Kairo had long since stopped counting how many doors he'd passed through, how many tunnels he'd taken, how many echoes he'd followed that whispered promises with no face.
But this one felt… different.
Not deeper. Not colder. Just older.
The stone under his boots was brittle with time, flaking with every step. It crackled like bones beneath him, and the air no longer smelled of rot or steam or wet moss.
It smelled like memory.
He paused at the threshold of a vast room — wider than any he'd passed since descending into the Maw. Its ceiling was lost in shadows, but broken chandeliers dangled above like iron ribcages. All around the chamber, shattered weapons lay embedded in the walls, and old banners — torn, unrecognizable — swayed slightly in an unfelt breeze.
There were no corpses.
Just the echo of battle long passed.
And in the center, half-buried in dust and silence… was a chair.
A throne, made of bones and dark steel, long abandoned. Cracks ran through its surface like lightning veins, and black moss had begun to climb its legs like ivy.
Kairo stepped forward.
The cursed sigil on his palm pulsed in soft rhythm. Not bright. Not warning. Just… present.
He approached the throne slowly, every movement deliberate. His boot nudged something hard in the dust.
He crouched.
A journal.
Its leather was worn, torn in places, soaked in old oil. The spine had nearly rotted away. But when he picked it up, the pages didn't crumble. They turned with resistance — stiff and dark, but legible.
There was no name on the cover.
But as he flipped to the first page, scrawled in ink that had long since faded brown, he read:
> "I descended thinking I would conquer.
But the Maw is not meant to be taken.
It takes you instead."
Kairo kept reading, page by page, kneeling at the foot of the throne.
The journal was a chronicle.
Not of a warrior.
Not of a hero.
But of a Ranker.
One who bore the curse before him.
One who made it this far.
---
> Day 19: The voices have changed. They speak not just to me… but through me. When I speak now, the Maw sometimes answers in my voice.
Day 25: I found her shadow today. She died long ago — but her echo walks beside me. I see her in reflections. In walls. She calls me "Husband."
Day 31: I bound a wraith-thing. It gave me vision — not forward. But backward. I saw myself, as a boy, throwing stones at the sky. The sky bled.
Day 40: I killed a beast that never lived. Its name was Regret. It wore my face. It wept as it died.
---
Kairo exhaled slowly.
This Ranker had survived at least forty days in the Maw. Alone. Cursed. And still writing.
The final pages, though, were smeared.
Some with blood.
Some with words crossed out — violently.
But the last full entry burned into Kairo's mind:
> Day 46: I found the Mirror Grave. Inside was a man who looked like me, moved like me, begged like me. He had no eyes. No voice. But the curse reached toward him like a child to its mother. I killed him. I had to. Or I would have taken his place.
> But now… I think I already have.
---
Kairo looked up from the journal.
And realized the chamber wasn't empty.
On the far wall, hidden in shadow, was a mural — massive, ancient, hand-carved directly into the stone. It showed a figure kneeling atop a mountain of skulls.
His arms were outstretched. A spiral burned in one palm.
In the other?
A crown.
Not of gold.
But of flesh.
The crown was pulsing.
It was… moving.
Kairo stepped closer, breath catching. As he neared, the cursed sigil flared in sync with the mural — and for a brief instant, the figure opened its eyes.
Not in the mural.
In his mind.
And Kairo heard a voice, calm and ragged with time:
"You carry what we all carried.
But you walk differently."
---
He stumbled back.
The image was still. Lifeless again.
But the feeling lingered — a deep weight behind his ribs. Like a memory that didn't belong to him. He turned his gaze back toward the throne… and noticed something he hadn't before.
A blade, wedged beneath the seat.
He crouched and pulled.
It came loose with a quiet groan, as if even the metal remembered the one who last held it.
The sword was jagged, crooked — almost ugly in shape. But it hummed in his hand. Not with power… with recognition.
The curse pulsed eagerly.
