The song of Void
Prologue: Curse of Osiris
‘Now talk, you forceless old man! You may be a tough bastard, but I'll make you talk. Where is it? Tell me or you will suffer worse torments than Prometheus. So far I have been gentle with you, but now I will really hurt you!’
Memnon's voice cut through the gloomy silence like a cold, razor-sharp blade. His gaze, hard and cold as stone, rested on the battered body of his victim, whose skin was torn and blood-soaked from the torture he had suffered so far.
Hours ago, the giant Nubian and a small troop of Roman legionnaires had entered the great Library of Alexandria. Without hesitation, they invaded the sanctuary of ancient knowledge, the high halls echoing with the clangour of their caligae, a promise of death and destruction. Without meeting any significant resistance, the martial troop reached the innermost core of the library and the hoard of those writings that were to be protected from the greedy grasp of mortals – a secret known only to the wisest priests and descendants of Ptolemy Lagos.
However, Cleopatra now reached for the forbidden power because her situation and that of her lover and patron, Gaius Julius Caesar, in Alexandria was quite desperate. So she sent her supposedly most reliable man, that very Memnon, with a small military escort of generously bribed veterans of Caesar, to get her an artefact that was as powerful as it was dangerous for the user: a scroll known as the ‘Curse of Osiris’, made of an unknown material that was indestructible by mortal hands and , and with which the Queen of Shadows could be summoned from the abysses between dimensions.
This hidden sanctuary, refuge and dungeon of the mysteries of past eras was guarded by members of the ancient order of Thot, whose wisdom and reputation had so far protected them from the violent grasp of the powerful. Even the most unscrupulous of pharaohs shunned the challenge of ancient powers, but Cleopatra was an epochal exception and, despite her Hellenistic education, was prepared to take unconventional paths. So she decided to gaze into the abyss of the forbidden and to tread the deceptive paths of magic.
Without much hesitation and not really plagued by scruples, Memnon ordered his henchmen to slaughter the keepers of knowledge. On the Nubian's orders, the murderers spared only the hierophant Amhotep and bound him. To get rid of any potential visitors, Memnon ordered the legionnaires to secure the entrances to the library core against unwelcome visitors. When the high priest, despite cruel threats, steadfastly refused to betray the location of the desired artefact, Cleopatra's servant began to brutally torture the old man. Thus, the cries of Amhotep echoed through the desecrated halls of the holy of holies, but the object of the painful interrogation remained steadfast despite all the torments. Gradually, the experienced interrogator ran out of ideas, so he tried a last threat, to which his victim replied in a calm tone.
‘The secrets you seek are not meant for mortals, you fool. Anything you could do to me is a gentle caress compared to the vengeance of the gods. There are worse things than death...’
The torturer looked deeply into Amhotep's eyes,
searching in vain for hidden fear or wavering willpower. Instead, he found
there the unshakable certainty and strength of a man who had seen far more than
the mortal realm had to offer.
Memnon's eyes sparkled with almost animalistic rage.
The frustrated torturer had to exert himself to not kill the hierophant once
and for all. This weak old man, lying dying before him, still had the arrogance
to refuse to give him the answer? What power this simple-minded wretch was
withholding from him! Of course, he had no intention of handing over the
powerful artefact to this Macedonian on the pharaoh's throne and her barbarian
lover, but to abuse it himself. Weren't there black pharaohs from the land of
Kush centuries ago? Perhaps the god-like power that the scroll promised him
would earn him a place among the immortals? Memnon's expression darkened
further. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger in his belt, ready
to cut the last shred of resistance from the old man's body.
‘The gods...’ A quiet, contemptuous laugh escaped the Nubian's lips. ‘The gods are silent, and they are not interested in your fate, nor that of any mortal. You will tell me where the Scroll of Osiris is, or I will send you to the realm of the dead. However, they will have difficulty putting your pieces back together again, as I will slowly dismember your body there.’
But before Memnon, hoping for his apotheosis, could carry out the threat, a figure clothed in a robe the colour of the blackest tomb emerged from the shadows behind him, born of the flickering light of the oil lamps. With a movement as fluid as it was skilful, the figure cut the torturer's throat. As his blood spattered the dusty parchments, papyri and stone tablets in a wide arc, the Nubian's bulky body fell to the ground with a gurgling sound, his eyes staring into the darkness in disbelief as he travelled to a world that was not necessarily better.
The phantom turned to Amhotep, whose body trembled with pain and exhaustion. ‘Is the secret hidden?’ whispered the hierophant in a hoarse voice.
‘So it is!’ replied the figure, his voice as hoarse as the rustling of dead leaves. ‘The unworthy one's henchmen went before him. The curse of Osiris is now in his secret temple, well guarded by the magic of the great ancients! Of the accomplices, only Sinuhab escaped, dying in the desert – I eventually found his body too. So the terrible mystery will sink into the stream of time! ’
With a final, relieved breath and a quiet smile on his battered face, Amhotep closed his eyes.
‘Now complete it!’
The assassin bowed his head, giving him the coup de grâce. Finally, the keeper of forbidden knowledge picked up one of the oil lamps and deftly threw it into a large stack of papyri, which quickly ignited. A red, merciless glow settled over the ancient writings, which were soon to perish in the fire. The flames eventually spread higher and higher until they engulfed the shelves. The fire of destruction spread, and the nauseating smell of burning knowledge filled the air.
The Assassin sat down in the heart of the sea of
flames, ready to join the Holy of Holies and its secret into doom, knowing that
his death in the flames would now eliminate the last clue to the whereabouts of
the ill-fated scroll and that the burning of the great library would convince
those in the know that the artefact had been irretrievably lost. His final
thought was one of triumph at the greed of mortals, who would never understand
that some secrets are too terrible to see the light of day.
But he was wrong. Before Sinuhab died, he revealed his story to a group of nomads, and it became part of their tribe's legends. A thousand years later, a man driven by a passion for the darkest mysteries would discover this forgotten people and unravel the secret of the great library in a little-known work.
Hirkunij Ibn Alhakim strode deliberately over the uneven ground of the flea market, which was littered with all kinds of rubbish. There were few people around; it was one of those dull afternoons when the grey sky dampened the colours and the sounds floated in a muffled echo over the wide river. The stalls were cluttered, crammed with ancient books, rusted tools and mysterious artefacts whose origin had long since vanished in the mists of time. Now and then, his gaze fell on an old medallion or an intricately crafted figure, but nothing held his attention for long.
The banks of the great river, which flowed past the city's edges in a leisurely current, were the ideal setting for such a market. A place where relics from the distant and forgotten past repeatedly rose to the surface from the water's murky depths.
Ibn Alhakim, a middle-aged gentleman with sharp features and piercing, thoughtful eyes, seemed lost in this kaleidoscope of old memories and faded stories. But this man was not what he appeared to be at first glance. Hirkunij Ibn Alhakim, a software tester at the air traffic control, was perceived by his colleagues as a friendly, harmless chatterbox. He was known as the person who carried out acceptance tests that took weeks and who diplomatically tried to take into account the different interests of the parties involved. These interests could differ greatly between developers and customers – however, quality control often lacked the expertise to check more than formal aspects.
But behind this façade lurked something darker. No one around him suspected that Hirkunij was walking on dark paths. Much of what he did, such as playing the naive, was just a masquerade – a laboriously constructed web designed to hide his true character, which did not fit into his environment at all – because Ibn Alhakim was a seeker in the abysses of magic.
What is magic? Certainly not the magic of words, which is practised so effectively and originally by the most famous student of that academy, at a fictitious place called Hogwarts. To understand magic, we have to look at the universe as a complex system consisting of interwoven elementary particles. Units of information that can move independently in both directions in space-time. A fitting comparison would perhaps be a gigantic code, whose quintillions of lines can be rewritten in small areas. Not the magician's incantation per se, but the sound waves produced in connection with his electromagnetic field influenced the described system in the intended or not quite so desired way. More details can be found in the works of Q.A. Juyub or the literary legacy of the chronicler of this story. Likewise, details can be found on the interdependence of the language of the universe, which we know as music, and quantum mechanics. But this goes beyond the scope of our story, which we will now continue relentlessly.
As he continued to stroll through the flea market, the seeker sensed a hint of unease, like a shadow that had been haunting him for a long time. He knew that his role as a wanderer through the realms of magic was only part of a larger game – a dark production whose rules he himself did not fully understand. Sometimes, in the quiet moments between studying arcane writings, he wondered whether the world around him was real at all, or whether he was in a ludicrous simulation of a universe of the great demiurge, the purpose of which he was unable to discern. But Hirkunij pushed such thoughts aside, deep into the furthest corners of his mind, where all our primal phobias lurked, waiting to erupt in a nightmarish crescendo of madness.
Ibn Alhakim raised an eyebrow as he passed a particularly dusty stall. His telepathic gift – a curse, as he sometimes felt – often brought him fleeting, unwanted insights into the thoughts of other people. A scrap here, a hidden feeling there. But today, his third eye only captured trivial things, the thoughts of the unsuspecting followers of esoteric illusions flowed lazily and inconsequentially.
He remembered his youth, the day he had bought a Quija board on a whim. What started as a mere game had led him into the dark arts. His contact with the other side was less dramatic than the dark stories of sinister creatures from the shadow realm, but it was enough to make him curious and draw him into the paranormal forever. When he heard the whispering voices of past phantoms, and the fragmentary images of their earthly existence flickered in his mind, he realised that there was more to the stories of magic than superstition. Later, after studying arcane writings, Ibn Alhakim understood that he had been blessed with the gift of the ‘Eye of Seth’. He quickly realised that many rituals were meaningless – clever deceptions to relieve gullible souls of their earthly possessions. But hidden among all the vain trinkets were rare pearls, like those arcane practices that made true magic possible – pure in their perfection and full of ominous beauty.
As he reflected on his experiences, he suddenly noticed a stand. Compared to the others, it looked neat, almost too clean. The goods on it seemed to have been carefully chosen: a small selection of old books, oddly shaped stones and artefacts that had been through an indeterminable period of time.
But it was not the stand itself that caught his attention, but the man behind it. He was of undefinable age, with eyes that gave the seeker of arcane wisdoms the impression that they had already seen eons of human play on the world stage, as if they knew forbidden secrets and abysses of the universe born from the nightmares of mad gods. Ibn Alhakim was immersed in the ocean of the stranger's gaze. It was as if he was looking not only into Hirkunij Ibn Alhakim's mind, but also into the bottomless depths of the subconscious.
Hirkunij approached the stand, confused, his eyes scanning the strange selection of objects. Old junk that seemed unremarkable at first glance – but Ibn Alhakim recognised the deception, the façade: before him lay a collection of true, magical artefacts.
