Leon faced the towering structure, a citadel by the looks of it, with wonder and determination in his eyes. A pivotal moment demanded a choice.

In a voice heavy with destiny, he addressed the remaining fifteen survivors. They had to decide whether to stick to their plan or explore the citadel's mysteries.

Collective breaths hung in the air as their gazes shifted from the ancient edifice to each other. The decision could alter their journey profoundly.

Some were drawn by the citadel's allure, curiosity sparking within them. Others urged caution, advocating for their original path—a wary approach to the unknown.

Under Leon's guidance, Ayden's spirited debate flowed, voices blending in a symphony of perspectives. A consensus emerged—a decision.

They embraced the uncertainty and chose to explore the citadel's mysteries, spurred on by Ayden's eloquence and conviction. Marcellus admired Ayden's ability to articulate her thoughts and wondered about her background. As he always did with these folk, he wondered what their lives were like before being spirited here, as he had so few memories of his own. He could barely articulate what kind of life he lived before coming here.

He remembered some things; he wasn't totally blank. He recalled living in a small, tight-knit community, practising with various weapons: first the sword, then the sabre, and finally the long sword. He remembered he wasn't particularly skilled at fighting, often taking hits from others. He had been with a woman, experiencing the warmth of companionship. His ability to climb was exceptional, a skill honed through countless escapades. These fragments of his past, though disjointed, formed a mosaic of memories that anchored him to his identity.

Often he thought to ask others about their backgrounds, but with his blindfold on, he hadn't made many friends. His only friend was Ayden—well, "friend" was generous. They only trained together in grappling techniques and sword fighting. Marcellus had a nagging suspicion he chose to ignore but couldn't entirely shake. He was unsure if everyone was training as intensely as Ayden.

In the years to come Marcellus would later find out that during this period he was her punching bag, however for now they stood at destiny's precipice, prepared to face whatever lay within the ancient citadel.

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In the citadel's depths, different maniples faced their own choices, unknown to Leon's team. Fate led these groups to converge on the citadel simultaneously, with their decisions shaping their destinies. As shadows played amidst the old stones of the citadel, they pondered their choices, unaware of their impending intersections, just as Leon's maniple had done earlier.

Leon reorganized the maniple into smaller teams ranging from five to ten members, after losing ten members to monster ambushes. Lessons were learned, and safety and unity became paramount. Marcellus speculated that this was Leon's way of reducing the burden of responsibility for their deaths.

Surprisingly ayden chose to go with Marcellus. Ayden's presence comforted Marcellus, and their bond led them to explore together as a natural team. Their steps echoed through the citadel's halls adorned with mystical symbols, bearing witness to forgotten wisdom. The core held a colossal clock tower, its gears echoing time's passage. Grandeur and decay coexisted as they ventured forth, revealing the citadel's history. Elegance endured amid shattered windows and fleeting light and shadow. Hidden truths and treasures beckoned, but they were not alone.

Subtle echoes hinted at unseen observers as they navigated the citadel's acoustically unforgiving terrain, dampened by recent rain. Intent on their exploration, Ayden focused on deciphering the citadel's enigmatic symbols. As they studied the intricacies of the walls, Marcellus couldn't help but note a change in Ayden's usual eloquence.

Where had Ayden's silver tongue gone? Marcellus wondered, a wry smile grazing his lips.

Ayden's descriptions, though succinct, painted a snazzy image of their surroundings—"There's a massive clock tower," "Elaborate markings etched on the walls," and "The architecture resembles a labyrinth."

"Have you ever been to a labyrinth ? were you an adventurer? " Marcellus did not waste the opportunity to expand the scope of the conversation.

Ayden passed for a second and answered softly "No, I've never been, I've only read about them. well I'm an adventurer in the spirit"

Strangely enough, Marcellus did not understand the word "clock," as there was no such concept in his hometown or world. Yet, an inexplicable, eerie knowledge crept into his mind—he knew exactly what a clock was and what it did. This unsettling familiarity sent chills down his spine, but he had no knowledge of what was wrong, why he felt a chill or how this foreign understanding had invaded his thoughts.

