The Map of Hidden Treasure

Fifteenth Episode : The Map of Hidden Treasure

Five young men stand before the door. Heavy, made of ancient wood, carved with mysterious symbols. But they have no other choice.

The door opens. The beginning of another unknown journey.

What spreads out before them is not merely a court hall, but the living shape of an ancient nightmare. In place of a ceiling, there is darkness. This vast sky above their heads has stood for centuries as a witness to the deepest curses of the world. Its immensity is such that even five pairs of eyes looking together cannot find its edges, as if it is a fragment of infinity that no human heart can fully contain.

The surrounding walls are stony books of living history. Carved into them are the hollow faces of a thousand forgotten kings, each face frozen in a single scream. Darkness has gathered so deeply in their eye sockets that looking into them feels as though the entire past is staring back. Every face tells its own story of suffering. Some died by betrayal, some fell to curses, some were consumed by hunger for power. Their silent screams echo through the air, unheard by the ears but felt within the soul.

The air is filled with the scent of old centuries, faded smoke, and something more—something alive that lies beyond human experience. This scent is like the breath of a mountain dreaming. Deep, mysterious, and faintly maddening. With every breath, it feels as though the curses of the past are entering their lungs, mixing with their blood, settling into their hearts.

On the faces of the five young men, a mark of fear appears at this sight. Mursalin’s chest rises and falls quickly with controlled tension, a sharp alertness carved into the lines of his face.

Vesha’s bright eyes roam everywhere, searching every shadow, every corner, for possible danger.

Halem’s powerful shoulders are slightly hunched, his face set in deep concentration.

On Narvi’s young face, there is wonder.

At the very centre of the court hall, above a polished square stone pedestal, floats a glass box. It rotates endlessly. But this glass is no ordinary glass. It is a fragment bent into impossible geometry, its surfaces meeting at angles that human mathematics cannot explain. The light within it pulses like a heartbeat. Slow, steady, as if following some ancient rhythm.

At the centre of the box, the map turns lazily, its edges dissolving into smoke and forming again, as if undecided about its own existence. Every line drawn upon the map is alive—rivers flow like real water, mountains are covered in the shadows of real clouds. This map is not merely a design; it is the essence of a living world, a true reflection of some distant realm.

Around the map floats a ring of inscriptions, written in a language not meant for this age. These letters themselves are alive, dancing in the air, joining together to form meaning and then dissolving again. Each letter is a small flame, a fragment of a star, a shadow of a dream. They hover in the air, defying gravity, moving by their own laws.

And then?
That whisper. It does not enter the ears, but the mind directly. Like an unseen touch reaching the deepest corner of the heart, where the most secret thoughts hide.
“Speak,” they whisper.
These words are not merely sounds; they are an invitation, a temptation, a warning. Within each word lies endless promise, and at the same time, the hint of total destruction.

The words echo within the minds of the five young men, creating tremors at the deepest level of their awareness.

On Mursalin’s face appears the mark of experienced leadership. His fingers slowly rise toward his lips. Within this simple gesture lies the experience of years of dangerous expeditions. His eyes meet the eyes of his companions. A silent command, a demand for their lives. In this unspoken signal is a weight that each of them is bound to accept.

And at once, silence. But this is not ordinary stillness. It is a living, suffocating silence that thickens the air. In this silence, even the sound of their heartbeats feels enormous. Every breath is a risk, every movement of muscle a sign of danger.
They begin to move like shadows. Five pairs of feet touch the floor so lightly that they seem ghost-like, almost without existence. In every step there is graceful rhythm, warrior-like caution. Their bodies blend together, as if they have become part of this place itself.

Vesha, whose tall body carries a hunter’s grace, takes position at the rear. The daggers in his hands are dulled with oil, so that no reflection of light can reveal his position. Every line of his face is hardened with sharp focus. His eyes remain fixed on the floating inscriptions, as if he is watching the movement of a venomous snake. His breathing is so controlled that even the rise and fall of his chest is almost invisible.

Halem, whose muscular body is usually a symbol of strength and stability, now moves forward in a lowered stance. By bending his broad shoulders, he turns himself into a part of the darkness. His form becomes a blur in the shadows, as if he is a moving shade. His breathing is so slow it is nearly stopped, like a state of deep meditation, where every action is conscious and controlled.

Narvi, whose young face still carries a trace of innocence, draws ancient protective symbols in the air with his hands. Closing his eyes, he gathers the strength within himself, forming a spiritual shield that will protect him from dark forces.