Suddenly, the already strange atmosphere changed. An almost electric shiver ran through his veins, and the air around him began to transform into a kind of mystical fog. The sounds of the flea market were muffled, as if they had receded into the distance. Then the strange stranger spoke. His voice was deep and hoarse, and carried the sound of a long-forgotten time, as if his first words had been spoken in a language that had died out countless ages ago.
‘I've been expecting you!’
‘What? What are you talking about? I don't know you!’
Hirkunij looked at the inscrutably smiling man with a rather confused look on his face, which also expressed insecurity born of incomprehension.
‘Umma ālî dārû šimtam ulti!’
Alhakim was amazed to understand the words ‘The time has come to fulfil your destiny’, spoken in a long-forgotten language. Vague memories of a past existence, long since lost in the stream of eons, suddenly filled his mind, only to disappear again in the maelstrom of time. All at once, the situation seemed familiar to him, even predestined.
‘You have remembered the life of one of those who came before you and whose genetic makeup you carry. He failed to recognise the great mystery. Now you shall have the opportunity to reveal that secret, the Curse of Osiris, which can bring infinite power and eternal misery to mortals. But be warned, if you fail, your soul belongs to my mistress, as did that of your ancestor. Are you now ready to enter the depths of magic from which there is no escape? ‘
The stranger's dark eyes fixed Hirkunij with a penetrating intensity that reminded the genetically burdened heir of the soul-robbing search for mysteries of an ancient reptile that looked at its prey with greedy certainty.
The strangely chosen one hesitated, but in the end curiosity and the urge to explore won out.
‘Yes,’ he replied, almost in a whisper.
With a slow, deliberate nod, the man reached behind the stand and pulled out an old, leather-bound book. It was thicker and heavier than any book Alhakim had ever seen. The cover was uneven, as if the material were unnatural and had a will of its own, almost as if the book had a life of its own, unholy.
‘The Necrozoicon,’ the man said with a barely noticeable smile. ‘written by Saddam al-Majnun, a Persian magician of the Dark Brotherhood of Ahriman, who was once walled up alive by Harun al-Rashid for his evil black arts. The original was lost, but this is the last copy of the translation by Giordano Apostata in the language of the knowledgeable. In it you will find the path that is predestined for you!’
Hirkunij accepted the book, and a shiver ran down his spine again. As far as he knew, the Inquisition had burned the Apostata in the 17th century, along with all the copies of the cursed work that could be found. It almost felt as if the book itself had a pulse and was breathing. When he looked up again, he gasped.
The stall – and the mysterious stranger – had vanished. The people were walking around as before, laughing, haggling, without any sign that anything out of the ordinary had happened. Evidently, no one but him had noticed the disappearance of the stall.
The Chosen One wondered what dark path he had entered.
For days, Hirkunij had been studying the work he had acquired in such a strange way. He had managed to take all of his annual leave at short notice – with the help of his special abilities, of course, just this once.
He tirelessly studied the disturbing content of the Necrozoicon and the often bizarre rituals described in it, to find the desired passage in the early hours of a gloomy day:
Thus I shall report from the depths of magical abysses of the Curse of Osiris.
Hidden in the boundless expanse beyond the known dimensions, the mighty incarnation of Yin exists in unfathomably diverse entities. The few mortals who know of it whisper in abject fear of this power, which hides in the coldest, darkest depths of the multiverse – a continuum that manifests itself in different forms and, in its unfathomable diversity, holds both fascination and terror.
The sages who follow the dark paths of the old religion know her in her partial aspect as Likath, the mother of shadows, called Magna Mater by the ancients. In her terrible form, she is the bearer of cruel creatures that lurk in the twilight of the intermediate world. These beings, whose grotesque appearance seems to have originated in the feverish dreams of a mad creator, feed voraciously on the life force of mortals and lurk in the darkest corners of reality when night is at its deepest and souls are at their most vulnerable.
But the Magna Mater is more than just the creator of life-sucking spectres; she is the embodiment of the void itself, the dark manifestation of the unnameable, the unfathomable. In her presence, the boundaries of time and space become blurred, and those who dare to glimpse her presence are on the verge of madness, their souls forever entangled in the dense web of darkness and ruin.
Her dual nature – as a cruel mother and as the nameless embodiment of the void – is the mystery of mysteries, the bringer of darkness and the creator of nightmares that never end.
It is said that the god of the dead himself wrote the scroll for the destruction of mankind, to summon Likath in physical form with all its terrible splendour. The master of the black arts finds this artefact of exquisite horror in the temple of the black, reincarnated god in the land the ancients called Biau. The unholy place is hidden from mortals in the middle of the place we call Wadi Maghara.
However, a knower can lift the veil between the dimensions when they speak the formula with the voice of Horus in front of the Stone of Anubis.
Iri-k Osir, ba-k in meri-k iri peset,
iti-a im
ankhet en ta,
iri-k peset im set nebu-k mer metek.
Iri-k Osir,
ba-k in meri-k iri peset,
iri-k peset
im set nebu-k mer metek.
iri-k peset im set nebu-k mer metek.
Iri-k Osir, ba-k in meri-k iri peset,
iti-a im ankhet en ta,
iti-a im ankhet en ta,
Iri-k Osir,
ba-k in meri-k iri peset,
iri-k peset im set nebu-k mer metek.
iri-k peset im set nebu-k mer metek.
Iri-k Osir,
ba-k in meri-k iri peset,
iti-a im ankhet en ta,
iti-a im ankhet en ta,
Iri-k Osir,
ba-k in meri-k iri peset,
iri-k peset im set nebu-k mer metek.
Iri-k Osir, ba-k in meri-k iri peset,
iti-a im ankhet en ta,
iri-k peset im set nebu-k mer metek.
Meni-a bekher set ia: Abso-lut Netenes!
When the temple of the dead god finally rises from its eternal sleep, the pilgrim may, on the paths of damnation, call the secret name of the brother of Isis, which is:
Sutenemshaa
But let the magician beware, for that dark path has its price and the jackal is insatiable.
Alhakim nodded knowingly. Biau stood for the Sinai Peninsula in ancient Egyptian. In the Wadi Maghara, those magical stones sacred to Osiris and so beloved of the pharaohs were mined during the Old Kingdom. In the middle of the rocky valley stood a lonely stele of the divine companion of dead souls, which had always posed a mystery to archaeologists.
The so-called ‘Voice of Horus’ was also familiar to the magician. This was a special combination of the pitches C3 - C5 and G7 - G9, which was used for ritual chants by the priesthood of Horus in Lunu - at least that's what it said in the cryptic works of the great esoteric and sorcerer Aldhar Ibn Beju. Hirkunij himself had once used his voice in the Tibesti to banish an annoying djinn, who had then turned back into the rock he had once been.
So the
magician decided to first take an extensive journey into the realm of Thanatos'
brother before embarking on the arduous journey to the land of the long-gone
god-kings. The Magister Arcanum knew that this would most likely end in a
journey of no return, but deep inside him, Hirkunij felt an irresistible urge
beyond all reason, driving him forward with the power of an inescapable curse -
a passion as fervent as it was corrupting to tread this path, even if the
bottomless abysses of an insane imagination.
Three days later, Hirkunij Ibn Alhakim stood in the deep, dry sand of the Sinai desert. The glaring sunset bathed the land in a dirty, burning red, as if nature herself wanted to warn him before he continued on his path of damnation. The wind whispered old songs that seemed to come from the cracks of time itself, and sounded like the whispers of long-dead, cursed souls.
Before him, in a desolate wasteland, was the weathered stele of Anubis, depicting the guardian of the deceased in all his dark glory. On his gloomy throne, the jackal-headed god looked out of his dead eyes, and Hirkunij was overcome with the feeling of sinking into the abysses of long-forgotten eons. The sun beat down mercilessly, and yet the magician shivered at the realisation that he would soon cross the threshold of an ancient knowledge. A power older than anything that modern man, in his hubris, could imagine or fantasise about in his most oppressive nightmares.
With a soft murmur, Ibn Alhakim began to sing the ritual formula that would reveal the temple hidden between dimensions. The voice of the arcane master rose to a hurricane of thundering waves, reminiscent of the ancient rumble of tectonic plates. It was like the song of Gaia, whose resonance filled the air like an invisible tremor. Finally, the magician raised his song to heights so pure and piercing that they sounded like the whispers of the passing universe. These tones seemed to come not from the throat of a human, but from another, ungraspable sphere, as if the sounds themselves were penetrating and bending space-time. Finally, a composition of complex harmony arose, cutting the veil between the worlds – drawing something dark, infinitely old from its feverish sleep in nameless depths and banishing reality into a dark grave.
With a harrowing rumble that seemed to come from the depths of the world, the ground began to shake beneath his feet, an ominous tremor that filled the air with a strange, booming echo. The horizon contorted as if an unseen force were tugging at the very fabric of reality, and a plaintive groan echoed through the somber expanse. Then, as if emerging from a nightmare, a monolithic structure loomed before him, a manifestation of ancient terrors.
It was a temple – a structure of incomprehensible size and unspeakable strangeness, its walls blackened by the touch of an ageless horror. The stones, smooth and black as polished obsidian, greedily devoured the light as if they wanted to swallow the essence of the world itself. Every line, every edge spoke of a geometry that defied the rules of reason, and the tips of the building pierced like damned daggers into the sacred heavens. They seemed to challenge the stars themselves, as if they threatened to tear the firmament and plunge the sky into an endless, screaming nothingness.
In his presence, there was an aura of horror that suffocated the breath and transformed thoughts into a chaos of fear and awe.
With heavy breathing, Hirkunij Ibn Alhakim paused before the colossal structure, his heart a feverish echo in the eerie silence. Before him rose the Temple of Osiris, a structure whose majesty made it seem like a vision from a long-lost age – a relic that had survived the millennia, yet still sat unbroken in its unholy splendour.
The massive gates, made of an alloy that seemed to possess the shine and hardness of star metal, were firmly closed. But Hirkunij sensed it deep within him – an indefinite knowledge that whispered in the shadows of his consciousness: he would be able to open them. The ancient glyphs that covered the surface of the gates like shimmering scars seemed to glow, as if they recognised his presence, as if they sensed a connection between him and the hidden secrets beyond the threshold.
The path lay before him, hidden yet tantalisingly close, and the promise of terror in the hidden mysteries beckoned. A tremor ran through his limbs, not just from fear, but from a burning sense of foreboding – that whatever lay beyond those doors would change his life forever. Or snatch it from him.
But deep inside him, beyond all resolve, lurked a painful truth: this was no mere quest for knowledge. It was a descent—a path that drilled into the very darkness, into the unspeakable, whose mere existence threatened to tear the mind apart. The air around him seemed to become heavier, saturated with a presence that could neither be seen nor named. It was as if darkness itself was alive, filled with things that lurked beyond all human imagination.
