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.
Mir moves slowly toward the glass box. There is a sense of ritual in every step, as if he is taking part in a ceremony. His fingers disappear inside his clothing, searching for a special object.
From his sleeve emerges a slender bone. But this is no ordinary bone. Ancient symbols carved upon it glow faintly in the low light. Perhaps it is the rib of some saint who sacrificed his life against dark powers. In its touch lies the strength of centuries.
Mir's heart beats rapidly as he brings this bone into contact with the outer glass. On his face is fierce concentration, as if he knows that this single touch will decide their fate.
At the moment of contact, the language screams. But this scream is more than sound; it is a spiritual cry that tears at reality itself. A soundless vibration shakes everything around them, even the stone of the walls trembles.
This vibration is felt deep within the bones of the five young men, reaching the deepest layers of their souls.
The thousand-year rotation of the glass box comes to a halt. In this stillness there is a weight of finality, as if reality itself has been suspended.
The map flashes with unbearable intensity, as if it is being torn apart between two worlds. The light is so fierce that five pairs of eyes are temporarily blinded.
And then?
Silence. But this silence is heavier than before, more ominous. It is a dead silence, as if the entire world has forgotten how to breathe.
The floating letters freeze in the air, as if turned to stone. Their living dance stops, their mysterious glow fades away. The glass box becomes completely dark, its inner light extinguished forever.
The map finally hangs still within the glass, its edges solid and tangible for the first time in centuries. The rivers and mountains drawn upon it no longer move, yet a living energy still flows within them.
For a long time, no one moves. As if along with the frozen map, five hearts have also lost their rhythm. Not fear now, but a kind of heavy acceptance. This chamber, this court of ancient nightmare, is no longer active; it has revealed its hidden truth and grown weary.
The stone floor no longer feels as cold as before, as if the burden of centuries has become a little lighter. The air is cool and clean, yet within it hides the scent of an unknown future.
Outside, the night waits. In the arrangement of the stars, there is a subtle unease, as if the cosmos itself is holding a new map.