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.
Nasar—whose courage and daring were known far and wide—stepped forward with firm resolve.
But suddenly, as though striking against an invisible wall, he stumbled into something unseen.
His body shuddered with a strange sensation—as if the air itself had turned solid, as if an unseen wall had formed around them.
An invisible wall—
one that could not be seen, but could be touched, could be felt through every nerve.
Everyone looked at each other in confusion.
At that moment, something strange began to happen. The moonlight—that magical, mysterious silver glow—started to seep through the cave's roof.
How it entered was a mystery beyond reason. The roof was solid stone, no cracks, no holes—yet the silver light poured in as if by some spell.
As the moonlight touched the surface of the stone, another scene unfolded.
The golden mark at the centre of the stone came alive—as though some ancient spirit had awakened after a thousand years of slumber.
The mark was a complex geometric design—like a snowflake, but far more intricate, more mysterious, more terrifying.
Every line, every angle was perfect, as if drawn by the hand of a sorcerer—no, as if it were an immortal symbol.
The mark began to glow with an otherworldly radiance—a fusion of gold, silver, and colours unnamed by human tongues. That light spread through the entire cave, to every corner, every crack, as though a great war between light and darkness had begun.
Rom—the young metallurgist—stepped forward in mesmerised wonder. His eyes were filled with curiosity, yet his heart trembled with unspoken fear. He came closer and stared at the stones with disbelief. His skilled hands, the ones that could read the nature of any metal, now shook in awe. He said, his voice trembling with deep respect and dread:
"This metal... it's not from this world. Its shine, its hue, its weight—everything about it is strange."
As he spoke, his eyes reflected deep confusion—as if all his knowledge, all his experience, had become helpless before this unknown element.
Taf said,
"These stones are seals. Twelve of them guard this marble pillar."
Arharin, the leader of the group, Var Khani—stepped forward with cautious precision. Each of his steps was calculated, perfect. Beneath his boots, shards of stone and fragments of dry bone—remnants of unfortunate explorers of the past—crunched and cracked, as if each fragment sang a song of death.
With every step, his heartbeat quickened, his throat grew dry with an unfamiliar dread.
He knew—he deeply understood—that what he was about to do might mark the dawn of a new chapter in civilisation… or bring about its final end.
In his gloved hand of black leather, he held an ancient iron hammer—not an ordinary tool, but a sacred weapon. Along its handle were carved incantations in a forgotten tongue. The letters curved like snakes, alive, as if blood itself flowed through the metal.
The hammer carried a strange magnetic force—one could feel it upon touch.
Beside him stood the team's archaeologist, Rafa Dir—a learned man whose life had been spent chasing the mysteries of the ancient world.
At that moment, his eyes were filled with deep concern. His trembling hands scribbled last-minute notes in his old leather diary—the diary that held the essence of fifty years of research.
In half a century of study, he had never imagined such a discovery. His hands quivered uncontrollably, the letters scattered on the page, as though his fear itself had found expression through his fingers.
In that silence—when the whole cave seemed to hold its breath—Var Khani raised his hammer and struck the first stone.
That instant was unforgettable, as though the heartbeat of the world itself had stopped.
But the moment the hammer struck, an unimaginable event occurred. A tremendous sound—one no human had ever heard—like a thousand thunderclaps at once.
The noise was deafening.
The entire cave shook with the force of an earthquake, as if some ancient titan had awakened from the earth's core.
Fragments of stone began to rain down from the ceiling, each shard a messenger of death.
With the help of Rom and Han grandpa, the others rushed to a corner where they could be safe.