It knew this weapon.
Kairo tested the edge with his thumb. It bit him without effort.
The blood vanished into the blade. Absorbed.
And the hilt shifted — reshaping to fit his grip perfectly.
As if saying:
> You are worthy to carry what he left behind.
---
Behind him, something shifted in the dust.
Kairo froze.
Turned slowly.
Footprints.
Not his.
Fresh.
But there was no sound.
No breathing.
Nothing… except the slowly spreading trail of prints, one after another, leading toward the exit of the chamber — the next tunnel.
Each print was warped. Deep. Heavy.
Whoever — whatever — made them walked like a man.
But wasn't.
Kairo exhaled through clenched teeth, rising.
The blade in his hand pulsed again.
He looked back once at the journal.
Then at the mural.
And finally, at the empty throne.
Who was the forgotten Ranker?
Had he truly died?
Or had he simply walked deeper… and become something else?
---
Kairo followed the prints.
The cursed sigil burned hotter now — not in warning.
But in recognition.
As if it sensed a brother ahead.
Or a rival.
Or worse — a mirror.
And from far ahead, deeper in the Maw's next level…
Came a laugh.
Low. Hoarse.
Familiar.
And broken.
---
The trail led into a tunnel that wasn't there before.
Kairo would've sworn it — the chamber behind him was sealed, the air dead, the dust untouched. But now, carved straight through the rear wall of the throne room, stood a corridor of twisted stone, lined with crumbling glyphs and veins of silver-black ore that pulsed like arteries.
The cursed sigil on his hand responded immediately.
It grew warmer. Not alerting him — drawing him in.
He stepped forward. The path narrowed around him almost instantly, swallowing sound. His bootfalls no longer echoed. The silence was thick, not empty — as if it were listening.
He held the cursed blade low in his right hand, the sigil burning on the left.
And the air got colder.
Not frost-cold.
Dead-cold.
---
The tunnel began to slant down.
But the walls didn't curve. They twisted. Slowly, subtly, like muscle stretched tight, as if the Maw itself was exhaling in pain. Kairo felt the pressure in his ears shift, and soon gravity no longer pulled straight down.
He was walking sideways, and the corridor didn't care.
Then… it happened.
The whispers began.
Faint at first. Not from around him — from behind his eyes.
> "You left them…"
He froze.
> "You abandoned her. You watched her die."
Kairo's jaw tightened. He said nothing. Kept walking.
The path darkened. Not from lack of light — from presence.
Something was ahead.
---
He rounded the curve — and entered the Hollow Path.
It wasn't a chamber.
It was a mirrorworld.
The ceiling rose high into jagged arcs, like the ribs of a massive fossil. Walls were smooth, glass-like, each reflecting warped images that shifted without motion. Kairo looked left — and saw himself.
But older.
Armor cracked. One eye missing. Shadows pouring from the wound like blood.
He looked right — and saw himself again.
Younger. Broken. Kneeling. Crying. Surrounded by spectral hands reaching up from the floor.
He kept walking.
The mirrors thickened.
More reflections appeared — hundreds.
Each one a different Kairo.
Each one fallen.
One screamed.
One hanged.
One laughed, endlessly, mouth stretched wide, teeth replaced by sigils.
Kairo stopped.
The cursed sigil burned hot now, the blade in his hand vibrating with tension.
And then — from the far side of the Hollow Path — a figure stepped from the glass.
Not a reflection.
A copy.
---
It looked like Kairo.
Same face. Same build. Same cursed sigil, now burned across its entire chest.
But its eyes were hollow — twin black voids leaking shadow like tears.
Its body shifted, flickering between solid and spectral.
Its voice echoed as it spoke:
> "You think you're different."
Kairo raised the blade. "I know I am."
The copy tilted its head, smiling.
> "So did I."
Then it charged.
---
Kairo reacted instantly.
