Part 23

Under the abyss of the Earth’s womb, where sunlight has never reached, where the wheel of memory has stood still for thousands of years — in that cursed chamber of the cave, where the silence of millennia had frozen into every layer of stone, an unspeakable sight unfolded.

It was an unbelievable scene—
a black diamond set upon the crown of the Earth, where nature itself seemed confused by its own laws.
From the ceiling of the cave hung sharp shards of ice—each like a thousand ancient swords, an armoury of some unseen warrior frozen in the posture of death.
But it was autumn outside!
Beyond the Earth, the sky was clear, white clouds drifted slowly, the breeze carried the scent of night jasmine, light spread softly, calm and pure—yet within this underworld reigned a strange kingdom of winter, as though some ancient curse had defied the laws of nature to claim its dominion.

Each shard of ice was like a star, spreading a dim radiance in the dark, creating a dreamlike illumination. Drops of moisture clinging to their surface dripped softly onto the floor, each drop like a pulse of memory—slow, rhythmic, and witness to eternity. The sound was like a primordial music that stirred an unspeakable sorrow in the heart—as if someone had been weeping here, silently, for ages.

In every corner of the cave lay hidden mysteries. The walls were of black stone, layered with centuries-old moss gathered in the cracks of time. At places, the walls protruded with strange formations—sometimes resembling human faces, sometimes the distorted visages of beasts, as if nature itself had become a dreadful sculptor here.

The air carried the scent of antiquity—rotting leaves, dead roots, the dust of millennia, and something else that, upon reaching the human nose, instantly reminded one that this place did not belong to the world of the living. It was the breath of death itself, accumulated through the ages into a terrifying fragrance. Within that odour mingled the smell of metal, of something burnt, and of a nameless essence that made one feel as though thousands of creatures had perished here.

At the centre of the cave, the source of all its mystery, stood an enormous pentagonal pillar—made of black marble, like the headstone of a colossal grave. Each side was five hands wide and twice the height of a man—it seemed to have risen straight from the heart of the Earth itself.
The surface of the stone was so smooth that even the black darkness of the cave reflected upon it, creating an even deeper, more dreadful darkness.
It was like a living mirror, one that reflected only darkness—acknowledging no existence of light.

The letters carved upon the pillar were no ordinary script—they seemed like living serpents, each curve hiding untold knowledge and the foreboding of peril. Within every symbol there was a strange vibration, as if these were not mere carvings but living energies of an ancient language, still pulsing, waiting to awaken from their slumber of thousands of years.

The patterns of the symbols were so intricate that one’s eyes began to ache from staring at them. Within each mark seemed to hide countless smaller signs, which in turn contained even smaller ones—an infinite cycle that could drive a mind lost into its labyrinth of mystery. Whoever gazed at those symbols too long would feel trapped in an unseen net—their consciousness drifting toward an unknown dimension where time and space held no meaning.

Around the stone, arranged in a perfect circle, lay twelve intricately crafted stones—each brick-shaped, placed at precise intervals, as if set according to some ancient geometric law.

These stones glowed with a strange light even in the darkness—a bluish, mysterious glow, as though some ancient fire still burned within them.
That light was cold, lifeless, yet filled with a strange power—as if it were the dead light of a star, that had travelled across the cosmos for eons only to be imprisoned here.

At the centre of each stone was carved a curious symbol—something like an eye, as if the gaze of an unseen watcher; something like a star, as if the reflection of a distant sun; and yet something else entirely—belonging to a language of beings from another dimension, beyond human comprehension.

These twelve stones seemed like twelve sentinels, built to imprison an unknown force—their alignment so perfect that it felt governed by cosmic law. The air around each stone was heavy, as though an invisible field of energy surrounded them.

Among this cursed atmosphere, the most wondrous and mysterious thing was the tiny golden mark in the exact centre of the stones—a single symbol.
Around each mark shimmered a strange glow, as though they themselves were the source of light.

In this sleepless silence, nine explorers moved like ghosts.
With every step they took, the ancient dust upon the cave floor rose into the air, witnesses to a thousand years of breath.

Han grandpa moved forward trembling. His aged heart thumped with a strange excitement—a painful mixture of fear and curiosity.

His hands trembled with an unknown fear.
With every step, the soles of his boots made a ghostly echo on the rocky floor of the cave.
As his wrinkled fingers reached out to touch a stone, suddenly—like an invisible lightning strike—it hit him.
His whole body shook under the touch of an unknown force, as though a thousand volts of power surged through his veins.
He was thrown backward, his eyes wide with a strange mix of terror and awe.
After a while, he gathered himself,
panting heavily,
and with a trembling voice filled with disbelief, he whispered in wonder:
"These stones... they are not ordinary. Each one holds a power that no human hand could create."
His words echoed against the cave walls, creating a dreadful hum, as if the cave itself bore witness to his claim.