He sensed it, saw shreds of its presence with the Eye of Seth. Invisible and yet as clear as the beating of his own heart. The greedy eyes pierced the blackness, encircling him like cold fingers crawling over his skin and giving him the certainty that he was being watched. This being – a nameless entity – had noticed him, and in its hunger for the innermost part of his soul lay a strangeness that mocked every word and every description.
With a trembling hands and a breath that stuck in his throat, Hirkunij took the next step forward. Each footfall seemed to take an eternity, and the ancient rumbling of the world accompanied him like the grinding of cosmic gears. His fingers slowly stretched out towards the gate, which seemed to him like a threshold to the otherworldly.
But before his hands reached the cold surface, a final thought shot through his mind like a glowing knife – a thought that almost brought him to his knees:
‘What if there is no turning back? What if, behind these doors, not only knowledge but also the absolute end of myself lurks?’
The Temple of Osiris
The glyphs that adorned the massive portals began to glow eerily in an unearthly red light. At first flickering like a dying star, then pulsating with life, they unfolded into a breathtaking spectacle. Lines and shapes detached themselves from the stone surface, floating like living beings in the air and dancing around Hirkunij in a hypnotic roundelay. A deep, ominous rumbling went through the mighty gates, until they finally opened with a thunder that sounded like a death cry from the deepest depths of time.
Before him rose the entrance to a temple that weighed on the land like an inescapable nightmare, a presence that darkened the air and seemed to suffocate time itself. The black columns, carved from a stone that shimmered like crystallised shadows, seemed to stretch into infinity. Their cold, smooth material devoured the light that dared to touch it, and gave the feeling that they could have been carved out of the essence of the night itself. They bore a dome whose height was lost beyond the field of vision, as if it wanted to pierce the vault of heaven and steal the secrets of dark stars.
The walls of the temple were alive – not with movement, but with stories that had survived eons. Reliefs, carved with grotesquely precise craftsmanship, told of rituals that should never have taken place under sunlight, of wars that had been waged not on earth but between the wheels of the stars. And in between, figures loomed that were not formed from flesh and blood, but from a substance that defied all human understanding – flickering, intangible, and yet oppressively real. They seemed not merely created, but trapped, as if the temple itself were a cage, an archive for the horrors that had once walked beyond time.
A gust of wind, cool and heavy as the whispers of bygone eras, swept through the entrance. It was as if it carried the voices of beings whose language was so old that even the concept of ‘past’ could not grasp it.
Hirkunij entered with hesitant steps. His steps echoed in the eerie silence, accompanied by a soft, whispering echo that did not seem to come from him. A heavy scent filled the air, a mixture of myrrh, incense and something that smelled of decay and deep earth. The heat of the desert gave way to a cool, damp presence reminiscent of the interior of an ancient tomb.
But as the mage delved deeper into the temple's gloomy majesty, the architecture began to change – a kaleidoscopic symphony of ancient oriental styles that seemed to contradict each other, yet merged in an incomprehensible harmony. The massive columns bore Egyptian lotus capitals, their forms elegant and austere, but the bases were covered with Sumerian cuneiform characters, whose messages seemed so old and alien that they almost hovered in the air with an ominous presence.
Between the reliefs of the gods, whose rigid poses had survived the eons, patterns emerged that resembled the signs in the heavens of Babylon, but their arrangement followed a logic that was beyond the grasp of any mere mortal. The walls exuded a coldness that was not a physical temperature, but the oppressive certainty that things were hidden here that were never meant for human eyes.
The floor beneath his feet was smooth, flawlessly polished onyx, reflecting the light of the flickering torches in languid waves. But this reflection was no ordinary mirroring – it distorted the world around him, showing it to him as it might be, as it once had been, or as it might exist in a reality beyond his own. Each step felt like a kick into the borderline between the worlds, an act of balance between sanity and madness.
But it was the ceiling that finally took Hirkunij's breath away. It was not a mere stone construction, but an incomprehensible canvas, alive and in constant motion. Colours beyond the visible spectrum swirled in a cosmic dance, interwoven with forms that were not bound to any geometry on Earth. Visions flashed up, vanished again – alien worlds with landscapes that seemed to consist of pure fantasy, and beings whose contours shimmered like mirages in a feverish dream. It was as if the universe itself revealed its secrets here, only to conceal them again in the next moment, and in this fleeting spectacle lay a message that Alhakim understood without ever being able to put it into words.
At the end of the vast hall, the sanctuary opened up like the mouth of a mystical revelation, a room bathed in an unreal, shimmering golden light. The source of this unholy splendour was a colossal sarcophagus that dominated the room like an eternal throne. It was made of pure gold, so flawless and unearthly in its shine that it appeared as if the light was born from within it, rather than reflected from the torches along the walls.
The surface of the sarcophagus was covered with hieroglyphics, the lines of which seemed to writhe in an inexplicable motion, as if the engravings were alive. The symbols told of a time long before the oldest dynasties – words and images whose meaning would have remained a mystery even to the most learned of Thebes' priests. Some of the signs were so worn that they were barely recognisable, while others looked fresh and new, in a macabre contrast, as if they had been etched into the gold only recently.
A statue of Osiris rose next to the sarcophagus. But something about this representation was wrong, disturbing in a way that Hirkunij could not put his finger on. Its face – the venerable countenance of the god – was distorted, blurred, as if time itself had conspired to inscribe it in eternity. It was not just weathered; rather, it seemed as if an invisible force had tried to erase the statue from existence, leaving a gap that was not empty but filled with a dark presence.
The air in the sanctuary was heavy, permeated by a sweetish, metallic scent that was reminiscent of nothing earthly. It was as if the chamber was breathing, a slow, unfathomable pulsation that resonated deep within Ibn Alhakim's chest. The room was not a mere place, but a feeling, an awareness that looked at him, imposed the weight of the eons on him and stretched the limits of his mind in a way that made him dizzy. Here lay not only death – here lay something far greater, darker, that wanted to devour him entirely.
And there, sitting on a stone throne, Hirkunij saw him – the stranger from the city, the man whose name he did not know, whose intentions remained an impenetrable mystery. His eyes sparkled like cold fire, and a smile that knew neither warmth nor joy graced his lips.
‘Welcome, Hirkunij,’ he said in a voice that sounded like the wind howling through the ruins of long-forgotten cities. ‘It's good to see that your courage has brought you this far. But tell me – was it courage, curiosity, or was it something else? Perhaps... the mere inability to stop staring into the abyss? But remember, the abyss also stares back into you.’
Hirkunij opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. It was as if the presence of the stranger was choking the air itself, as if the temple were a living being that would devour every word that was spoken.
‘Well,’ the stranger continued, rising from his throne, ‘you stand at the threshold of something great, something that mortals have feared and desired since the beginning of time. But before we continue, tell me, mage – what is it you are truly seeking? Is it knowledge? Power? Or perhaps you are simply seeking... the end, a never-ending path into darkness? ’
The words echoed through the chamber, and Hirkunij felt them coil around his heart like snakes. In that moment, he realised that he would not only uncover a secret here. He would also face a judgement – one that could change or break his soul forever.
The stranger took a step closer, his form seemingly shadowless in the darkness reflected from the golden walls. His voice was soft, but it carried a weight that pierced through time itself.
‘I am the Warden of the Curse,’ his voice sounded, deep and penetrating, like the rumble of an approaching storm, yet carried by an eerie calm. The words didn't just appear in Alhakim's ears – they flowed through him, an echo that reverberated in the depths of his mind and dragged him into a bottomless void. The Eye of Seth revealed a fragment of a vision to him, a shadow from another time and reality: the Guardian kneeling before Anubis.
‘I am not the judge,’ he continued, his voice now a whisper that nevertheless swallowed up every sound, ‘but the keeper of the keys. The guardian of the thresholds where space and time surrender themselves, where meaning fades and the infinite begins.’
It was as if the world around him had stopped, as if the words were cutting the threads of reality and drawing him into an in-between world where nothing existed except that voice and the inkling of something unspeakable that waited beyond that threshold.
The ageless one pointed to a stone altar in the centre of the sanctuary. On it lay a scroll, artfully wrapped in crimson silk and sealed with a golden cord. The symbols on the cord seemed to move, as if they were breathing with the pulse of the temple itself.
‘This is what you seek, is it not?’ the Guardian said, and his smile was like ice, drawing every trace of warmth out of the room. His eyes, cold and without depth, rested heavily on the mage, as if they could see into the most hidden corners of his soul. ‘The scroll that binds the shadow of Likath. But such knowledge is not given lightly.’ His voice, calm yet insistent, reverberated through the room like distant thunder. ‘The price for this is high. It demands more than courage, more than desire. It requires proof – evidence that you are worthy to touch the forbidden and see the realm beyond time.’
Hirkunij's breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the scroll, which lay on a black pedestal, bathed in a soft, unearthly glow. It was so close he could almost touch it, but the words of the Guardian were like an invisible wall holding him back. His heart pounded in his chest, a wild rhythm of fear and determination. Finally, he raised his eyes and met the unfathomable face of the Keeper.
‘What test do you demand of me?’ he asked, his voice hoarse and uncertain, but with a determination even he hadn't expected. The words echoed in the silence, and in the Guardian's reply, the world seemed to stand still for a moment.
The keeper raised his hand, and suddenly the air went heavy, as if invisible chains were being laid around the room. The walls of the temple seemed to shimmer, and the golden ornaments began to transform into shadowy patterns that moved like living nightmares.
‘You will descend,’ said the Warden, ‘into the underworld, the place feared by mortals and not entered by the gods. A realm beyond life, a labyrinth of lost souls, where the guardians lurk – creatures that will not tolerate the intrusion of the living. When you return, and only then, shall the scroll be yours.’
Hirkunij froze. ‘The underworld? No living person has ever...’
‘...returned from the world beyond the dark veil of death,’ the Guardian interrupted him. ‘That's not quite right, but only a few reached the world of the living again. You are no ordinary mortal, Hirkunij. You are a seeker, a fool, a thief who dances with the shadows of doom. Perhaps you will be one of those who cheat death.’
The Keeper stepped back and raised both hands. Between him and the traveller, a rift in reality opened up, a crack that revealed nothing but blackness. But out of this blackness emerged a light that was both enticing and repulsive – a shimmering, sickly green reminiscent of rotting life.
‘The Underworld of mortals is a place of many cultures,’ said the Guardian, his voice a sonorous murmur that enveloped the world around Hirkunij in an oppressive silence. 'Here the myths and visions of the peoples merge into an all-consuming maelstrom. The dreams and terrors, the gods and demons of mortals interweave into a web that no one can penetrate - except those who are at peace with themselves and worthy. Even then, the mortals who dare to enter the land of the dead possess no magical abilities there. But you shall receive a gift from me: the language of the dead! Thus you will understand every creature in that dark realm, no matter what tongue it speaks! ’
An icy shiver crept down Ibn Alhakim's spine, freezing his limbs as if the weight of the words were trying to force him to the ground. But something within him – a burning, defiant flame – made him pause and hold out. He summoned up his courage, suppressed the cold inside him, and finally spoke with a voice that sounded more like a vow than a resolution: ‘I will do it.’