The cursed blade snapped forward, meeting the clone's strike midair. But their weapons didn't clash.
They merged.
The copy's shadowy sword fused with Kairo's mid-swing — and for a brief second, Kairo saw all its memories.
Pain. Fear. Isolation. Despair.
The endless loop.
Over and over again — a Kairo who failed to resist the Maw. A Kairo who begged the curse to end it. A Kairo who accepted slavery to survive.
The image vanished as Kairo pushed back, breaking contact.
The clone reeled, then laughed — voice splitting into three overlapping tones.
> "I was strong, too. I was clever. I thought I could tame it."
> "Now I am part of it."
It lunged again — this time faster.
Kairo twisted, dodging under its strike, then swept his cursed blade low in an arc that split shadow from stone.
The clone staggered — and bled smoke.
Not ichor.
Not blood.
But memory.
It shrieked — then multiplied.
---
Three more versions of Kairo dropped from the ceiling.
Each warped.
One walked with shattered legs, crawling with arms of shadow.
One wore a blindfold soaked in blood.
The third carried a noose made from bone — and it was dragging it behind him.
Kairo stepped back, breath caught, chest rising.
This was no battle.
This was a rejection.
The curse was testing his identity.
Was he truly Kairo? Or just the next copy to fall?
---
He whispered under his breath:
"Not me. Not them. Never again."
And the sigil answered.
With fire.
Black-purple energy burst from his palm, wrapping the cursed blade in writhing shadows.
He charged — not to dodge, not to defend.
But to erase.
---
He struck the first doppelgänger mid-spin — its head twisted, shrieking, before the blade carved straight through and erased its form into mist.
The second clone tried to bind him with tendrils of regret, hurling images of dead friends, past mistakes, his old life.
Kairo cut through it with a roar.
"I'm not who I was!"
The third clone raised the bone noose —
Kairo hurled his blade through its chest.
It screamed once. Then burst into glass.
---
Silence.
All reflections vanished.
The walls were now blank — smooth obsidian.
Only one mirror remained at the far end of the path.
And in it… was not a clone.
Not a copy.
But the original.
A man standing tall.
Armor dented. Face lined with time. Cursed marks across his arms like tattoos.
He stared through the glass — not hostile.
But knowing.
Kairo stepped forward.
And the figure spoke, voice deep and steady:
> "You carry the truth deeper than I ever did. But the Maw doesn't care about truth."
> "It only wants to know: will you kneel? Or will you rule?"
Kairo raised the blade. "I'm not kneeling."
The reflection smiled.
> "Then earn your crown."
And vanished.
---
The wall behind the mirror cracked open — revealing a narrow path lit by violet flames.
The Hollow Path was over.
But as Kairo stepped through, he didn't feel relief.
He felt watched.
The cursed blade, now heavier in his hand, pulsed like a heart.
And in the back of his mind…
The whisper returned.
> "You're different."
> "But not for long."
The tunnel behind the Hollow Path spat Kairo out into a dead city.
Walls made of bone. Streets paved with broken sigils. Towers half-sunken into shadow. Whatever this place once was, it had died long ago — not from time, but from rejection. As if the Maw itself had spat it out and left it to rot.
Above, there was no ceiling. Only void. A purple-black emptiness that cracked with distant lightning. No stars. No wind. Just silence.
At the center of this ruined arena was a statue — or so Kairo thought.
It stood twelve feet tall, wrapped in rusted chains. Its posture was regal, but its body… was melting. Shadow leaked from its skin like oil. Its face was hidden behind a mask made of bone and curse markings.
And when Kairo stepped within twenty feet — it moved.
Slowly.
One hand lifted from its side and pointed toward him.
Its voice rumbled like an earthquake under water.
> "Another one… walks the Maw."
> "Another fool… drinks the rot."
The cursed blade in Kairo's hand shivered.
Not with fear.
With recognition.
Kairo narrowed his eyes. "You were a Ranker."
