumber. The tomb felt alive—angry. It was as if the very walls were reacting to their presence, rejecting them. Alastor’s heart raced, a feeling of dread sinking deep into his bones. He had heard rumors of curses placed on the tombs of Egypt’s most powerful rulers—curses that drove intruders mad or worse, killed them outright. But he had assumed they were legends, stories meant to frighten away would-be thieves.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

"Aurora, we need to leave—" Alastor began, but his words died in his throat as a sharp pain exploded in his skull. His vision blurred, the chamber around him twisting and warping as if the walls were closing in.

The curse.

It struck like a hammer, driving him to his knees, the power of it surging through his mind like wildfire. The hieroglyphs on the walls seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, and suddenly, the tomb wasn’t just a tomb anymore—it was a gateway. A gateway to something far older than the Pyramid.

He tried to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him, his body shaking as the curse took hold. His vision darkened, and then, with terrifying clarity, the hallucinations began.

He was no longer in the tomb. He was somewhere else—somewhen else.

Alastor blinked and found himself standing in the sand-swept deserts of ancient Egypt, the sun blazing down from an impossibly clear sky. He looked down and saw his hands, not his own but those of a different man, scarred and calloused from years of battle. Around him stood soldiers clad in bronze armor, their faces grim as they prepared for war. Alastor felt the weight of a sword in his hand, the heat of the desert sun burning his skin.

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This isn’t real.

The thought struggled to break through the fog of the hallucination, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming sensation that he had lived this before. He felt the sand beneath his feet, the wind whipping across his face. The clang of weapons filled his ears, the cries of dying men echoing in the distance.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the scene shifted.

He was in a grand palace now, the scent of incense and oil thick in the air. Servants scurried past him, their eyes cast down as they carried offerings to an altar. He saw himself in a polished mirror—a king, adorned in the robes of a pharaoh, his brow heavy with a crown of gold. His heart thundered in his chest, the weight of absolute power pressing down on him. He felt the cold touch of betrayal, the sharp sting of a blade as it pierced his side.

This can’t be happening.

Again, the vision fractured, and now he was in darkness, entombed in a sarcophagus, his body decaying, his soul trapped. His chest tightened as if the air was being ripped from his lungs, his vision blurring with pain and fear. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped his lips.

And then, death. Endless death.

He died in battle. He died in his palace. He died entombed in darkness. Over and over, he relived his deaths—different bodies, different times, but the same final breath, the same closing of his eyes into the eternal blackness.

No, this isn’t real. It can’t be.

But the more he fought it, the more vivid the hallucinations became. He wasn’t just seeing these past lives—he was living them. The curse wasn’t just showing him death. It was forcing him to experience every moment of pain, of fear, of helplessness. Every time he thought he had escaped, he was thrust into another life, another cycle of agony and death.

Alastor collapsed onto the stone floor, his body shaking violently as the curse gripped his mind. Sweat poured down his face, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. He tried to ground himself, to remember where he was, but the visions were too strong, too real.

And then, in one final, horrifying moment, he saw it.

The loop.

It stretched back through time, back to the very origins of the Pyramid, back to when the founders had first unlocked the secret of immortality. The curse wasn’t just a punishment—it was part of the loop. Every assassin who had ever served the Pyramid had walked this path, had faced these deaths, over and over again, trapped in the cycle.

The weight of that realization crushed him. He wasn’t the first. He was just another in an endless line of souls bound to the Pyramid, forced to die and be reborn, each time with a little less of themselves remaining.

"I’ve lived these deaths before," Alastor gasped, his voice hoarse as he clutched at the stone floor, his body trembling. "I’ve… lived these deaths before."

His vision blurred as the curse took hold fully, and with a final, strangled breath, he collapsed, the cold stone pressing against his cheek as the tomb closed in around him.