Michael couldn’t hide his smile. Five words were the best he could manage without overexerting himself and passing out from exhaustion.

Not bad for an Odd.

He always avoided learning personal details of the drafted he met, but the small village’s sheriff was pretty talkative. Despite Michael’s insistence not to be informed of any of Christopher’s life details, he still learned about the tragic accident.

Maybe that will give him enough motivation to fight his way back.

With a forced smile, Michael removed the page and closed his notebook. He crouched down towards the stretcher and moved away from Christopher’s jacket. Half stuck inside his pants, on his waist, was a gray notebook. Some specks of dirt clung to the stained leather.

Michael grabbed it and opened it. Inside were two off-white pages, Christopher’s preface and synopsis. Michael's eyes flew over them. The synopsis was a blur to anyone but its owner, and he had no intention of reading the preface. He already felt too involved. And thanks to the sheriff, he could guess most of its contents.

“Sarah, can you come here, please?” Michael glimpsed back at her.

The black-haired woman, still wearing the yellow scarf, approached. But she did so slowly, her fatigue accentuated by the dark bags under her eyes.

They had driven straight here after picking up the body and didn’t even have time to rest or shower. Michael was more than used to this life; Sarah, however, had rushed from the 11th floor and didn’t even have a day’s rest.

“Can you lend me some tape?” Michael asked with embarrassment. He usually gave her a hard time about using it on her Tale, but it was just what he needed right now.

He expected her to call him out on what he was doing. Fortunately, she didn't, and instead, retrieved a small roll of transparent duct tape from her purse before handing it to him.

Michael used his teeth to cut some pieces and pasted the Lazarus page inside the front cover. Satisfied, he closed the notebook and again stuck it on Christopher’s pants.

He and Sarah returned to Celia’s side, who was staring at them with a weird look on her face, and Michael signaled the two men to proceed. Together, they watched them grab the stretcher and disappear inside the dark cave, only to return a few minutes later with an empty stretcher.

“How long until the prelude?” Michael asked.

“Thirty-two days,” Sarah answered solemnly. ”Let’s hope he can make it.”

Michael took a long drag on the cigarette and slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“He will not come back,” He gave Sarah a shy smile, “No Lazarus ever does.”

Michael took one last drag of the smoke before putting it out against the floor.

That page is lost… I’m an idiot sometimes.

He sighed and walked back inside, followed closely by Sarah. Finally, with his duty done, he could return to the Labyrinth.

─ ᚲᚢᚱᛋᛖᛞ ─

Congratulations on making it to the Labyrinth, Lazarus. Looking for generic pages…One external page found: Lazarus Page.

Christopher was too absorbed in a nightmare to realize the runes dancing in his vision.

You are a Lazarus. Dead Man’s Stake rewarded.

A pungent, musky aroma entered Christoper’s nose. It smelled like decaying organic matter and stagnant water. However, the foul smell was not enough to wake him up from the nightmare that assaulted him – instead, his body convulsed uncontrollably in the mud.

“Cristine!” he shouted, waking up abruptly, startled by memories he’d rather not remember.

Panting, Christopher watched his surroundings. An unknown, fog-covered landscape greeted him. Leafless, gnarly trees popped over the waterlogged soil, covered in sickly yellow moss and low bushes with prickly leaves.

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Stagnant water had collected in depressions on the soil, creating large, fetid puddles. Clouds of mosquitos flew over them, the stagnant water a perfect breeding ground to lay their eggs.

Occasionally, green-colored gas escaped from some of the puddles, forming bubbles on the surface. Interestingly, the mosquitos avoided those puddles; a few floated dead on the water instead.

Christopher had no idea how he ended up in a desolate place like this.

Where am I? He was not religious, but if this was the afterlife, it was truly disappointing.

Christopher examined himself. He wore dark green clothes, a T-shirt, pants, and a hooded coat. The fabric had camo patterns similar to those used by soldiers in the army. The clothes were impermeable and lined with wool, keeping him warm—too warm! The humid and warm environment had drenched him in sweat.