Marcellus appreciated the information, even if it lacked Ayden's silver flourish; Beggars can't be choosers.

Their citadel unveiled a world of mystery and beauty amidst the decaying ruins. Diluted sunlight filtered through shattered apertures, casting a tapestry of colours upon the aged stones beneath their feet. The sun's descent lent an air of melancholy to the scene, bathing the ancient corridors in a twilight glow.

The remnants of opulent tapestries graced the walls, their threads clinging to faded grandeur. Within the heart of the citadel, an aura of solemnity prevailed. The air was heavy with a sense of yore. As Marcellus and Ayden delved deeper, a sudden and pungent assault on Marcellus's senses caught him off guard—a noxious odour that seemed to crawl its way into his nose and refuse to let go.

At first, he attributed it to the stagnant air within the tower, dismissing it as a consequence of their desolate surroundings. However, the odour persisted, assaulting his senses with its repugnant intensity. He pushed aside his minor discomfort at the smell, determined to press forward he wouldn't say something until ayden does she might not think it important.

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Alas, an unsettling feeling began to gnaw at Marcellus's instincts—a growing suspicion that something was amiss. Faint footsteps seemed to mimic their own, an eerie echo that reverberated through the corridors. Marcellus dismissed it as a mere trick of acoustics, a figment of his ideation. But the lingering unease persisted, a nagging sensation that danced on the fringes of his consciousness.

Suddenly, he came to a realization. The smell was familiar, stirring long-forgotten memories. No, it would be more precise to say it awoke memories. In an instant, his blurry recollections became vivid: dancing, ale, barmaids. He was in a tavern.

Marcellus remembered the piercing scream of a girl. There was a fight—a quick, brutal fight. A man had pulled a dagger and stabbed another, then quickly dashed out. Marcellus stared down at the bleeding man gasping for life.

Later that night, Marcellus was cleaning the floor. Mop, mop with a dirty rag. Soak and squeeze. Mop, mop. The blood was not slimy, and the water in the bucket turned red.

In a clearing near a hill, amidst the tall wild wheat, the sun was setting. Marcellus watched a blonde girl with braided hair as she dressed a deer, carefully removing its intestines. The warm wind wafted upwards, carrying the smell of the game she had hunted.

In a thick wood, Marcellus slid down the elevated undergrowth, his movements clumsy and frantic. Ahead, a preteen figure teetered on the edge of a depression, eyes wide with fear as they watched a shallow corpse pit filled with bones and bodies—both animal and human. Marcellus's hands trembled as he struggled to regain his balance. He almost fell into the pit, but at the last moment, his companion grabbed him, yelling, "Cousin, watch out!"

In a similar manner, more memories flashed through his mind, and he recalled more of his past. Simultaneously, a chilling shift in the atmosphere around Marcellus's neck sent shivers down his spine.

A sharp awareness of danger flooded Marcellus's senses, propelling him into action. Reacting purely on reflex, he raised his arms to intercept the impending strike.

Suddenly, an enemy blade, swift and silent as a shadow, sliced into Marcellus's arm.

Ching!

The clash of metal meeting bone resounded through the air, a symphony of anger and defiance. Marcellus bit his tongue to stifle a cry of pain as he narrowly avoided losing his left arm. He had almost just lost it.

The pain was immediate and searing, but it kindled a fierce determination within him. With a warrior's grace, Marcellus retaliated, even though the sword was still stuck in his arm. His first counter-swing cut through the air, missing its mark. Yet, undaunted, Marcellus swung again, his determination unwavering.

He launched a series of relentless attacks—downward slashes, vertical cuts, and horizontal swipes, creating a whirlwind of steel. With each swing, he adjusted his aim, guided by the subtle cues of sound and movement in the darkness. Finally, his blade met resistance, clashing against an opponent's sword with a resounding clang that echoed through the chamber.

