Chapter Five: The Expedition Towards the Cave
When the morning sun spread its first rays across the earth, the deep blue of the sky slowly turned into a golden glow. Yet, even amidst that beauty, a dark shadow lingered—as though nature itself was warning them of the danger ahead.
The Arharin expedition reached the southern edge of the Lunjur plains, where the last traces of civilisation vanished into an abyss of unknown darkness.
Here, even the air seemed to carry an omen—heavy, suffocating, with the scent of an ancient fear that had endured for a thousand years. The trees grew so tall and thick that even the midday sun lost itself beneath their shadows, as if the travellers had stepped into a realm of eternal twilight.
Amid the ancient trees stood nine adventurers, each face bearing a different emotion. Some looked anxious, some determined, and some haunted by a deep, unspoken dread.
The young explorer Rom held in his hands an ancient manuscript—its pages hiding secrets of a thousand years, its leather binding still carrying the warmth of the ancestors who once sought this mysterious place, and perhaps never returned. A strange blend of curiosity and fear stirred in his heart. He was also a skilled warrior—his sword, hanging from his waist, gleamed in the sunlight again and again.
A master of metallurgy, Rom knew that victory would come not only from weapons, but through knowledge and courage.
Taf stood beside everyone with an air of mysterious strength—like a living fortress whose very presence inspired courage in others. His eyes carried the gleam of experience, the kind that can only be earned at the edge of life and death. His voice held the power to awaken bravery, as if the echo of some hero from an ancient epic. He was alive—and for the group, a pillar of strength. A man whose presence could spark hope even in darkness.
The old archaeologist Han carried the marks of time in his grey beard and trembling voice. In his white beard clung the dust of ages, and at the corners of his eyes lay the weariness of countless sleepless nights. In his hands rested an old map—each line and symbol drawn at the cost of precious blood. In his eyes shone both fear and wisdom—for he knew that with knowledge comes responsibility, and with responsibility, unbearable pain.
The young man Nasar, who had come on such a mysterious expedition for the first time, felt his heart caught in a battle between dream and nightmare. Every rustle of leaves, every flicker of shadow seemed to him a sign of something ominous.
Him—the scholar of inscriptions—had eyes that burned with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.
Son—an experienced elder, silent witness to countless ruins. The wrinkles on his hands carried the memory of fallen pillars and collapsed palaces. In his eyes was a sadness only those can understand who have seen the rise and fall of civilisations.
The true leader of the Arharin expedition, Var Khani, held in his hands an ancient hammer engraved with sacred runes—runes said to make even stone speak when uttered aloud. Within him burned passion, obsession, and a dangerous resolve—as though he already knew that this journey would end in either ultimate victory or utter destruction.
The team's archaeologist, Rafa Dir, was always the voice of reason. Every word he spoke carried deep analysis, every decision a foundation of logic. He was the rational voice who stood firm against blind belief, building walls of fact and evidence.
And finally, there was Shid—the silent observer. He spoke little, but his eyes saw everything. The shifting of every shadow, the trembling of every leaf, the change in every wind—nothing escaped his gaze. He knew that, in these plains, silence itself could sometimes be the greatest warning.
In this southern border of the Lunjur plains, the nine travellers—Rom, Taf, Han, Nasar, Him, Son, Var Khani, Rafa Dir, and Shid—all felt that they had arrived at a moment of immense significance in history.
A moment when the boundary between past and present blurred, when the veil between legend and reality began to lift.
Then, the young explorer Rom, clutching the ancient manuscript in his trembling hands, filled with curiosity and unease, took a deep breath and asked in a nervous voice:
"Does the Memory Stone really exist here in the Lunjur plains? Or are these only legends?"
Even the wind seemed to pause, sensing the weight of Rom's question.
Amid the ancient trees, it felt as if every word spoken held meaning.
A mysterious gleam flashed in Taf's eyes—the kind only seen in those who have spent their lives standing at the border of truth and falsehood. Slowly, he turned his head towards Rom. With a grave tone, he replied:
"Rom, my grandfather once said—what mankind wishes to forget, nature carves into stone. And what is carved into stone can never be false."
Taf's words drifted through the air like an ancient spell, every syllable carrying wisdom and the essence of experience.
At that moment, everyone felt they were not on a mere expedition—they were on a quest for truth, for the lost pages of history, and perhaps for the deepest mysteries of their own souls.
The old archaeologist Han, whose white beard seemed to hold the very script of history—each strand heavy with sleepless nights, endless studies, and the marks of countless ancient texts.
The wrinkles around his eyes were like deep ravines carved by time.
With trembling hands, he carefully unfolded an old map.
Its leather surface was so ancient that touching it felt like touching history itself.
In a voice trembling with both age and concern, he said:
"Look, the place marked in red ink—my ancestors once went there. When they returned, they said—there lies something that makes a man's soul tremble."
As Han spoke, his fingers shook, as though he feared to even touch that red mark.
The red stain looked as if a drop of blood had dried and hardened through the passage of time.
Meanwhile, the young Nasar—whose heart had long been filled only with dreams and imagination—now stood face to face with harsh reality. His eyes followed every shadow, and every sound made him flinch. He whispered:
"This forest… it feels alive. As if every tree is watching us."
At Nasar's words, everyone felt it too—as if every tree, every bush, even the roots beneath the earth were aware of their presence.
A dreadful silence fell over the forest, as though nature itself had stopped breathing.
Then Taf, whose heart carried boundless compassion and fatherly warmth, stepped forward slowly and placed a firm, reassuring hand on Nasar's shoulder.
At his touch, a wave of calm seemed to pass through the young man's body.
With a voice full of comfort and fatherly love, Taf said:
"Nasar, do not be afraid. Those who fear can never face the truth. We have come here to find that truth."
As Taf's words reached him, a spark of courage lit up in Nasar's heart.
But just then…
Suddenly, from the unfathomable depths of the forest—from somewhere like the pit of the underworld—came a strange, piercing sound.
It was so loud and unnatural that it seemed as if some colossal, unknown creature—something beyond human imagination—was exhaling a deep sigh of ancient loneliness.
Within that sound was a primal terror—hearing it sent a stream of ice down the spine.
All nine froze at once, like statues of stone.
Their breaths caught, their hearts racing many times faster.
The experienced warrior Rom, whose sword bore the scars of countless battles, the blood of many enemies, and the marks of victory—instantly gripped the hilt of his weapon tight.
His trained senses rose to the highest alert.
Eyes scanning every shadow, ears catching every sound, he said in a steady, commanding voice:
"Everyone, stay alert. There are things in this forest far beyond our imagination."
As Rom's warning echoed through the air, everyone once again felt that they had truly stepped into an unknown and perilous world.