The boy blinked.
A message floated before him, indifferent to his existence.
[You have entered the 49th Floor of the Tower of Marduk.]
He ignored it.
Around him, darkness reigned, a suffocating blackness so thick it felt like a physical weight pressing down on his shoulders. Then, one by one, the torches along the walls ignited, their orange glow devouring the shadows.
Light revealed a circular hall, an ancient coliseum forgotten by time, its walls carved with runes worn smooth by centuries. The slaves, barely a hundred now, stood frozen, weapons trembling in their hands. Some turned in frantic circles, searching for an exit that didn't exist. Others ran, pounding against the walls, screaming, already lost.
Beside him, Ingward roared:
"Rally! Alone, you're already dead!"
No one listened.
Then the light touched the statue.
At the center of the chamber stood a figure of stone, too beautiful to be real, its face sculpted with divine grace.
And then.
Crack.
A fissure.
A chip of stone fell.
Then another.
And another.
The statue was shedding.
Beneath the crumbling stone, golden skin gleamed polished bronze, flawless.
The boy's breath hitched.
This was no statue.
It was a being.
The last fragment of stone fell.
The creature opened its eyes.
Golden irises, bright as miniature suns, swept across the room.
It was tall. Too tall. Three meters, maybe more. Its frame was slender, almost elegant, but every muscle was carved with lethal precision. Its blond hair cascaded in perfect waves, untouched by dust or time.
And it was beautiful.
Horribly, unbearably beautiful.
Then.
It stretched.
A lazy, languid motion, like waking from a long nap. Its joints cracked, the sound sharp as breaking bones.
The slaves stood paralyzed.
Some wept. Others prayed.
The boy couldn't look away.
It's... alive?
Ingward understood first.
"DOWN!"
His voice was raw, desperate.
The boy didn't move.
Ingward tackled him, slamming him to the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
And then.
BOOM.
The sound was deafening.
When the boy lifted his head, the world had changed.
Half the slaves were gone.
No.
Not gone.
Scattered.
Chunks of flesh painted the walls. Severed limbs twitched on the ground. A man, bisected at the waist, dragged himself forward in silent agony, entrails slithering behind him like a grotesque tail.
The boy looked at the creature.
It hadn't even moved.
It just smiled, its perfect lips curled in faint amusement, as if it had heard a private joke.
Then.
It breathed.
A long, slow inhale, savoring the scent of their terror.
"Run."
Ingward's voice was a ragged whisper.
"Run, or you die."
The creature raised a hand.
And the boy understood.
They weren't fighters.
They were prey.