Gunmage-Chapter 27: Whispers in my head

Lugh stirred, his consciousness drifting back into a stark, lightless space. He had lost his consciousness once more.

His right eye throbbed, a persistent yet diminished ache. Duller than before, but still sharp enough to gnaw at the edges of his mind.

He surveyed his surroundings, noting the strange, pale walls pressing in on either side, smooth and cold like polished stone.

He was alone. The others—his companions—were gone.

A narrow corridor stretched before him, a single, suffocating path that led in only one direction. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. There was no reason to hesitate. He moved forward.

Each step echoed unnaturally, as if the space itself absorbed sound and then released it in distorted murmurs.

As he walked, he turned over the events in his mind. The dangerous battle with the knight. The moment its blade cleaved toward him. And those ominous parting words

"Weakness shall not go unpunished."

A cryptic message? No, a warning.

He suspected now that this place, this labyrinth, was another trial. He and the others had been thrown into a series of tests, a process meant to shape them, break them, or prepare them for some unseen purpose. Or perhaps the trials served no purpose at all. Perhaps they were the whims of something cruel, something ancient and watching.

He remained uncertain of the reasons or selection criteria, but he was certain the trials had commenced upon their initial landing on this peculiar island.

He and Lyra were the only ones who had gained abilities beyond normal human comprehension. Why? What set them apart? He mulled over it for some time and the only answer that fit was that they had confronted the first creature—the entity that paralyzed with fear.

While the others had faltered, they had pressed forward. Was it bravery, or something else? Had they been rewarded for their defiance, or marked for it?

Lyra and the extraordinary abilities she displayed came to mind. Her unheard scream that resonated through their very souls, her hair moving as if alive, infused with some arcane will.

It defied conventional understanding. Humans were not capable of using magic, that was common sense.

Then again, he wasn't sure if that could even be classified as magic. There were no arcane circles, nor were any incantations involved. All he knew was that it was mystical and otherworldly.

Furthermore, the formidable knight had wielded actual enchanted weapons, artifacts that existed only in legends.

Since they had set foot in the Devil Sea, common sense seemed to had become obsolete.

Speaking of enchanted weapons...

Lugh's fingers brushed the sheathe at his side, its presence a cold reassurance. The knight's weapon had reshaped itself to fit him, as if acknowledging him as its new owner.

Why? Was it merely an enchanted artifact, bound to the victor, or had something chosen him?

Time passed. Ten minutes, perhaps more. The corridor had led him to a fork—left or right.

"Strength is not enough to seize victory."

The knight's words resurfaced. At the time, he hadn't fully grasped their meaning. If he were honest, they shouldn't have survived that fight.

It had been chance, an anomaly. His strange precognition had helped, but even that wouldn't have mattered if Aldric hadn't noticed the strange phenomena with the shadows.

The realization struck him cold. It wasn't just strength. It was knowledge. Even with all the power in the world, if they hadn't understood their enemy's weakness, they would have been slaughtered.

He took the left path.

A sound slithered through the air.

A whisper.

Lugh stopped.

His head turned sharply, scanning the corridor behind him, but nothing stirred. Only silence. He resumed walking, his pace cautious.

The whispers returned—thin, incomprehensible murmurs that coiled around his ears.

"Guys! Is anyone here!? Hellooo!?"

His own voice echoed back at him. Too sharp. Too distorted. He clenched his teeth, unwilling to acknowledge the uneasy feeling creeping down his spine.

The walls loomed higher than before, impossibly smooth, stretching into unseen heights. They were too high to climb and too seamless to grip. The path was tightening, pressing him forward.

The whispers grew.

Lugh's fingers twitched. The voice—no, voices—had shifted. They were no longer surrounding him. They were inside him.

The language was foreign, yet something within him understood. The words seeped into his mind, slow and insidious. Carve the runes. Blood must be offered. Mark the flesh.

His breath hitched. His fingers curled instinctively, gripping at air.

Then, he felt something cold in his hand.

He looked down and there it was. A shard of bone, jagged and sharp, rested against his palm.

Lugh froze.

'When did I pick this up?'

His pulse spiked.

He tore his gaze from the bone and looked around.

Bones.

They were embedded in the walls and littered across the floor.

He reeled back, only now realizing that his surroundings had changed. The pale, empty corridor was gone. This place—this graveyard—had been waiting for him.

Something clicked in his mind. A thought, a memory.

"I've heard looking at eldritch horrors is supposed to grant you infinite knowledge."

The words felt familiar.

"The only thing I've gotten is an itchy right eye and voices that whisper in my head."

A chill slithered through his spine. That was his voice. He had said those words before.

But when?

His breath turned shallow. There were gaps in his memory, vast and empty. He wished to know what had happened before this. To know how much he had forgotten.

The whispers pulsed, feverish and impatient.

Lugh pressed his hands against his temples, trying to block them out, but they pressed in, urgent, insidious, like poison.

Sacrifice. Offer. Etch the runes. Mark the flesh. The flesh. The flesh.

His fingers twitched. Why did that thought feel comforting?

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He gritted his teeth, his nails digging into his skin, grounding himself in the pain. No. He would not obey.

The walls seemed to close in. The air grew thick and suffocating. His heart pounded against his ribs.

I have to get out of here.

Crack.

A sound.

Up ahead.

Thud. Thud.

Footsteps. Approaching.

Lugh exhaled, slow and steady, forcing the panic from his mind. His grip on the sheathe tightened.

Someone was coming.

No.

Something was coming.