“This is the last one,” said Sarah, handing him another form – two whole yellow pages to fill in.

Although he knew it was not her fault, Michael didn’t spare her from an unjustified, spiteful glance. She silently replied with a deadpan face before leaving the room.

With her help, the whole process had been the smoothest ever. Her ability to memorize every procedure and know exactly which and how each form must be filled was extraordinary.

Nevertheless, it had been four hours since they entered the office, and he had been so busy filling out the forms that he didn’t have time to eat or smoke a cigarette.

That’s why he didn’t like Lazarus. Besides the dirty work, the number of procedures that had to be followed was astonishing.

The other one he got fifteen years ago, and taken him two days to finish the paperwork. When they threw the body into the Labyrinth, it reeked so bad they had to ventilate the whole office.

Naturally, things worked better now. They were better prepared and informed, and even the amount of paperwork had diminished.

Or maybe it was just Sarah’s help.

As he finished filling out the last form, Sarah returned carrying two long sandwiches from the automatic vending machine outside. He thanked her and grabbed one of them.

Tuna and egg. Not bad.

Michael was halfway through devouring it when someone knocked on the door.

“Mister Odd, may I come in?” A feminine voice came from outside.

“Come in,” replied Michael, putting the rest of the sandwich aside.

The door opened, and a brown-haired woman wearing a dark, formal suit—a standard formality for non-authors around the office—walked in. She greeted Sarah with a nod and approached Michael, extending her hand for a handshake.

“I don’t think we've had the opportunity to meet yet, Mister Michael. My name is Celia. I’m a civilian staff working for the Unit.”

Again? She has seen me at least four times in the last year.

Michael facepalmed internally but still grabbed her hand and presented himself. He was used to having to repeat himself by now. To the side, Sarah let out a cute smirk.

“We are about to send the Lazarus into the Labyrinth. Do you want to come?”

“Christopher,” Michael replied without thinking. Celia threw him a confused look.

“Sir?”

“The Lazarus’s name is Christopher.” Michael sighed. “Thanks for letting us know. Will Lisa be there?”

“No, Sir,” replied Celia. “There’s no reason for a specialist to bother with such matters.“

Michael smirked. “Good. Let's get going, then,”. He said, gesturing for Celia to lead the way.

At least I’ll be able to smoke a cigarette.

They left the office, following Celia through a wide white corridor without any windows, barely lit by a single fluorescent light. Soon, they passed by an office where multiple people were busy at work.

Michael spared them a glance.

Most had their heads buried in computer screens, except for two men, discussing quietly in a corner, enjoying an extended coffee break. Michael’s eyes paused momentarily on the small notebook one carried on his waist before moving along.

There were some familiar faces here, but he didn’t bother to greet them. They wouldn’t remember him anyway.

Whenever Michael visited the office, he asked himself why he hadn’t quit yet.

Most authors managed to avoid this kind of work. Very few were like him, who made the mistake of working for a government organization. There were lots of responsibilities and lousy pay.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

In fact, after the failure to weaponize Authors, most countries didn’t bother to have an Author department like theirs. It was simpler to offer them contractor jobs or partner with one of the Keepers.

I should quit. Michael entertained the idea one more time but soon remembered Sarah. He would feel guilty if he left the girl alone. Maybe after she passed the twentieth, or when she eventually accepted his suggestion and took the job at Aeymenchuk, he decided.

They walked for five more minutes through the dull corridors until they arrived at a five-centimeter-thick door leading them outside. It was a beautiful day, the noon sun shining amidst the clear, blue sky.

They were surrounded by ten-meter-tall walls reinforced with metal beams and thick armored plates. The walls formed a circle about thirty meters in radius, and weaponized turrets mounted atop them pointed directly at the entrance of a small cave.

Not like they would be of much use, Michael commented. But he couldn’t blame the Unit. Military-grade arsenal made commoners feel safe.

Happy to finally be outside, he ignored Sarah’s disproving gaze and grabbed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He placed the cigarette between his lips and flicked open a lighter, igniting the tip.

Michael took a long drag, inhaling deeply, savoring the smoke.

After a few moments, the two men he had seen discussing by the coffee machine arrived, carrying a stretcher with a corpse on it. Their clothes were no longer the same, and now both wore heavy, medieval armor.

One wore a steel-colored half-plate, and the other wore a similar armor but copper-colored instead. Both armors carried the sigil of a ram head, marked on the left side of the breastplate.

“That’s not a squire’s armor,” stated Sarah, glancing at the steel-colored plate.

“No, it's an Initiate. You’ve never seen one before?”

She shook her head, and Michael wasn’t surprised. Very few fabled could make it past the beginner ranks of the Knights of Might. He wondered how the Unit had convinced such a guy to work for them.

Michael changed his attention to the corpse on the stretcher. Even though he had already seen the body when he dug it up, he couldn’t help but frown at the sight.

The young man’s body was a mess, a car accident, he was told. Even though they had dressed him in the standard drafted uniform, he could still see the medical sutures in his hands and arms.

The uniform had been improved. It now had a dozen pockets, and the inside was lined with wool. It was a futile attempt to keep the drafted alive if they were unlucky enough to end up on the sixth floor.

Michael saw Sarah’s blank face and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Even after three years at the Labyrinth, she was not yet used to dead bodies. He had suggested she stop descending and get a better job, but she had adamantly refused.

Too bad… Sarah would learn the hard way that some people weren’t cut for this. He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

Michael raised his hand, signaling the two men to stop, before walking towards the stretcher.

It felt wrong to throw a dead, mangled body into the Labyrinth. Even if the oracles hadn’t made a mistake and it really was a Lazarus, it would only be a matter of time before the monsters inside tore it apart or it died to one of the many environmental hazards.

There was a time when Lazarus’ bodies were burned right away, an attempt to spare them from the torture of the Labyrinth while making sure they wouldn’t turn into a tainted. That practice, however, had ended in most countries.

Michael scoffed; at least this way, the young man might have a chance, no matter how slim it was. However, even if he got out… A Lazarus was cursed. Everyone knew it. Even if he managed to survive, his path would most likely be halted when the Labyrinth collected its end of the bargain.

It only reaches for those too cursed to live, he remembered.

He moved his hand inside the jacket and removed a notebook from the chest pocket. The dark blue, tanned leather was engraved with reddish details that resembled fresh blood.

Michael opened it, revealing a stack of disorderly pages with random sizes and textures inside. Some pages were bound to the notebook, some were loose, some were full of creases and dirt, the writing on them barely visible, and some were written in bright, exotic colors.

Despite being so different, most pages were filled with similar, unorthodox runes – as if someone had mixed all the world's alphabets and created a new one.

Michael leafed through the pages carefully, cautious not to let any loose page fall.

A moment later, he found the one he was looking for, a loose page of grayish, rough paper that appeared to have been created from a dozen page scraps. Michael squinted his eyes, trying to read through the silvery runes.

[Lazarus]

Rare are those fortunate enough to be drafted moments after their demise. Yet, they must step cautiously, for fortune is a fleeting wisp, and theirs is now wasted.

The will of the Labyrinth is twisted, and it only reaches its hand to bring back those who are too cursed to live.

A Lazarus page was rather rare, but it was useless for most Authors. Michael had only kept this one for sentimental reasons.

He rummaged through his chest pocket again and retrieved an elegant, crimson fountain pen with a nacre sphere on top. It appeared expensive. He shook it two times before putting it against the paper.

Michael wrote a brief sentence in the crimson color of blood. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead with every syllable he wrote. By the end, he was exhausted.

She lives. Find the exit.