The masked being's head tilted.
> "I am what remains of one. What's left… when victory becomes weight."
> "You carry what I once carried."
It took one step forward — and the ground beneath it cracked.
> "So now… I take it back."
---
It charged.
And the battle began.
---
Kairo barely rolled to the side before the creature's fist collided with the earth, shattering a ten-foot crater in the stone.
Chains whipped through the air — alive, hunting. Kairo twisted between them, flipping back, shadows coiling around his body as he slashed toward the figure's leg.
Metal met flesh.
And bounced off.
The being's body was tougher than stone — its skin was no longer skin. It was regret made form.
Kairo raised the cursed sigil — shadows exploded out from his palm, forming jagged spears midair.
He launched them.
The spears struck — and splattered into smoke.
The creature laughed.
> "I've eaten hundreds of shadows. You think yours will stop me?"
It raised a hand — and the ground responded.
A ripple of curse energy erupted from its palm, turning the street beneath Kairo into quicksand made of screaming faces.
Kairo leapt.
Midair — he spun, the cursed blade lengthening like liquid, striking downward with full force.
It landed — splitting one of the creature's shoulders open.
Black ichor poured out.
The creature didn't flinch.
> "Good."
> "Strike again. Give me more."
> "Make me feel."
---
Kairo landed hard, skidding across stone. His heart pounded. The cursed mark on his chest was glowing now, not just on his palm. It had spread.
He could feel it — the thrill. The addiction.
Every clash. Every wound traded. The curse fed on it.
He fed on it.
But he couldn't lose control.
This wasn't just survival.
This was dominance.
He slowed his breathing. Focused.
The whispers in his head returned.
> "He's what you'll become."
> "Unless you break the chain."
Kairo's eyes narrowed.
He stood tall — and spoke not with rage, but with command.
"I am not your echo."
"I'm your end."
---
The curse responded.
A black crown of energy formed above his head — ragged, flickering, unstable.
The creature paused.
And for the first time… hesitated.
> "That mark…"
> "You haven't bled for it yet."
> "Let's change that."
It surged forward, full force — both arms wide.
Chains screamed through the air.
Kairo dove into the attack.
Not to escape.
To bind.
His blade extended again, curved now, like a hook. It wrapped around one chain — yanked.
Pulled the creature forward.
Right into his other hand — where the sigil flared white-hot.
He placed his palm against the creature's chest.
And spoke a word he didn't know he knew.
> "Bind."
---
The world froze.
The chains stopped moving midair.
The void above blinked.
Kairo's vision turned inside out — he saw everything.
The creature's memories. Its pain. Its victories. Its loss.
Its sacrifice.
He saw a girl — dead. A friend — betrayed. A kingdom — burned.
And he saw the moment this being stopped being human.
The moment it bent the knee to the curse and offered its soul in exchange for power.
The same choice Kairo now faced.
A deal.
A crown.
A curse.
---
"No," Kairo whispered.
He didn't want that.
Didn't need it.
He was not a king of corpses.
He was not a shadow's puppet.
He was Kairo.
And this would be his curse, or no one's.
---
The light from his sigil flared.
The creature screamed — not in pain, but in defeat.
Its chains unraveled.
Its mask cracked.
Its body began to crumble into ash, piece by piece — not destroyed.
Released.
And as it fell apart, it spoke a final time.
> "You are stronger… because you chose not to rule."
> "Climb, then."
> "Climb… and remember us."
---
The cursed blade faded.
The sigil cooled.
And at the center of the ruins, where the creature had stood, a single item remained.
Not a weapon.
Not armor.
But a crown made of bones — melted, warped, unfinished.
Kairo looked down at it.
It didn't tempt him.
It saddened him.
He turned away — and walked past it.
---
Ahead, the next gate opened.
The next level awaited.
But the Maw had changed now.
It knew Kairo's name.
It had tried to corrupt him.
And he had told it:
No.
---