At that moment, Hirkunij seemed driven, a man no longer in control of his own destiny. His mind warned him, his heart rebelled, but deep in his soul burned the fire – a never-extinguishing flame that compelled him to stride forward, even if the path ahead of him was lined with darkness and doom. It was not courage alone, but the desperate certainty that his fate, however terrible it might be, was inevitable.
The Guardian inclined his head slightly, an indecipherable smile on his cold lips. ‘Very well,’ he said, and his words were like a verdict that made the roots of reality tremble. ‘Then may your will be stronger than the abysses that threaten to devour you.’
With a single, measured gesture, the guard raised his hand. The darkness behind him, a void more alive than existing, began to writhe and break open. Suddenly, an all-consuming maelstrom shot out of the crack, engulfing the traveller with the force of a cosmic vortex. It felt as if countless invisible hands had seized him, pulled him, plunged him into the depths of an infinite blackness.
The world fell apart around him, and for a moment there was nothing – no form, no light, no sound. Only the all-encompassing, bottomless blackness that engulfed him like an abyss that would never end.
The light was strange, a diffuse glow that seemed to come from nowhere. It was as if the room itself had decided to glow – not to illuminate, but to dispel the darkness just enough to make the horror of the surroundings clearly visible. The shadows danced on the walls, formless and deceptive, and yet the traveller sensed their presence, as if they were watching him, waiting for the moment to strike.
The floor beneath his feet was a polished surface so clear that it looked like a black reflection. Each of his steps resounded in a way that seemed to stretch the endless corridors even further, as if the sound itself was expanding the labyrinth, an echo that sounded like a dark omen. In this world beyond life, every movement felt ominous, every breath like the last. But ahead of him lay only the beginning of his journey. The labyrinth was filled with an unnatural silence, so that Hirkunij could hear his own heart beating. But something lurked behind this supposed stillness – a breath of shadowy movement and an almost inaudible whisper. However, the Eye of Seth remained blind in this world.
The corridors seemed to wind endlessly, every turn lacked a sense of purpose, and yet there was a feeling that he was being watched by unseen eyes. Shadows flitted past the edges of his vision, and the traveller wondered whether his fear was conjuring sinister visions or whether creatures of darkness were indeed lurking in the passageways, waiting to devour him forever.
In the realm of death, time itself seemed to pass and yet stand still, a paradox that distorted all perception. Ibn Alhakim could not say how long he had been wandering through this desolate world, an existence beyond all hope, all release. The paths of the labyrinth stretched endlessly, as if they deliberately wanted to force him into their looping turns.
Finally, a new torment began to permeate his body, subtle yet relentless: a gnawing thirst that seared his throat like a glowing thorn. The pain grew, taking over his mind and pushing out every other sensation. Hirkunij groped along the marble edges as if seeking support, but the touch of the cold stone brought no relief.
‘Where am I?’ he finally murmured, his voice barely more than a whispering fragment that frightened even him. It sounded strange, hollow, as if it didn't really belong to him, but came from some other depth of his being. The echo of his words was reflected back from the walls, but it returned to him changed – distorted, mocking, like a ghostly laugh that made fun of his despair.
The world around him seemed to react to his weakness. The light flickered for a moment, the veins in the marble walls pulsated more strongly, as if they were nourished by his suffering. He was alone, and yet he sensed that he was being watched – not by eyes, but by a formless presence that lurked in the shadows of the labyrinth, waiting for the moment when he would finally break.
After a time when the meaning of hours and minutes had lost its meaning, the world seemed to consist only of thirst. His throat was as rough as sand, his lips painfully cracked and dry, as if they would bleed at any moment. It was a soft sound, almost too gentle for the oppressive silence, that made Hirkunij sit up and take notice – a gentle splash that echoed like a promise through the immense passageways of the labyrinth.
A spark of hope flared up in him, wild and uncontrollable. His steps quickened, staggering, his legs heavy and uncertain, driven by an almost animalistic yearning. Finally, he stumbled into an open space, wide and strangely silent. In the middle of the labyrinth lay a lake, crystal clear and of a perfection that seemed otherworldly. The smooth surface of the water reflected the room, but it was no ordinary reflection – it seemed deeper, more alive, as if the lake had a consciousness of its own.
The water shimmered invitingly, gently and enticingly, and Hirkunij felt how the thirst within him became a voice. She whispered, called, begged – and forced him to approach the lake. He knelt down, barely noticing the cold of the ground beneath him. His hands trembled as they touched the flawless surface of the water. It was cooler than he had expected, and the sensation sent a shiver through his parched limbs.
Without a second thought, he drank, greedily and without restraint. The water ran down his throat like liquid salvation, cool and refreshing. The taste was indescribable – sweet, pure, like the first drop of dew on a spring morning. But in the midst of this moment of fleeting and intense satisfaction, a strange aftertaste seemed to awaken in his mind, an inkling that he had quenched more than just thirst. Ibn Alhakim felt a strange pressure in his head. It was as if a part of his innermost being was flowing through his fingertips into the water.
At first, the traveller ignored the vague feeling of loss. The thirst was too great, the desire too strong. But when he stood up, he realised that something was wrong. The symbols on the walls seemed to have changed. Or had they always been like that? And how had he even got here?
Finally, Hirkunij continued on his way, but with each step his mind grew heavier, as if an invisible hand were erasing parts of his self. The memories of the journey, of the Keeper, of the temple began to fade.
Lost, he stumbled through the corridors, becoming a memoryless shadow, haunted by amnesiac despair. ‘Why... am I here?’ he whispered, but the answer slipped away from him, like a slippery something that could not be grasped.
His knees buckled and he sank to the ground, his hands grasping the smooth marble surface in desperation. Tears streamed down his face, yet even the reasons for his sorrow were unknown to him.
‘Who am I?’ he murmured, his voice barely more than a faint echo in the endless passageways.
The walls of the labyrinth seemed to narrow, and the whispering in the darkness gradually resembled the Homeric laughter of lost souls. Hirkunij no longer knew what he was looking for, did not even know if he had ever sought anything.
So the traveller wandered through the silence of the labyrinth as an empty shell, a man without a past, without a goal, without a self.
Finally, Hirkunij's path led him to another body of water, a place that was unmistakably dark even in the world of the dead. Before him lay a pool set in cold, unyielding stone. The liquid within was no water, but a black, viscous substance that seemed like the essence of night itself. No starlight broke on its surface, no shadow disturbed its flawless darkness.
The liquid seemed to sing, though it was not a song meant for human ears. A deep, alien murmur floated on the air, a spiral of sound made of enticement and threat that numbed all reason. It called to the traveller, whispering in a language he did not understand, and yet the whispers filled him with an urgent necessity. His knees gave way and he sank to the ground in front of the stone basin, unable to resist the pull.
His hands trembled as he brought them close to the water, and for a heartbeat he lingered, as if a shred of reason was trying to hold him back. But it was too late. Before his mind could regain control, he had leaned forward and drunk from the dark pool.
The first sip was a shock, an alien taste that was hard to grasp – like ash, like embers, like something not meant for the living. But then came the pain – more intense than he had ever known. It began in his throat, a burning, relentless fire that spread through his body with unbearable speed. It was as if liquid embers were flowing through his veins, his flesh being cut by invisible blades, while his mind was being torn apart by a raging storm.
He screamed – a sound that came not only from his mouth, but from the depths of his soul. It was a yell that sounded like the echo of all lost souls, a tone that made the darkness of the Acheron tremble. With a violent jolt, Alhakim fell to his knees, his hands clawing at the cold, stone floor, while the pain engulfed him like a relentless flood.
But as the torments pierced him, something began to stir within him. The emptiness inside him slowly filled with images, thoughts and feelings. Memories returned, at first fragmentarily, then like a raging torrent. The temple, the warden, the name Sutenemshaa and finally his own self.
Hirkunij rose with trembling limbs, and his eyes, which had previously been empty, were filled with the light of realisation once more.
But there was more – a gift of knowledge born of agony: the cruel potion had not only restored his memories – they also changed his perception. Where there had been only impenetrable walls before, the traveller now saw patterns running through the labyrinth. Lines that revealed the structure of the place like invisible threads.
And with this ability, he saw them. Shadows that glided silently through the corridors – souls of the dead, wandering restlessly. Their eyes, cold and remorseless, were fixed on him.
But with his newfound power, Alhakim had also awakened other beings: those apocalyptic creatures called the guardians of the underworld. Once they had been humans whose souls had fallen prey to eternal damnation due to dark deeds, and henceforth they hunted every living creature that dared to enter the realm of shadows with creatures whose appearance seemed to have sprung from the bizarre dreams of mad gods - so Hirkunij read in the Necrozoicon.
They emerged from the shadows, grotesque figures, incarnations of archetypal phobias. Their eyes glowed like lava, and their movements were too fast, too fluid, to be of this world. They had realised that the intruder from the world of the living now had the ability to escape this part of the underworld and was not cursed to wander as a living dead for all eternity. Silent and yet unstoppable, their mere presence was enough to suffocate the atmosphere around Hirkunij in a breath of darkness and hopelessness.
So the traveller fled in despair, without a goal, only to be stopped by a strange figure standing in his way. He was an old man with a tattered chiton and eyes that sparkled like glass beads. ‘My name is Kalchas, and if you want to escape your doom, listen to my words!’ said the weird stranger with a voice that was as old as it was timeless, which had a strange effect on Alhakim, causing him to stop his flight.
‘You have awakened the guardians,’ Kalchas remarked mockingly. ‘Only a fool enters the labyrinth and drinks from Lethe and Acheron, because either one seeks redemption through gracious forgetting or one seeks memory from the realm of mortal forgetting. But perhaps you are a special fool. At least your destiny will not be fulfilled in the underworld!’
Hirkunij had no time for the riddles of the seer of the Danaans. ‘No lectures, old man! How do I escape?’ he gasped, the guardians' footsteps already on his heels.
Kalchas smiled wryly. ‘In any case, you are a rude fool whom I should leave to his fate, but the gods of chaos want to see you escape. There is only one possibility. A spell that will tear you out of this world. But be warned – it will exact a heavy price. So listen now: Mónoi oi moroí pistévousin eis mageías.’
The seer's formula engraved itself in the mind of the traveller like a cutting blade, each syllable a spark of desperate hope. As if carried away by a breath of eternity, Kalchas disappeared and Hirkunij began to cast the spell. The words felt like glowing coals on his tongue, and with each syllable he felt his strength wane.
