The walls behind them bled darkness, seeping forward like a living thing.

  “Just a little bit more! The last path is ahead!” Sara’s voice cracked as she ran.

  Their group tore down the corridor, shadows whispering at their heels. The Maze rumbled like a beast in slumber, and with every tremor, the walls closed in, faster, faster—claws of night threatening to rip through flesh and bone.

  In a distant chamber veiled in eternal dusk, they watched.

  The Ancient Ones.

  Eyes like black suns, curled with hunger, observing their prey. Their anticipation tangible. Lips twisted into subtle grins, not out of joy—but because death was entertainment.

  Back in the hall, someone screamed.

  The last in the line—the trembling boy who was crying and praying last time—panicked. His legs shook, his breathing shallow. He looked back at the suffocating wall of void swallowing everything it touched. Panic turned to desperation. Then he saw the little kid beside him—slower, smaller. A decision snapped inside him.

  He grabbed the child and shoved.

  The small boy tumbled. A second later, he was consumed—devoured by the darkness. No sound, no scream. Just gone.

  And the coward laughed. Soft at first. A breathy exhale of sick realization.

  "Survival is sacrifice."

  He looked ahead. No one had seen. Relief flickered in his eyes.

  But Thomas had.

  His footsteps never faltered. He ran steady, calculating. Watching. Waiting.

  As the boy crept up again, eyeing his next victim, Thomas turned sharply. No hesitation. No warning.

  One kick.

  The boy screamed, not from pain, but from the terror of knowing.

  The darkness took him.

  Gone.

  Only the soft slurp of the Maze devouring a lie remained.

  Then silence.

  They emerged into another chamber, large and breathless like the last. Doors encircled them again like silent judges. The room hummed with tension. A ticking countdown in every corner.

  John, breathless and sweating, turned to Thomas. He’d seen the final kick.

  "You fking *bch*!" he screamed, shoving Thomas hard and slamming a fist into his jaw.

  Thomas didn’t flinch. He staggered back with the punch but didn’t fight. He stood, eyes cold. Silent.

  “You killed him! You killed that kid! What the hell is wrong with you!?” John’s voice cracked, loud enough for the others to gather.

  Faces turned. Accusations took form.

  “He’s the Hollow!” John barked. “He’s picking us off one by one!”

  A silence spread. Eyes shifted toward Thomas. Tension rippled like a taut wire about to snap.

  Sara stepped forward. Calm. Too calm.

  “Wait,” she said. “We should hear him out.”

  “Why?!” snapped the pale woman. Her voice trembled with fear disguised as anger. “You defending him means you’re probably the Hollow too!”

  “No,” Sara said, her eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t act like one. The Hollow hides, pretends. That wasn’t pretending.”

  “He killed someone!” the man in glasses hissed, adjusting his spectacles as if that would bring clarity. “Hollow or not, he’s dangerous.”

  Thomas finally spoke. Voice low. Barely above a growl.

  “He killed the kid first. I saw him push him into the dark. He was going to do it again… to you.” He pointed at the pale woman. “So I stopped him.”

  They hesitated.

  “So you killed him,” the man in glasses repeated, quieter.

  “Convenient story,” the older man muttered. “I’ve never liked him. Always acting like he knows everything.”

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  “Enough,” the pale woman snapped. “There are two doors now. Let’s split. He should go the other way. Alone.”

  She pointed to the left—a door with a golden knob, shaped like a sunburst. Opposite it, the silver-knobbed door.

  “I agree,” said the man in glasses. “Let him go. I don’t trust him.”

  Everyone gathered away from Thomas. Sara stood between them.

  “Miss Sara,” the pale woman asked, face twisted in disgust, “are you coming with that… Hollow?”

  Sara smiled faintly. “You all go on your own. Just a word of advice: The Hollow might still be among you.”

  Then she turned and walked toward Thomas.

  They stared, stunned.

  “You’re going with him?” John barked. “What the hell is so great about this creep? His eyes don’t even blink right!”

  Sara didn’t answer. Just muttered, “I trust him.”

  The others disappeared through the golden-knobbed door. It shut like a coffin lid—and then vanished.

  Thomas turned to Sara. “Why?”

  “I said I’m coming with you. I meant it.”

  He stared at her for a moment. Still. Searching.

  “Her reactions aren’t normal,” he thought. “Is she the Hollow? Or just... reckless?”

  But there was no time.

  They approached the silver-knobbed door. But then Thomas froze. Something pulled at him—a memory sharp and vivid. A piece from the forbidden Volume 15. One no one else had reached.

  ‘The Blood Gambit.’

  A cryptic passage: “There exists a door. Marked not by words, but by the serpent with ash eyes. Those who find it, choose between power or death. Only fools and kings enter.”

  His eyes scanned the chamber.

  There—half-buried under rubble—was a door no one should’ve found.

  Tiny. Faint glow. A serpent curled around the knob, its eyes made of cold ash.

  His breath caught.

  "This is it."

  Thomas clenched his jaw. "If I die here, it's meaningless. But if I win, I get the power to protect myself..."

  He turned away from the silver door.

  “Where are you going?” Sara asked, alarmed.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Thomas?” She grabbed his arm as the chamber rumbled.

  “You go. This isn’t your path.”

  “Like hell it isn’t,” she shot back. “I’m coming with you.”

  Thomas bit back a growl. “You don’t even know what this is.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “She’s either stupid... or the Hollow,” he thought. “But for now, she’s useful.”

  They cleared the rubble. The door hissed open with a sound like bone breaking.

  Then it pulled them in.

  Darkness wrapped around them like a shroud.

  The chamber was gone.

  The voice returned.

  “PLAYER THOMAS WREN. PLAYER SARA JAMES.”

  “—HAS DEVIATED.”

  “INITIATING: HIDDEN PATHWAY – TRIAL OF THE ASH-EYED.”

  Far above, in the quiet rooms of eternity, the Ancient Ones watched with fading interest.

  “Fools,” one hissed, slouching back.

  “They could’ve survived longer. They were promising…”

  “But they chose that path.”

  A ancient god laugh.

  “They always think they’re different. They always choose the serpent.”

  The gods turned their gaze elsewhere.

  New victims. New games.

  And the Maze pulsed on.

  Alive.

  Hungry.

  Waiting.