This clash of steel served as a beacon for Marcellus, orienting him amid chaos. He leveraged the contact, using it to gauge the position of his adversary. With renewed focus, Marcellus unleashed a barrage of strikes, each more precise than the last. His movements were a blend of instinct and training, a dance of aggression and control.

In this blind duel, Marcellus's heightened ears became his eyes. He listened for the subtle shifts in his opponent's stance, the faint rustle of clothing, the whisper of a blade cutting through the air. Each sound was a clue, guiding his next move. His adversary, skilled yet taken aback by Marcellus's tenacity, parried and counterattacked. The two warriors were locked in a symphony of swordplay.

Marcellus, fueled by adrenaline and the sharp sting of the sword still stuck in his arm, fought with a blend of desperation and finesse. His movements were guided by the lessons from his mentor, Ayden, whose teachings now resonated in each of Marcellus's calculated strikes. As the duel raged on, Marcellus began to discern a rhythm in the chaos—a pattern to his enemy's movements. He started to anticipate his opponent's moves, sensing patterns in the attacks and openings in the defence.

Exploiting these, he executed a series of rapid thrusts and cuts, pushing his adversary back step by step. A sly grin spread across his face; he had found their weakness. He whispered to himself, "Anticipation and preparation."

With this newfound insight, Marcellus turned the tide. He executed a series of devastating counterattacks, each one more precise than the last. With a deft manoeuvre, Marcellus found an opening. He lunged forward, his blade piercing through their defence, finding its target. Finally, with a dual downward slash, he brought his assailant to their knees. The chamber fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of the victor.

Breathing heavily, Marcellus paused, listening for any other challengers. But there were none; the chamber fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the distant echoes of their clashing swords.

As he stood there, catching his breath, the blindfold across his eyes felt less like a handicap, yet Marcellus had not just survived the encounter; he had overwhelmed it.

Standing amidst the aftermath, Marcellus's concern for his injuries was secondary to his worry for Ayden. "Did Ayden survive? Where is Ayden? Did Ayden attack me?" he pondered, his thoughts racing.

His query was answered by the familiar sound of Ayden's footsteps. "It's me, Ayden, don't attack" came the reassuring voice.

Ayden recounted her battle, a tale that mirrored Marcellus's experience but showcased an even greater display of skill.

In a strategic move, Ayden had diverted the attention of other assailants, creating a diversion to give Marcellus a fighting chance.

Ayden's actions were not just a display of combat prowess but also a testament to his cunning and foresight.

Ayden described how he had engaged multiple foes, drawing them away from Marcellus.

Ayden's narrative painted a picture of a tactician at work, using his environment and the confusion of assault to his advantage.

His efforts had thinned the ranks of their attackers, allowing Marcellus to face a more manageable number of foes.

It was a striking reflection of the understanding they shared.

Marcellus couldn't help but chuckle. "Perhaps they were simply weaker than expected," he mused, though Ayden's reply suggested a deeper truth—"that true strength lay not just in physical prowess but also in wisdom and strategy."

As Ayden gently removed the blade from Marcellus's arm, a sharp pain shot through him, quickly replaced by a numbing sensation and then relief.

The pain was intense but fleeting, soon replaced by the tingling sensation of healing.

It was only natural that such wounds heal instantly.

Marcellus marveled at the sword's mystical nature, as Ayden described how it had vanished from sight only to reappear when needed.

Intrigued by the sword's enigmatic qualities, Marcellus pondered its origins and the untold secrets it held.

This world was a tapestry woven with magic and mystery, and he was only beginning to unravel its threads.

With his wounds healed, Marcellus sheathed his sword, feeling a renewed sense of purpose and determination.

He reflected on the battle, recognizing how close he had come to defeat. Now, with his resolve strengthened and his curiosity piqued, he was ready to delve deeper into the unknown.

Strangely, not once had the thought of retreat crossed their minds, as though such a concept was foreign to them...