The guardians were now so close that he could feel their foul breath. One paw snapped down at him, sharp as a sword, but at the last moment Hirkunij spoke the final word.
A bright light flared, blinding and unbearable, as if the stars themselves were momentarily reaching their flaming end, as if a gigantic cataclysm were engulfing the world. An invisible maelstrom seized Hirkunij, tearing at him with a force that lay beyond earthly imagination. It was as if space itself wanted to swallow him up. His body felt as if it were being torn into a thousand pieces, every nerve like a glowing string that burst under relentless pressure. His mind was no better off – a leaf in a storm, tossed back and forth in a chaotic hurricane of light and darkness, pain and silence.
Hirkunij landed with a thud, the blow almost crushing him, but he was alive. Around him, total darkness spread, and the only sound was his heavy breathing, a gasping fight against the total exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him like a wave. The cold of the ground beneath him was real, tangible – and with that realisation came the vague, burning certainty: he was no longer in the labyrinth.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, although every movement was an act of pure willpower. Before him stretched a landscape whose gloomy strangeness seized him immediately. The ground was black, criss-crossed by cracked furrows from which emanated an ominous glow. The air was heavy and sluggish, filled with a strange, sweetish smell that seemed to be a mixture of decay and putrid blossom. Above him stretched a sky of an unnatural dark red, shot through with weak, pulsating lights that looked like living veins.
This was no place he knew, and yet something about this land seemed familiar – from stories, from warnings, from his studies of the Necrozoicon. A whisper in the deep corners of his mind gave him the answer he feared.
He was in Xibalba, the realm of magical creatures, the seat of the Lords of Death, those cruel gods of the ancient American pantheon. This was where the paths of the living ended, and lingering was not a matter of will but of the whims of fate.
Soon he was surrounded by a blackness deeper and denser than any night he had ever known. This was no mere absence of light – it was a presence, a breathing, feeling something that filled the space. It penetrated his skin, crept like ice-cold fingers into his thoughts and left a trail of despair that paralysed him. His eyes tried in vain to see something, but the darkness not only engulfed sight, it also swallowed up hearing and feeling – it devoured the world itself.
His breathing became laboured, his steps slower and more uncertain. The darkness seemed to lurk, watching him, following his every move with an inexplicable tension. It robbed him not only of his sight but also of time – minutes, hours, maybe even days seemed to dissolve in its impenetrable maw, until Hirkunij finally had the feeling that he was no longer moving, but was trapped in an endless, eternal moment of doom.
A cold breeze brushed against him, and for a brief moment there was something there – not a sound, but a stirring in this realm of gloom that felt like a strange attention. It was as if the darkness itself had begun to watch him, as if it were more than a backdrop – as if it had a consciousness. An incomprehensible will, waiting in greedy hunger for lost souls.
‘This is the place where fear dwells,’ whispered Alhakim softly, as if his own words could protect him from the eternal night. ‘Xibalba.’ But the all-encompassing blackness swallowed his whisper, and even his breath sounded hollow, as if he had long since been swallowed up by this realm.
With every step, the traveller felt the darkness begin to permeate not only his surroundings, but also himself. It was as if the blackness were swallowing up his hope – a force that crept into his thoughts like an invisible poison. Doubts began to stir, quiet and nagging, but unstoppable. They were like cold blades digging deeper and deeper into his mind.
‚What if I never return? What if this is the end of me?‘ The words echoed through his mind, growing louder until they no longer sounded like his own, but like strange voices whispering from the shadow. Was it foolish to strive for knowledge that mortals were never meant to attain?
These thoughts were no longer fleeting doubts. They had a substance of their own, a sharpness that became more present with every breath. It was as if an invisible power, nourished by the blackness around him, was planting these thoughts, letting them grow until they threatened to overwhelm him. Every step became harder, not because of the darkness, but because of the growing burden of his own mind.
Hirkunij's legs trembled under the weight, his shoulders sank lower, as if invisible hands were pushing them to the ground. The air seemed heavy, sluggish, filled with a silence that felt like a physical weight. But most oppressive of all was the growing realisation that these doubts were not just his own thoughts, but still rested deep within him. They had a voice, a coldness that sounded strange and yet familiar – an echo of the darkness that closed in on him more with every step.
Suddenly, a deep, rumbling sound broke the stifling silence, a sound that reverberated in the darkness like the growl of an ancient thunderstorm. Hirkunij spun around, his eyes desperately searching for the source of the sound, but the blackness around him was impenetrable. Then he saw them – massive shadows that smoothly emerged from the pitch, forms that were half animal, half something else.
These creatures seemed to be the hybrid beings, sprung from the alien mind of a non-human artist – nightmarish amalgamations of humans and jaguars, whose essence combined the divine and the ominous. Their mighty bodies were covered with symbols that shimmered like liquid light with every movement, while their eyes burned like glowing coals in the darkness. Their gaze, ancient and full of unfathomable intelligence, now rested on Ibn Alhakim, fixating him as if they wanted to pierce his innermost being.
Their movements were silent and with deadly precision, and yet their presence was one of overwhelmingly beautiful horror. The air itself seemed to stretch under their weight, and an eerie tension spread, like the last hesitation before an all-consuming storm. Hirkunij felt his heartbeat accelerate, a wild, uncontrolled rhythm that pounded against his chest. His breathing became shallow, each breath a struggle, while a cold, instinctive shiver ran through him.
The creatures came closer, silent as death itself. Their teeth glistened in the darkness for brief, ominous moments, and their movements were an eerie blend of grace and cruelty. Their Gorgon-like gaze held him captive, a mixture of animal hunger and something deeper – an ancient, unspoken power that completely overwhelmed him.
He wanted to retreat, wanted to flee, but his legs felt as if they were firmly rooted to the ground, and the darkness around him seemed to be just waiting to devour him if he lost sight of the beasts for even a moment.
But suddenly, as if a spark of clarity had broken through the dense, leaden cloud of his mind, Hirkunij understood. This was no ordinary place, and these creatures were no ordinary predators. Their movements, their gazes – they were not aimed at his body, but at something deeper, more intimate: his fear, his gnawing doubts. They were hunters of the soul, not of the flesh, nourished by the feelings that raged within him.
An immense show of strength began in him, an inner struggle that took him to the edge of his mind. The traveller felt panic raging inside him, like a raging whirlpool of destruction that threatened to devour him. But he knew that if he gave in, he would be lost. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the heavy air of this strange place, and held his breath. With iron determination, he forced himself to fight against the storm inside him.
Om Shanti Shanti Om Om Shri Sache Maha Prabhuki
He repeated the words in his mind, a mantra against the abyss that wanted to pull him into it. Hirkunij's thoughts, chaotic and filled with fear, slowly began to clear. His body, tense and trembling, began to calm down. Step by step, he allowed control to return while the darkness around him seemed to tingle on his skin as if it sensed his resistance.
It was as if he were fighting an angry, invisible wave that threatened to break at any moment. The minutes stretched into an eternity, but finally the traveller felt the tide of fear within him recede, like a storm that was gradually losing its power.
The creatures paused, disappointed at not being able to get their hands on the delicious grub. The glowing intensity of their eyes, which had previously burned like living coals, began to fade. Their muscular bodies, so close that he could have felt their breath, now seemed less threatening, as if something crucial had hindered them in their purpose. They seemed to hesitate, their heads slightly tilted, as if they were listening to something inaudible.
Then, in a movement as silent as the darkness itself, they turned. Without haste, without sign of haste, the soul-eaters vanished into the all-consuming shadows, their glowing sigils fading like dying stars. Alhakim remained, alone in the endless blackness. The proof of his own strength glowed like a faint light within him, but he knew that an equal weakness lurked within him like a greedy predator.
With the disappearance of the soul-hunting entities, the realm of terror began to change, as if the darkness itself reacted to their absence. The dense, living shadow seemed to fade, but only to make way for a new vision: in the distance, Hirkunij Ibn Alhakim made out the shadowy contours of a terraced pyramid silhouetted against the black void. Its massive body radiated a strange, blood-red light that pulsated like a morbidly beating heart. It was not a light that brought warmth, but one that filled the air with an oppressive heaviness. It was like a lighthouse in an ocean of darkness, an eerie signpost that seemed to call to him.
Hirkunij continued on his way, his eyes fixed on the glowing building. With every step he remained alert, every breath was an act of strength and self-control. The gloom, though less dense, remained omnipresent. It seemed to watch him, not with eyes, but with a presence that brushed his thoughts, fleeting and cold. Her touch was like a greedy, hungry lurking, a constant testing of his resolve. But he remained steadfast, his fear tamed with difficulty, if not completely defeated.
On the way, Hirkunij encountered others, creatures born of diseased fantasies – beings more grotesque and inhuman than his imagination could ever have conjured up. Some crawled, others floated, their forms an incomprehensible jumble of claws, eyes and writhing body parts that followed no known geometry. Their mere sight would have driven any ordinary person to madness, but Ibn Alhakim's mind withstood the incarnate nightmares. With each unnatural creature he endured without crumbling in horror, with each moment he pushed back his fear, he felt something grow within him.
His will grew stronger, sharpened by the apocalyptic path he had to take. Where doubt had gnawed at him before, a resolve now grew, born of overcoming his fear. Hirkunij was no longer just an intruder in this unholy realm – he became a seeker who would not only survive the darkness, but also escape Xibalba.
The pyramid drew nearer, and with every step he took towards it, he sensed the blood red thickening in the air until it seemed as if he himself was breathing colour. The shadows around him seemed to surge as if they wanted to resist his progress, but the traveller sensed that he was on his way to something greater than himself – something that would either destroy or liberate him.
The step pyramid rose up before him, a colossus that towered against the blackness of the world like an embodiment of ancient, unspeakable power. Its structure was massive, built of white marble shot through with an unknown substance glowing with a pulsating, blood-red light. Every stone seemed to have been placed with care, as if a superhuman hand had not only erected this temple but carved it out of the essence of reality itself.
The steps were high and steep, each one wider than a man, and they seemed to cut like blades into the sky. The surface of the pyramid was covered with reliefs carved with masterly precision – grotesque scenes that seemed neither entirely mythological nor entirely real. Figures with animal heads fused to human bodies appeared in rituals that transfixed the viewer with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. Blood sacrifices, star constellations and cosmic battles were depicted in a style reminiscent of Mayan art, but more alien and darker than their works had ever been.
A band of symbols stretched across the tiers, glowing and in constant motion. These characters, which resembled no known language, seemed to tell a living story, a chronicle of epochs and events that lay far beyond human knowledge. It was as if the pyramid itself were an archive, a memory of the world for countless eons, capturing the shadows of time.
