Christopher clenched his throat, almost suffocating himself, trying not to make a sound.

He heard the lake's surface being disturbed as something crept out of the water. It cut through its surface, approaching the margin. With a muffled sound, it squished the muddy soil under its weight.

Unable to hold on any longer, Christopher let out a pent-up cough. The thing outside stopped moving, and Christopher turned livid.

The creature audibly sniffed the air with a creepy suction sound before dragging itself across the margin. The sound of its movements was weirdly irregular, punctuated by brief periods of silence, during which all one could hear was intense sniffing.

It’s getting close. Christopher realized, pressing his back against the wall. He tightened his hand around the Dead Man’s Stake. His eyes stuck to the entrance of his small shelter.

Suddenly, some of the soil above him collapsed. He froze. The creature was just above him. He could hear it sniffing the air once more. Did it pick up on his smell?

He heard the creature gently palpating the dirt bank beside his entrance. And then he saw it. Illuminated by the feeble moonlight, a pale, veiny tentacle squirmed back and forth through the mud.

Its sheer size was commanding, and Christopher now realized how easy it had been for it to tear apart the bison-like beast. The tentacle’s underside was lined with red-colored almond-shaped suckers that trembled silently as it moved as if they had a life of their own.

The tentacle writhed halfway through the entrance before it stopped. The suckers expanded. Its red-colored edges opened like a pair of lips, revealing a circular dark void inside, surrounded by two perfect rows of black teeth.

Strength abandoned Christopher’s body as he watched the mouth-shaped suckers in horror. They breathed in the air with a horrifying sucking sound and chewed silently before opening again and repeating the process.

Christopher’s back was covered in sweat. The monster wasn’t sniffing the air but tasting it. If it picked up on his scent, he would have no choice but to fight his way out.

He raised his trembling hand, pointed the Dead Man’s Stake at the creepy tentacle, and waited for an eternity.

Finally, after chewing on the air one last time, the tentacle receded, disappearing from his view. He heard it palpating around the lake’s margin before it cut through the surface of the lake again, returning to the dark depths and dragging something behind it.

Christopher let the stake fall on the ground and panted heavily, relief washing over his body. The acid sting of bile rose to his mouth before he emptied the contents of his stomach on the floor.

What the hell was that? It wasn’t just the monster’s cursed appearance that scared him. Similar to the wolf, there was something else. Some kind of aura that overwhelmed him, draining him of any strength.

Only this time, it was much, much worse. Even now, after the creature left, he still felt its effects. Whatever that terrifying creature was, it was not something humans were supposed to face.

He curled up into a ball, not even bothering to clean up the vomit, and trembled violently. He could still see the human-like mouths with stained, dark teeth, open and closing, chewing air.

Christopher spent his night curled up into a ball, assaulted by vivid nightmares.

The next morning, despite being exhausted, he forced himself to step outside the hole. As expected, the rest of the carcass was gone. The lake monster hadn’t come for him but for the remains of its prey.

Despite being worried the creature would return, Christopher spent three more days around the ominous dark lake, slowly recovering his strength.

The first day after consuming the raw meat, he had been assaulted by explosive diarrhea, and for a moment, he had believed he would die there, with his pants down, in a lost bog.

Fortunately, his body rapidly adapted to the harsh environment. Every day, he would eat a small portion of the raw meat and climb to one of the nearby trees to find some water. If he was lucky and it rained, he didn’t even have to go out; he could open his mouth and drink the rainfall.

On the morning of the fourth day, Christopher was mostly recovered. His headaches, fever, and cough were gone. His arm hadn’t healed yet, but as long as he used Crimson Proof on it every day, the infection did not spread.

And yet, he was more concerned than ever.

At the same pace as his body improved, his vision deteriorated. More and more shadows danced in his vision, obscuring his sight. He had tried using Crimson Proof on his eyes multiple times but to no effect. Whatever was turning him blind couldn’t be fixed so easily.

He had to get out of the swamp before his time ran out, and his eyes opened into eternal darkness.

Christopher glanced at the small piece of meat he had left. It was enough for one or two days—maybe three if he rationed it properly. Soon, he would run out of food.

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He stepped out of the hole with the Dead Man’s Stake in hand and looked at the sky. He had to leave and find a way out of this place.

It was hard to orient himself in the swamp, so he followed the direction of the rising sun to avoid running in circles.

Looking out for any monstrous wolf preparing to ambush him, Christopher started his march.

─ ᛋᛁᛞ ─

Nova inhaled deeply, but his nerves remained on edge. From the corner of his eyes, he could see the moldy stone walls slowly enclosing around him, threatening to crush him into a bloody paste.

He turned his head, staring directly at the walls. They weren’t moving, at least not anymore.

And yet, he distinctively remembered the room being larger when he had arrived just ten minutes ago. To someone who had lived in the Outskirts his whole life, he couldn’t help but feel claustrophobic inside the maze.

