Denizens of the Labyrinth

Jazmel gripped the edge of the sarcophagus, its blackened stone cold and slick beneath his fingers. With a firm push, he slid the heavy lid aside, the grating noise reverberating through the chamber like a groan of protest. A plume of stale air escaped, thick with the scent of rot and age. Beneath the lid, instead of the expected remains, a narrow stairwell descended into the earth, the steps carved from the same dark, veined stone as the walls.

The faint green haze of death mana drifted upward like ghostly tendrils, curling, and fading as they met the fresher air above. Jazmel stepped forward, peering into the depths. His sword's blue flame flickered, casting ethereal light that danced along the walls, its brightness a sharp contrast to the eerie glow of the mana.

With a deep breath, he began his descent, his footsteps echoing softly. The air grew colder with each step, carrying with it the metallic tang of ancient magic and decay. His eyes, attuned to mana, saw the spectral wisps thickening, like a fog pooling around his legs.

"Time," Jazmel murmured, noting the stillness. It hung here, palpable, and heavy, clinging to the stone like cobwebs in forgotten corners. The sensation was unsettling, as though the passage of years had congealed into something physical, caught in the walls of this place.

He pressed on, his breathing steady, his mind focused. His blade flared intermittently, the blue fire responding to the death mana around him. It flickered brighter with each step, as if eager to consume the remnants of power that lingered in this forsaken place.

The stairway spiralled deeper, and the fog of death mana thickened, making it harder to see beyond a few steps ahead. But Jazmel's vision was unimpeded, the mana flaring in his sight like torchlight. He could feel it, a rising pulse in the air—whatever lay below was dormant but potent, a relic of immense power waiting to be uncovered.

Finally, the stairs ended, opening into a vast chamber. Jazmel stepped down onto a smooth stone floor etched with ancient runes, their lines faintly glowing with the same green hue of death mana. The chamber was circular, its ceiling lost in shadow, and along the walls, pillars rose like skeletal fingers, their surfaces marked with symbols of long-forgotten rituals.

The room felt frozen in time. Dust hung in the air, undisturbed by movement, and cobwebs clung to every surface like the tapestry of neglect. Yet, amidst the desolation, there was a strange order—a symmetry to the runes, a purpose to the arrangement of the chamber.

In the centre of the room, a raised dais held an ancient altar, its surface darkened by the stains of countless rituals performed in ages past. Jazmel's blade flared as he approached, the blue flames reflecting off the altar's surface like water catching moonlight.

He could feel the power here, dormant yet oppressive, seeping into his skin and bones. He paused, letting his senses adjust to the suffocating weight of the room. Whatever purpose this place once served, it had long been abandoned. Yet the traces of its history remained, etched in the walls, and suspended in the stagnant air.

Jazmel tightened his grip on his sword, his eyes scanning the chamber for any sign of movement. The silence was unnerving, yet he knew this place had not been left unguarded. Something—someone—had left this ritual chamber behind, but its echoes still lingered.

"This is no ordinary layer," he murmured, stepping closer to the altar. "What were they doing here?"

His voice was swallowed by the silence, and as he stood there, staring at the darkened altar, the flicker of blue flame in his blade seemed to pulse in anticipation. He could feel it—a challenge was coming, and he would need all his strength to face it.

Jazmel let his gaze sweep across the chamber, his eyes drinking in the details hidden beneath layers of dust and shadow. The eerie, flickering glow of his sword illuminated objects scattered around the room, their silhouettes casting strange, elongated shadows against the walls.

On a low stone shelf to his left, rows of vials sat, their glass fogged with age. Some contained dried remnants of powders or liquids, their colours long faded, while others were empty, their stoppers blackened as though scorched. Jazmel guessed these might have been used for alchemical mixtures or ritual potions, each vial a fragment of forgotten knowledge.

A cluster of tarnished metallic objects lay haphazardly on the floor nearby. They resembled tools, with jagged edges and intricate carvings on their handles. One had a circular blade at its tip, almost like a saw, while another had a twisted, spiral head that might have been used to carve or pierce. Ritual implements, Jazmel assumed, though their exact purpose was a mystery.