Not good. Christopher realized and immediately removed his coat.

Relief was instantaneous but not enough. He didn’t want to walk around in underwear, so he rolled the thick pants up above the knee, revealing a pair of brown work boots on his feet.

Now feeling more refreshed, he noticed his arms and hands with surprise.

Thick, uneven scars covered his body. On his right arm, a long, disgusting-looking scar went from the palm of his hand all the way to his upper arm. And on his left hand, irregular scars were visible around his three middle fingers, like macabre rings.

He touched his face on the left cheek and felt the protruding uneven skin crossing horizontally across his face.

Christopher’s heart accelerated. Clenching his hands, he stabbed his overgrown nails into his skin, drawing blood. The pain was real, and that could only mean…

He tasted bile as his stomach revolted and leaned forward, puking against a nearby tree.

After cleaning his chin with his trembling hand, he lifted his t-shirt and examined his pale abdomen. An enormous oblique scar extended from his crotch to his upper ribs, where a metal plate had cut through him.

Lost in his thoughts, he observed his surroundings once again. There was no sign of civilization anywhere.

How did I end up here?

If he wanted answers, Christopher had to find civilization first. He moved forward, ignoring the painful protests of his sore body. After how many months of lying in the hospital bed, he could feel his atrophied muscles complain.

As he rose, something fell inside his pants, getting stuck above his knee.

Curious, he reached inside his pants and retrieved a rectangular object. It was a thin notebook with a dirty, gray cover.

There were six pages inside: a gray page pasted haphazardly to the inside of the front cover with duct tape, three loose pages—one crimson and two gray—and two others, off-white in color, sewed to the spine with brown thread.

Instead of words, the pages were covered with weird, unorthodox runes, not similar to anything he had seen before.

On the gray page, the one secured with duct tape to the inside of the front cover, one sentence written in English grabbed his attention.

She lives. Find the exit.

Christopher’s heart threatened to jump out of his chest.

Could the She refer to Cristine? Was she still alive?

Christopher remembered her immovable, lifeless body, half crushed by the metallic debris. If that cryptic message was true, though… He had to be sure. Wherever he was, he had to get back and find out.

The message, however, was too short. Whoever had left it didn’t bother to explain himself.

Christopher’s eyes went through the other pages, trying to decipher the weird but strangely familiar runes.

Wait, why are they familiar?

A memory of himself inside a tall, rune-covered cave returned to him, and a word appeared in his mind.

Lazarus.

White, bright runes suddenly materialized in Christopher’s vision, scaring him. His eyes scanned the wall of text, absorbing it all in.

“Torn from death’s embrace, thus condemned to a cursed fate,” he whispered slowly, “You’ve lost your breath.”

Panic washed over him. He took a deep breath, inhaling a mouthful of the swamp's foul air, and broke into a disgusting cough a moment later.

He could definitely breathe. Perhaps it was a metaphor. What it stood for, however, he would have to find out.

For now, there was something he could be certain. He was alive. And if he took the runes he was reading literally, he had somehow been brought back from the dead.

From the edge of the fog, there was a faint, sloshing squelch of waterlogged ground being disturbed, followed by a sucking noise and a loud splash as some creature’s feet escaped the sticky mud.

Christopher turned around, alerted. He squinted his eyes, a futile attempt at piercing the thick fog. Nothing. Nothing but leafless trees.

What was that?

As the steps approached, Christopher noticed a different sound—a distinctive, slithering noise. It was heavy and damp as if scrapping on the floor. Occasionally, there were sticky plops, as if something got stuck momentarily before being set free.

It was getting closer.

He looked around, scared. His eyes darted back and forth between the leafless, gray trees and the fetid puddles. There was nothing. Nothing but the calm swamp and eerie clouds of mosquitos.

A deep, menacing growl emanated from the depths of the fog. The low, guttural vibration carried latent ferocity and aggression, stirring fear into Christopher’s heart.