Nova took another deep breath and felt the unpleasant perfume enter his nose, revolting his stomach.

An ornate brass vessel was hung on the ceiling, secured by a big metal chain. Inside it, something burned slowly, spreading yellow clouds of not-so-fragant perfume.

Perhaps it was an attempt to make the maze livelier, but to Nova’s eyes – and nose – it was a failed one. The maze was not a good place to meet; only insane people would do so.

Naturally, Nova did not plan to express his discontentment out loud. When dealing with these people, it was best to be assertive. He wished they could finish this quickly so he could leave before his time ran out. It would be embarrassing to ask for an escort.

Another minute passed by. How long were they planning to stare at him?

Nova nervously flexed his right hand, crushing the paper inside. He knew the exit was nearby but doubted the maze would let him leave so easily.

When he joined the Epoch, he knew he would have to enter the maze at some point. However, the optimistic part of him hoped it would only happen once, on the day of his escape.

You are an idiot. Nova admitted.

If it were so easy, Shatterhold would be empty by now. How many dwellers had climbed from the lower floors only to see their exit barred at the Third Story?

Nova realized he was crushing the only hope he had of escaping this place. He moved the crumbled paper into his chest pocket on the inside of his black leather jacket. Swallowing his nervousness, he took another deep breath and hid his sweaty hands inside his pockets—a futile attempt at hiding his true feelings.

Nova had heard the rumors about the thing before him and knew it could read him like an open book. He gathered his courage and locked eyes with the man.

He was sitting on a weathered stone throne, chiseled with intricate details, that appeared fused to the maze wall.

The man wore a realistic-looking white bull mask. It was weirdly asymmetrical, with two horns on the right side and a single one on the left. On the white leather, Nova could see tiny water cuticles forming, and occasionally, something under the mask moved as if veins were pulsating underneath.

From behind the ominous mask, two mild, green eyes stared affectionately at Nova. They had been locked into him since he walked into the room and stated his business.

It was said the Cretan Oracle was an outsider, an Author who only arrived at the Labyrinth after being drafted. However, unlike most outsiders, he had grown to admire the Labyrinth, developing a profound fondness for it that rapidly grew into admiration and reverence.

He single-handedly caused the resurgence of the Labyrinthian faith and became their new leader.

Nova couldn’t understand their devotion to this place that swallowed their parents and mutilated their children. It had bothered him ever since he had been briefed on the details of this mission. Why would the Labyrinthians help the Epoch? Their goals were complete opposites.

The Labyrinthians spread their religious doctrines, brainwashing dwellers and Authors and worshiping the Labyrinth.

On the other hand, the First Epoch did everything it could to tear through the Third Story and bring the dwellers outside.

On more than one occasion, their factions had clashed with perilous results, mainly on the Epoch side. Constrained to a single floor, they couldn’t resist the power and influence the religious organization had amassed across the Labyrinth.

Nova wondered if this meeting was a trap. If so, they would be disappointed. Only a low-ranking member had been sent—himself.

He was aware of the risks but had decided to come anyway. It was worth it to have a chance to step foot on the Outside. Once he did, he would never step inside the Labyrinth again.

Naturally, he had not shared his plans with anyone. ‘Unlike this madman, I hold nothing but grudges against this place.’

Nova froze. What if the Cretan Oracle could read his mind? Cold sweat ran through him. Unconsciously, he chewed the inside of his lip.

Keep calm. He repeated to himself.

The Cretan Oracle was still human, no matter how monstrous the mask made him look.

Unable to stare at the man’s eyes any longer, he diverted his gaze toward the right, where two people sat on the floor near the wall.

Mm… Nova hesitated. He was sure that, when he arrived, those two were much further away from the wall, and he didn’t remember them having moved ever since.

They were a man and a woman dressed in simple robes that had once been white. They sat silently atop a crimson mat woven from hundreds of red threads, and their mouths, eyes, and ears were sewed shut with red sutures.

Their skinny, wounded fingers never stopped, endlessly twisting a thread from a ball of red yarn with practiced movements. Nova knew they would start over again once they reached the end.

The wounds on their fingers, deep bloody marks with exposed flesh, were caused by decades of working on the same repetitive task. Once those wounds opened, they were never closed again.

It was a macabre display, scary enough for the church to hide oracles from the commoner’s view, even if the congregation celebrated and followed their divinations and prophecies.

The Labyrinthian oracles were religious devotees. All of them dwellers with an innate affinity to commune with the Labyrinth. They were said to stitch their senses themselves, determined to dedicate their lives to the cause.

Fanatics! Nova cursed spitefully, trying not to spit on the floor. He couldn’t understand why someone would go through such extremes.

Nova moved his gaze again and landed on the man standing beside the Cretan Oracle. The two oracles gave him the creeps, but he was not afraid of them—at most, he was slightly disgusted.

That man, however, a mere glance filled Nova with fear.