In the far corner of the chamber, half-buried beneath a fallen slab of stone, he noticed what looked like a ceremonial mask. It was made of some dark, glossy material, its surface adorned with cryptic runes that seemed to shimmer faintly in his sword's light. The mask's hollow eyes stared back at him, and though it was inanimate, it exuded an unsettling presence.

At the foot of one of the skeletal pillars stood a basin carved from obsidian. Its surface was smooth and unblemished, but the inside was lined with grooves and channels, as though it had been designed to catch and direct liquid. Jazmel ran his fingers along its edge, imagining it once filled with blood or some other substance during arcane rites.

Above the altar, hanging precariously from a chain embedded in the ceiling, was a pendant-like object. Its shape was jagged and irregular, as though formed naturally rather than crafted. A faint green light pulsed within it, like the dying heartbeat of something ancient and malevolent. He couldn't tell if it was a relic of power or merely a decayed fragment of a once-mighty artifact.

Scattered across the chamber floor were shards of what might have been ceremonial blades. Their hilts, encrusted with faded gemstones, hinted at a time when they had been wielded with great significance. The blades themselves were broken, their edges dulled and jagged, suggesting they had either been destroyed in battle or during a ritual meant to unbind their power.

Lastly, Jazmel's eyes fell on a series of small, carved figurines arranged in a circle near the altar. Each figure was unique, depicting a creature he didn't recognize one had the head of a snake and the wings of a bat; another was a spindly humanoid with elongated limbs and hollow eyes. Despite their diminutive size, they radiated an aura that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

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He stepped back, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the chamber's contents. These were no ordinary items. They were relics of a time and purpose long lost, their history etched into the room itself.

Whatever had transpired here, Jazmel thought, it was dark—dark enough to leave an echo that lingered still.

Jazmel pressed his shoulder against the heavy stone door, its ancient surface rough beneath his touch. The groan of grinding stone echoed ominously through the chamber as he pushed with steady strength. Dust cascaded from the seams, proof of how long it had been since the door last moved. With a final shove, it gave way, revealing a narrow passage that led into another room.

Stepping through, Jazmel was immediately struck by the stark contrast. The new chamber was cold—unnaturally so—its chill biting through his vambraces and creeping up his skin. The air carried a faint metallic tang, mixed with the unmistakable bitterness of death. Despite this, the room pulsed faintly with life, the glow of green mana threading through the cracks in the walls and spiralling up into the air like ghostly wisps.

The chamber itself was dimly lit by a series of modern arcane implements, their pale, artificial light flickering uncertainly as if repelled by the aura of the room. Tables lined the walls, their surfaces cluttered with tools of science and magic: syringes filled with opaque liquids, jars containing preserved specimens, and a collection of ominous, rune-marked tomes. The faint hum of mana-infused machinery filled the space, blending seamlessly with the more traditional elements of a ritual chamber.

At the centre of the room, a single figure stood hunched over a long metal table. The table was pristine, save for the array of materials scattered across it—scrolls, small vials of glowing substances, and a dissected creature whose anatomy seemed more magical than physical. The man's movements were precise and methodical, his hands encased in sleek gloves that shimmered faintly with enchanted glyphs.

The man himself was an enigma. His tall frame was thin, almost gaunt, and his skin was pale to the point of translucence, as though the vitality had been drained from it. His sharp features were framed by long, stringy hair the colour of ash, tied back loosely to keep it from falling into his work. A pair of round, dark-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, catching the faint glow of his instruments, and giving him an almost insect-like appearance.

He wore a coat that resembled a doctor's lab coat, but its material was black and embroidered with silver runes, marking it as a garment of ritualistic importance. Beneath it, Jazmel could see glimpses of fitted garments reinforced with leather straps and hidden pockets, suggesting practicality and preparation.

The man's aura was undeniable. Jazmel could feel it—a dense, oppressive energy radiating from him. It wasn't just the death mana that filled the room; it was something more calculated, a mastery of death as both an art and a science.