At the very top, unreachable and yet overwhelmingly present, lay the holy of holies. A shrine that shimmered in glowing red light, framed in a golden frame that shone so brightly that it seemed to displace the darkness around it. The structure was no ordinary construction – it was a fusion of architecture and living presence that commanded an unspoken respect. Its gates were adorned with metallic glyphs that triggered a whisper in the traveller's mind, words he did not understand but which nevertheless seemed to call to him with irresistible force.
A colossal statue sat enthroned above the shrine, its image of a being that seemed both divine and unholy. It had the body of a jaguar, but its head was grotesquely distorted – a mixture of human features and a mask made of bone. In its paws, it held a sacrificial skull, from whose empty eye sockets a steady stream of blood-red light flowed down the steps of the pyramid, as if the entire structure were fed by this eternal sacrifice.
The air around the pyramid was heavy, filled with a booming, deep sound that was not heard but felt – a heartbeat that seemed to come from the earth itself. It was no simple structure, no building in the usual sense. It was a temple of living gods, a place where the boundary between mortals and immortals, between life and death, had long since been erased. And Hirkunij knew: at this pinnacle lay the goal of his quest – and possibly his end.
Alhakim
climbed the seemingly endless steps of the pyramid, each one a symbol of the
burden he carried. It rose like a monument to despair, a work not created for
edification but for the torment of those who dared enter it. The temple at its
apex seemed to be forged from the essence of darkness itself, a cruel, alien
throne for a power that was not of this world. He sensed the presence before he
saw it, an aura that filled the air with a suffocating heaviness.
With every step, the traveller felt the pressure on his chest increase, as if invisible hands were grasping his soul and squeezing it mercilessly. The air was heavy, thick like smoke, and seemed to constrict his lungs, to want to suffocate his breath into a tortured whisper. Sweat ran down his face in streams, stung his eyes, but he ignored it. Something within him – an instinct that came from the depths of his being – compelled him to move on. Not out of courage, but out of pure will to survive. There was no turning back, only the relentless necessity to move forward.
Finally, he reached the last step. The summit of the pyramid opened before him like a yawning abyss. The sanctuary, the gloomy core of this unholy place, lay before him, glowing in an unnatural, greenish light that came from no discernible source. The light was restless, a shadowy flickering that filled the room with an unreal life. The walls, smooth and black like polished obsidian, seemed to cast shadows that moved independently of each other. These shadows danced and snaked in grotesque patterns, as if they were following a dark, unspoken melody.
The ground was covered with the remains of countless victims – blood that should have seeped into the ground long ago lay in sticky pools, as if freshly spilled. Bones and flesh that could not possibly have been preserved in this state formed a mosaic of horror, a carpet of suffering and pain that adorned this place like a cruel relic. The metallic smell of blood and decomposition filled the air, permeated with an eerie sweetness that was almost numbing.
Hirkunij paused, his gaze fixed on the altar in the centre of the room, which, bathed in a greenish light, looked like a monolith. Whatever he was looking for here, he knew it was watching him – a power that didn't need eyes to penetrate every corner of his being.
In the middle of the room, a monstrous figure materialised, towering over everything like an embodiment of terror itself. It was Tlaloc, the cruel god of rain and water – a being that not only brought life, but also took it with the same merciless arbitrariness. His form was grotesque and overwhelming: a massive body with skin like scaly rock, cracked and criss-crossed with fine veins of a greenish glowing light. Every detail of his appearance seemed deliberately designed to inspire both awe and revulsion.
His eyes, glowing like two emerald flames, radiated a brightness that blinded Hirkunij. But it was no living light – it was cold, unrelenting, like the reflection of an all-consuming inferno, exuding the flames of hopeless despair. Its mouth, lined with rows of razor-sharp teeth, contorted into a broad grin that was more than a gesture – it was an expression of mockery and insatiable greed.
The air around him seemed to vibrate, as if the mere presence of this deity warped space and time itself. Then his voice was heard – a thunderous rumble that not only filled the sanctuary but also penetrated Ibn Alhakim's innermost being. It was not a voice that was heard but felt, a sound that settled in his bones and shook him to the core.
‘A mortal dares to enter my realm,’ thundered Tlaloc, his words imbued with a mixture of amusement and menace. ‘How delightful!’
The echo of his words bounced off the walls as if the room itself wanted to repeat his power. The shadows on the walls began to dance faster, like a wild choir celebrating its dominance. The traveller could feel the presence of this being making the air even heavier, his heart pounding like a drum roll that could burst at any moment.
Tlaloc leaned forward slightly, his glowing eyes fixed on Hirkunij like a predator considering how best to devour its prey. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, a paralysing moment in which the world consisted only of darkness, Alhakim's breath and the god's relentless presence.
The traveller felt the crushing weight of his own insignificance, like a spark in the midst of a stormy ocean, and yet he forced himself to speak. His voice trembled, barely more than a whisper in the face of such colossal power: ‘If you want to consume me, do it quickly. But I warn you, I am a simple man, an unworthy nothing – my flesh will hardly satisfy a god.’
Tlaloc paused, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then he burst out laughing – a deep, hollow sound that reverberated through the room and shook the ground beneath Ibn Alhakim's feet. It was not a laugh of joy, but one of ancient, cruel amusement. The shadows on the walls seemed to resonate, as if they carried the echo of this mocking sound.
‘It's not that simple, mortal,’ Tlaloc's voice boomed, every word a wave of power that threatened to bring Hirkunij to his knees. ‘Here, in Xibalba, the rules of the old days apply. I can't just devour you. That would be too banal, too... meaningless. No, you shall have a challenge – a game, a riddle.’
The god's glowing eyes flickered like living flames, and a smile, as cruel as it was amused, spread across his stony face. ‘If you guess the answer, I will grant you life and let you go. But if you fail...’ His voice deepened, almost to a growl, and his mouth opened slightly, revealing rows of sharp teeth that glistened menacingly. ‘...I will gladly savour your flesh and consume your soul.’
The traveller nodded slowly, his hands clenched into fists to hide the trembling. He knew that his life now hung by a thread, and that this strand was held by a god whose whims were unpredictable. His heart pounded in a frantic rhythm, each beat an echo of the mortal fear that raged within him. But he forced himself to look into the glowing eyes of Tlaloc and spoke, his voice a little firmer: ‘Then ask me your riddle, Lord of the Waters. I will solve it... or die.’
Another laugh rang out, this time quieter, almost like a rumble from the depths, and the great devourer of countless souls leaned forward. The shadows danced faster, and the air seemed charged with electricity. The game had begun.
The dark god rose to his full, terrible height, his massive form filling the room with a radiance that was both sublime and ominous. His stone limbs creaked as he stretched, and the blood-red glow in his eyes flickered more intensely. ‘Hear the riddle, mortal,’ his voice boomed, ‘and recognise the truth.’
With a force that made the very air tremble, Tlaloc spoke:
‘An unfortunate king, but also a bird and a snake,
So he should return, but only destruction came.’
The words filled the room, an echo that drilled into Hirkunij's mind like a physical presence. Their meaning seemed to unfold, layer by layer, as if the riddle itself were alive and testing him. It was a test of the mind, not a whim of chance, and the knowledge it demanded was ancient and dangerous.
The traveller closed his eyes, ignoring the oppressive presence of Tlaloc, and concentrated. The words of the riddle turned over in his mind, each image, each suggestion becoming clearer. A king who was burdened with misfortune. A being that combined bird and snake – a symbol that meant both life and destruction. And a return that did not bring the promised redemption, but ruin.
Suddenly, an insight came, clear and sharp as a beam of light that pierced the darkness. Could it really be that simple? Did the proud Tlaloc consider all mortals to be simple-minded in his hubris? Hirkunij opened his eyes, and a strange calm had come over his face.
‘There is only one answer,’ he said in a calm voice. ‘It is Quetzalcoatl.’
A moment of heavy silence filled the room as the words reverberated. Then the dark god's eyes flared wide and burning, and a hiss escaped his mighty maw. It was a sound that expressed equal parts anger and surprise, and the walls of the sanctuary seemed to shake.
‘How dare you know the truth, mortal?’ thundered Tlaloc, his voice like a gathering storm. ‘How dare you, wretched worm, win?’
His mighty form bent forward, and for a moment the darkness around him seemed to grow denser, as if the pyramid itself were mirroring the wrath of its lord. The demon of fear stirred again in Hirkunij; he could not stand against the raging god and was already turning to flee in panic.
But, Tlaloc clenched his mighty claws, bound by the rules of the Otherworld until the end of the gods. With a mixture of anger and reluctance, he raised a hand that looked like a mountain peak and spoke in a language older than the stars.
The ground beneath Hirkunij began to shake, and a bright light filled the room. He felt an invisible force take hold of his form, and with a final thunderous laugh, Tlaloc called out:
‘Begone, mortal! But know that you will not escape a cruel fate!’
Then
the traveller was seized by a mighty whirlpool of light and shadow, and the
world around him fell apart in a maelstrom of chaos and terror. When he came
to, he found himself in another part of the underworld.
The
Fields of Truth
Above him stretched a sky so clear that he felt as if he could see through it. The stars in it were not mere points of light; they were enormous, far too close, and shone with an intensity that threatened to overwhelm his senses. They looked like ancient eyes watching him, analysing him, penetrating him – as if they were staring down at him from a different space-time, where the laws of his world had no meaning.
These were the Fields of Truth, a place of which the sages of the arcane arts told dark legends of unspeakable doom. It was said that no one could enter these fields without recognising their true selves – not the image they showed the world, but the true face of their soul, hidden in the dalkest corners of their hearts. Here there were no masks, no lies.
All at once, Ibn Alhakim felt as if an invisible hand were probing deep into his soul and trying to drag its most hidden secrets to the surface. His thoughts, usually sharp and clear, swirled in a chaos of contradictory images and feelings. Memories he had suppressed, dreams he had tried to forget, and fears he had never been able to name assailed him until he no longer knew where he began and the truth ended.
With a hesitant breath, he put one foot in front of the other, but the ground seemed to be getting softer and softer under him, like a swampy pond waiting to swallow him up. The air he inhaled was heavy, as if it consisted of the feelings he couldn't let go of. Every step felt like he was revealing more of himself, more of the darkness he hid deep inside.
A quiet murmur rose around him – not voices, but a strange whisper that seemed to come from the ground. It spoke no words, yet he understood it nonetheless. It spoke of him, of what he was, of what he had always feared he was. And as he walked on, he sensed that there was no mercy in that place of unyielding truth. Only the merciless reflection of his soul.
With each step, images began to dance before Hirkunij's eyes, at first blurred, then sharp and vivid, as if this realm of the underworld itself was digging in the depths of his soul. Fragments of his life emerged, each scene illuminated with a frightening clarity that left no room for self-deception.