He muttered to himself as he worked, his voice low and clinical. His hands moved with an unsettling calm, adjusting a vial here, carving a rune there, as though the lifeless objects before him were pieces of a puzzle only he could solve. On his belt hung a collection of implements—scalpels, bone saws, and syringes—each meticulously arranged and gleaming with a sharpness that spoke of their frequent use.

Jazmel's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. This was no ordinary ritualist. The man before him was both a master of death magic and a practitioner of grim experimentation. Whatever his purpose, it was clear that this was a place where life and death were not merely opposed but manipulated and reshaped at will.

"Who are you?" Jazmel called, clearly capturing the man off guard. He froze before whirling on Jazmel.

"Where did you come from!" he noticed the door ajar and cursed beneath his breath.

"You crossed the mausoleum?" the man asked, incredulous.

Spirit Strike!

The man flashed a hand out and a source of Mana flashed at Jazmel. He darted to the side, where he had once been. The Mana hit the ground and blackened the spot. Jazmel didn't even have a second to think, more strikes scarred the air. Leaping into movement, he flurried around the room. Dodging and diving.

Flaming evisceration!

Blue flames sparked. Jazmel slashed across the air, he met the spirit strike and the blue flames from his blade caused the two skills to collide and combust.

Flaming evisceration!

Great Rumbling Dragon!

Blue flames flared into the room, brightening the entirety of the chamber. Jazmel watched as the Mana from his second skill appeared like a dragon. The Mana spectral maw appeared, roaring silently as it burst forth. Crashing through the oncoming skills and attack the ritual doctor.

Jazmel was unsure why he was being attacked, but he wouldn't submit. He stole a quick glance and saw that a body was laying on the tabletop. The man was clearly working on dead bodies. Jazmel felt sickened and something cold in him quelled all the hesitation.

The man pulled on a bandoleer, it was weirdly shaped, and each pocket held an odd, shaped item. The first one he pulled out, was a bell. Its handle circular so he could clutch it and swing it around his wrist. As he did, the sound was eery. It jarred Jazmel's teeth, the dissonance he felt made him almost throw up. But he clenched his stomach and stood rooted.

DING!

THE BELL OF GARAH HAS BEEN RUNG!

ALL TO DEATH HAVE RISEN!

Jazmel didn't know what that meant until a rasping breath could be heard and to his left. The corpse atop the table shuddered as it slowly sat up.

"You will soon join as one of my experiments!" the man grinned maddeningly.

The corpse sat up, rose up and perched atop the counter.

"Kill him." the doctor said and Jazmel cursed through clenched teeth.

Great rumbling dragon!

The maw burst forward and to Jazmel's dismay. The corpse shattered his skill with its bare hands. It pulled the dragon maw apart and then rushed Jazmel.

He struck with his sword, a single slash and the blue flames leapt up the arm of the revenant as if kindle. It burned the arm to a stump and Jazmel watched as the creature rushed backwards. Scared of the flames.

"Where on earth did you find that sword?" the dead doctor cried.

"Don't worry about it, you will feel the flames soon!" Jazmel yelled.

Flaming evisceration!

He poured Mana into the flames and swinging his sword with his entire body a wall of flame appeared.

"NO! MY WORKSHOP!" the doctor screamed, but soon the cry was filled with anguish!

Beckoning of the bearer!

He yelled as he rung another bell, bones conjured up into skeletal figures. But the blue flames washed over them, purging the workshop chamber.

Purgatory pulse!

The man yelled, but Jazmel simply watched as his blue flames engulfed all. the corpse of the girl died instantly and a glimmer of something fled from the body as it smoked. Was that a soul I just saw? Jazmel wondered to himself, but he shook his head to focus. This man needed to die now.

Shadowed Reave!

Jazmel felt the turning of his stomach, as the colour bled from the world. All around him, the blacks turned white, and the whites turned black. This realm of inverse was unnerving, but so powerful. He raised his katana and with it, struck lethally. Striking the man from neck to nape.

"You got me." The man coughed up blood as he fell to the ground. His wounds were extensive, it looked like he was trying to heal himself, but the blue flames of Yoru No Tsubasa were not so forgiving. The flames cauterised the wound, keeping it open and forcing the man to bleed. His life's blood pooling away.