He saw himself as a child, impetuous and full of curiosity, but a boy who was never able to truly enjoy the simple pleasures of life. Brought up to be a coward, lacking in courage, shy and mercilessly bullied – pushed aside by indifferent parents. But even then there was something inside him – a restlessness, a hunger that he could not explain. The early years as a student of the arcane arts passed, and the pride he felt then seemed hollow and insipid now, for it was based only on arrogance fed by feelings of inferiority. What had once seemed like a goal to him, a reason to devote his days and nights to study, was only a shadow born of hubris, a mere whisper compared to the darkness that now surrounded him.
The images changed. Scenes from his research appeared, his secret travels to foreign lands, his restless search for hidden secrets. He saw himself deciphering old texts in dusty libraries, digging in ruins for traces of long-forgotten powers, speaking rituals whose meaning he barely understood, driven by a thirst that nothing could quench. But images of his masquerade also passed before his mind's eye – a pathetic shadow play in which he made a fool of himself for fear of being laughed at for his true self. All just a narcissistic delusion based on cowardice.
It was as if his reflection, an evil reflection, spoke to him, not with words, but with an urgent feeling that permeated every fibre of his being: Why are you doing this? What are you really looking for? The question was like a dagger that dug deeper and deeper into his consciousness until he could no longer evade it.
Suddenly, he felt a wave of cold realisation wash over him. It wasn't a painful realisation, but a suffocating, crushing truth that took his breath away. His quest for power, his thirst for knowledge, his obsession with discovering the hidden – all the things he had built his life on seemed to him like a desperate attempt to fill an emptiness deep at the core of his being.
This emptiness was old, older than his childhood memories, older than his existence as Hirkunij Ibn Alhakim. It was a bottomless abyss from many former lives, of which he was now, in the omnipresent clarity of the fields, painfully aware. Hirkunij paused, his breathing trembling, his heart heavy. For the first time he asked himself: Will I ever find enough to fill this void? Will I reincarnate endlessly, always failing in this absurd quest? And the place of unyielding truth, silent as ever, seemed to answer him with oppressive silence.
‘I am nothing but a vain fool, doomed to an eternal futile search,’ the traveller murmured, his words swallowed by the eerie silence of the fields. The shadows of his doubts circled above him like hungry vultures, each one a fragment of his inner abyss that sought to tear him apart. ‘A miserable narcissist,’ he continued, his voice barely more than a whisper, ‘driven by an insatiable hunger to prove that I am more than I believe myself to be.’
The words were like an insight into himself that could not tolerate a lie. They came from a depth that had remained hidden from him until now, and with each syllable, the emptiness within him seemed more tangible, closer. It was as if he were looking at himself in a mirror of damnation that showed not only his image, but also the cracks and shadows of his soul. He saw the pride that had once inspired him, now unmasked as a masquerade for an inner pain he could never name.
The more he gave himself over to these thoughts, the more he sensed how the fields themselves reacted to his realisation. The ground beneath him began to change. The greenish shimmer gave way to a deceptive darkness, and the once strange, firm surface became soft and yielding. Viscous mud formed around his feet, pulling him slowly but inexorably down. It felt like cold hands wrapping around his legs, holding them tighter the more he tried to move.
He gasped for air, but the air seemed to have become heavier, filled with an oppressive presence that seemed to come from the fields themselves. Something was watching him, not with eyes, but with an all-encompassing, incorruptible perception. The mud crept higher, clutching his lower legs, and Ibn Alhakim felt his resistance wane.
‘Maybe I'm not worthy,’ he whispered, the words bitter but filled with a strange, frightening honesty. The pull grew stronger, the fields seemed to await his surrender as if they fed on his weakness.
And in that moment he realised: this was not only a place of truth, but also a place of unerring judgement. Only those who could recognise themselves and yet resist were allowed to survive these trials.
Panic gripped the traveller like an icy fist as he felt the swamp pulling him deeper and deeper. The viscous mire clasped his legs with unyielding strength, crept up on him as if to devour him. He kicked, fought, and pushed against the pull, but each of his desperate attempts only dragged him deeper into the merciless embrace of the mud.
The voices in his head grew louder, more insistent, like a choir of his worst fears and doubts. You are unworthy. A fraud. A nobody. They reverberated through his mind, flooding his thoughts until he could hardly tell what was real and what were just the shadows of his soul manifesting themselves in the fields of truth.
All at once, he heard the chorus of the damned, the whispering voices of the countless people who once sank into the quagmire of their self-created truth – a crescendo of self-deception.
These fields were without mercy. They didn't just reveal the weaknesses of the observer, but magnified them into grotesque, overwhelming monsters that wrapped themselves around his mind like a web of nooses. The darkness within him became his worst enemy, and it seemed as if there was no way out.
But then, in the moment of deepest despair, when the voices had almost choked out everything else, a thought flickered in him – small, weak, but impossible to suppress. It wasn't a thought that filled him with heroism, but a simple, naked spark of truth: I am only human. No more, but also no less.
He clung to this spark, let it fight against the darkness within him, like a light that slowly grew brighter. We are all imperfect, but we are not worthless either.
Hirkunij closed his eyes, ignored the voices that still raged within him, and took a deep breath. He let the panic flow out of his body, his shoulders dropped, and a strange peace began to grow within him. ‘I am who I am,’ he said in a firm voice that broke through the power of the fields like an echoing reverberation. ‘A person with flaws, but also with strengths. I accept myself.’
No sooner had the words been spoken than he felt the mire beneath him harden, and the voices of the lost fell silent. The viscous mud that had engulfed him retreated as if the power of his acceptance pushed it back. The invisible hands that had pulled him down released him, and the cruel voice in his head also gradually fell silent, until only a soothing silence remained. Hirkunij noticed that the ground was firm again and walked slowly forward.
This timeless place had tested him, and though he had been weak, he had not been broken. The truth, cruel though it was, had not destroyed him.
When the traveller noticed that the
landscape around him had changed. The fields, which had previously seemed like
an endless nightmare of swamp and shadow, now had an alien, eerie beauty. The
greenish shimmer, which had previously been so deceptive and cold, had changed
into a soft, warm light that filled the air with a gentle, almost soothing
glow. It was not a light of joy, but one of acceptance – a silent promise that
truth could not only destroy, but also heal.
The ground under his feet was firm, and every movement felt lighter, as if the knowledge he had gained had freed him from an invisible burden. The shadows of the past no longer seemed threatening, but rather like shadowy companions on an endlessly winding road, which he observed from a respectful distance. Even the sky, with its oversized stars, had become a little less oppressive, as if the eyes that had been watching him from infinity had now withdrawn their judgements.
The Fields of Truth had led him to the darkest corners of his soul, forcing him to recognise his weaknesses and accept them. It was a triumph, but not one that made him feel relieved – it was a victory that changed something in him. But deep inside, he sensed that the darkness in his soul had not given way to light.
This realm, as beautiful as it seemed now, was no mere backdrop—it lived, breathed, and lurked. Hirkunij squared his shoulders, his thoughts heavy but his resolve unbroken. For the first time on his journey through the underworld, he felt that he was ready to go all the way to the end, no matter where it would take him.
A short time after Hirkunij had regained solid ground under his feet, a new, ominous change filled the air. It was as if the underworld as a whole was turning against him once more, alive and alert, a pulsating organism preparing its downfall. A dark, heavy wind rose and blew over the strange landscape, cool and dense like a physical pressure. His breathing grew heavier as the darkness stirred in the distance. The guardians of the otherworldly realms had been lurking, waiting and watching after their first attempt to punish the living intruder for his sacrilege. Now that the traveller had escaped ultimate ruin, the merciless chase began again.
The massive, snake-like creatures emerged from the shadows, moving with a lithe precision as if guided by an infallible instinct. They headed straight for him, and Hirkunij felt his body tense, his thoughts swirling in a storm of fear and determination.
The forms of these creatures were of an incredible grotesqueness, as if they had been born from the bizarre visions of forgotten gods. Their bodies were a strange fusion of scaly, shiny skin and bone-like plates that covered their enormous bodies like an unholy mosaic. They were criss-crossed by pulsating, glowing runes that were constantly changing, as if they were bearing ancient secrets that no mortal could ever comprehend. The light from these symbols was painfully intense – a disquieting, warning glow that felt like pinpricks in the traveller's eyes.
Their heads, twisted and unreal, resembled worm-like monstrosities from a long-forgotten world, their countless eyes glowing with unnatural, alien colours. Each eye seemed to observe him, to pierce him, as if they sought to devour not only his body but also his thoughts and memories. They were not mere creatures – they were the embodiment of fear, of the deepest, most primal abysses of madness lurking in the hearts of mortals.
But the worst thing was the sound that accompanied them: a droning, vibrating hiss that cut through the air like the clinking of shattering glass, mixed with a low, incomprehensible hum. It was a tone that needed no ears to be heard—it pierced Hirkunij's mind, vibrating in his skull as if trying to break it from the inside.
Alhakim staggered, his knees weak under the crushing presence of these creatures. His heart pounded wildly, every breath a struggle. Yet despite the overwhelming fear, a paralysing hopelessness inside him, he knew that he could escape. The Keepers were just another obstacle he had to overcome – or he would be lost forever in the realm of eternal death.
The guardians of the realm of the dead had found their prey. Their baleful presence was like a curse, making the air heavier and the darkness denser. The traveller knew that they would not rest until they had crushed him or dragged him into the depths of Tartarus, that darkest part of the afterlife, a victim of the shadows' immeasurable hatred. Panic flared up in him, and he did the only thing left for him to do – he ran.
His legs carried him as fast as they could, but he sensed that it was not fast enough. Behind him, the Keepers chased with a speed that seemed unnatural and impossible. Their movements were lithe and disturbingly precise, as if they were not bound by the laws of space-time. They seemed to glide through reality itself, as if the world obeyed them, and every time Hirkunij looked over his shoulder, they were closer – their snake-like bodies twisted like shadows through the alien landscape.
The fields below him changed with every step, as if they wanted to punish him. The ground, previously firm and tangible, became a pulsating network of shimmering lines that moved like the veins of a gigantic, living being. The ground stretched out under his feet, seemingly drawing him deeper into the landscape, while the merciless hunters with their ominously glowing runes relentlessly pursued him, almost bursting with the desire to finally kill the game they had been waiting for.
The hissing and roaring that accompanied them entered his mind and shattered it like fragile glass. The fugitive gritted his teeth, ignored the pain in his lungs and the darkness that gnawed at his mind. He forced himself to keep running, even though every step was harder for him, every breath like a fight against his own exhaustion.
Then, in the distance, he saw a light. It was weak, little more than a flicker, but it was there – a glimmer of hope in an unforgiving darkness. The light drew him in, a vague promise of salvation, and Hirkunij knew he had to reach it, whatever the cost.
Behind him, he heard the ominous drone of his pursuers growing louder, sensed their cold, remorseless hatred in their proximity. But the light was his goal, and he knew: at this moment, there was no room for fear, no place for doubt. All that mattered was the next step – and then the next.
A structure rose up before him that Hirkunij recognised immediately – the Temple of Osiris, but distorted and alien, as if reflected from a dream or another reality. It was a reflection of its physical counterpart, but every line, every shape carried an unspeakable strangeness. The walls were made of living obsidian, a dark, pulsating substance that devoured light while emitting a malignant glow, like the beating heart of an ancient being.
The portals, tall and ominous, were closed, but the familiar glyphs, known to Alhakim from his studies, began to glow. Their lines shimmered in a ghostly light, as if they had been waiting for him, as if the temple itself recognised him.
Behind him, the footsteps of the guardians grew louder, and the air was filled with their droning, vibrating hiss. The fugitive could now feel their putrid breath, a sickening stench of decay and corruption overwhelming his senses. One of the creatures, faster than the others, shot forward, a snake-like tentacle hissing through the air. He felt the air behind him rip, the vibration of space as the creature missed him by a hair's breadth.
In that moment of desperate horror, Hirkunij called out the name he had learned in the Necrozoicon, a name that echoed like a secret melody in the depths of his memory:
‘Sutenemshaa!’
The words were like lightning in the darkness, a shock that raced through the atmosphere. The gates of the temple began to tremble with a thunderous rumble, and an invisible, indescribable mechanism seemed to move them. Swift as lightning, but still reluctantly, they opened, as if bowing only under the weight of an ancient command.
With a last desperate leap, the fugitive stumbled through the threshold, his legs heavy, his heart pounding like a drum. No sooner had he entered the temple than the gates slammed shut behind him with a deafening bang. The noise was so tremendous that it felt as if the underworld itself had cried out in disappointment.
The hissing and roaring of the guardians stopped abruptly, as if they had no power beyond the threshold. Ibn Alhakim sank to his knees, breathless and drenched in sweat. The temple was dark, but it was a different gloom from that of the fields – a darkness that was silent, watching, expectant. He was safe. Yet deep inside, he knew that this safety was only temporary.
Inside the temple, there was an all-encompassing silence that was almost tangible, as if even the room was holding its breath. The weak, eerie light that filled the room seemed to come from no particular source, but was rather an essence of the place itself – cold, ghostly, and full of unspoken threats. In front of Hirkunij, in the centre of the hall, a figure rose up that filled him with a presence that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying: Anubis, the divine companion of the dead, the judge of souls.
The god's appearance was a flawless fusion of power and elegance. His slender, black jackal's head towered majestically, while his glowing, coal-like eyes seemed like windows into the deepest secrets of the underworld. His body was wrapped in a robe that shimmered in the darkness, as if it were made of the stars of the night sky itself. Every movement, every gesture was carried by the unfailing calm of one who had traversed eternity.
‘You have crossed the fields of truth,’ Anubis said, his voice deep and resonant, like the distant rolling of a thunderstorm. It was not a sound, but a power that Hirkunij could both hear and feel, a tremor that shook him to the core. ‘You have recognised yourself, and yet here you stand. That is a rarity.’
Alhakim felt the burden of his journey weigh down on him, heavier than ever. His breathing was shallow, his knees trembled, and finally he sat down, sinking to the floor of the temple in a gesture of humility. He raised his head, his voice weak but full of reverence. ‘Lord of the Underworld, I beg for mercy. I have passed the tests and desire to return to the world of the living, as the Guardian promised me. ’
Anubis inclined his head slightly, his glowing eyes fixed on Ibn Alhakim. It was not a gesture of goodwill, but one of scrutiny, as if the god were looking deep into the soul of his supplicant, probing every scar, every doubt, every strength and every weakness. A moment that stretched like an eternity passed before he answered.
'Know that this treacherous, dark creature has no power here. Passing the trials does not mean you are free, mortal,' he said. His voice was lower, but no less powerful, and there was a warning in its depths that froze the heart. 'Everyone who enters these paths leaves something behind – and takes something with them. Which path will you take when you are allowed to return to the world of the living? '
The judging god was silent, the stillness heavy as a cloak of stone, while his glowing eyes pierced the traveller. It was not a look one could avert, not an attention one could escape. The burning coals in the god's eyes seemed to penetrate the deepest corners of Alhakim's soul, to drag every thought, every motive, every hidden fear into the light.
‘You seek power,’ Anubis finally said, his voice like the echo of an era long gone. ‘But it is not the power of the body that you desire, but that of knowledge. You have attained a truth that many before you could not bear. And yet I wonder...’ He let the words hang in the air, a moment of unrelenting scrutiny. ‘Whether you are worthy to leave this world?’
The traveller held his breath, his heart racing, while the god's words hovered over him like a judgement. Then Anubis drew closer, and the atmosphere seemed to condense with each of his steps. The god's gaze became even more piercing, a burden that was almost unbearable. Hirkunij felt naked, exposed before a power that tolerated neither mercy nor deception.
‘But fate has other plans for you,’ Anubis finally said, his words imbued with an inescapable finality. ‘Your journey is over. You have passed your test, but your path is full of mischief. As a reward for your success, you shall receive the ‘Voice of Osiris’, as the eternal rules command, and may it protect you from the doom that awaits you. Go – and fulfil your destiny, however it may have been predetermined for eons!’
With a majestic gesture, the god raised his hand. A pure and all-consuming, blinding light filled the room, banishing the darkness for a brief moment. It was as if eternity itself had taken a breath before everything began to move.
Hirkunij felt an invisible force take hold of him and lift him up. Space and time dissolved, shattering like fine glass, and he was drawn into the endless void, feeling as if the world itself was swallowing him up. In that moment, he was nothing and everything at once – a whisper in infinity, waiting for the next step in his journey.
When he felt solid ground under his feet again, the magician opened his eyes. He was once more standing in the physical temple of Osiris, and the Keeper was waiting for him with an enigmatic smile. ‘Welcome back,’ he said softly. ‘The realm of the dead has tested you, but your fate is not yet sealed.’
The Keeper stood motionless, the scroll in his hands. The smile on his lips was as cryptic as before, an expression that alternated between mocking joy and abysmal wisdom. He stepped forward and handed the scroll to Hirkunij. Its surface appeared to consist of a substance that was neither paper nor parchment.
‘This is the scroll you seek,’ said the Warden in a voice like distant thunder. ‘But be warned: the words you seek to speak are not only a key to power or knowledge. They are a portal, and what passes through it will not be easily dismissed.’
Hirkunij took the scroll with trembling hands. ‘I have passed all the tests, mastered the dangers of the underworld!’ he replied, his voice quivering with awe and ambition. ‘What could possibly stop me now?’
The Gatekeeper bowed his head, his eyes glowing eerily. ‘So be it! To manifest the spell, you must cast it with the voice of Osiris.’
Ibn Alhakim laid the scroll out on a pedestal that looked like an altar. The glyphs on the surface began to glow as his hands swept over them. It was as if they came to life, a dance of light and shadow that filled the walls of the room.
He began to sing the words with the Gift of the Underworld, the voice of the god of the dead.
„Ina šāttēn ina ārkī enūti emēqušu kabtum.
Ummi zunnānu ša mūšam, ina tâmtim ša ṣalmī.
Rešītu ša rūqūti ša lā uzuz, pānīša ša ul ibassû.
Šēru ša šaṭīmi ša išātam ul idin, ūmu ša šaṭrītu immaru.
Naplūsu ina mūši ša šattu šunu šāku.
Ittīnu kibrātu ša ṣāltum ina rittiša iṭrū.
Ina karšiša ša mātāti ša pītūtu ša lā nādum ulītu.
Idātuša ša emūqi ša lā šitpu.
Oh raznu ša qalīlu ša alpī zunnānu.
Šapṭu ša labirīšu ina šadâ ša rābi ṣāltum.
Ilūnu ša išāru ša ûṭṭeti, ša šūtu ša ṣēru ša lā šūtu.
Amātu ṣimti ša šamê u ersetim ša ul ṣâtu.
Ša lā šumu ina ul šamê ina tamtam šāqāqā.
Guštum ina qablī ša zunnānu ina rābu nāṣir.
Uṭṭetu ina ṣāltum ša lā šadâ ina qablīša immar.
Ṣalmī ina ṣēru ina ṣēru ša lā šadâ ul ibbassi.
Ina ṣalmat ša lā pâtu ul ibassû pānīšu.
Šarratu ša qalīlu ina kussêša ša ul šušuḫṭu ibassi.
Rūqû ša ul šūtu ina šaṭrī ša nēṣeti ša ṭēmū.
Ša šēru ša lā pušqum ulṭânu.
Likath ilū ša pāni maṣṣētim iballat.
Nepiši-ka, māmītu la-gamru,
ibassi ina muṣur kātim ša šarratim,
šumu-ka ša ina eṭemmi idru.
Ina qīssu ša ilū maṣṣētim unqû, ina tūb qaqqadūti amtur-šu.“
The air around him became heavy, as if space-time itself had become a dense, stifling fog. A booming rumble filled the temple, and the light seemed to collapse, swallowed up by an all-consuming darkness.
Suddenly, a crack opened up in reality, a wound in the fabric of space-time. From this crack emerged Likath, the Queen of the Void. Her form was an impossible, dizzying mixture of shapes that were both there and not there. Her body seemed to consist of nothingness itself, a fluctuating mesh of darkness that was constantly forming and dissolving.
The magician perceived your voice with the Eye of Seth, a whisper that seemed to swallow up the world itself. ‘You have called me, mortal,’ it said. ‘Are you ready for the task, or what do you desire of the Mistress of Nothingness?’
Hirkunij, overwhelmed by the sight of her, replied with the telepathic stammering of the ignorant: ‘I... I wanted... Knowledge... Power... What task?’
A resounding laugh rang out, shaking the foundations of the temple. ‘Knowledge? Power? You have understood nothing, mage. The destiny of the one who calls me is to break the chains that were once placed on me by the Great Old Ones, so that I may devour the universe and end spacetime itself. However, this should be a sorcerer of extraordinary power that I can use for my incarnation. You are just a weak fool and useless in that regard. You have summoned the void, and now you will be part of it.'
Before
Hirkunij Ibn Alhakim could react, an invisible force seized him. His body began
to disintegrate, layer by layer, like a roll of parchment thrown into the fire.
But it was not death as mortals knew it. His consciousness remained while his
existence became part of non-space-time.
He became one with Likath, a spark in the infinite void, a prisoner without body, without form, without time. Eternity stretched out before him, a sea of darkness in which he would drift forever.
Epilogue – the game begins all over again
The temple fell silent. Likath had vanished, and with her the magician. The Gatekeeper stepped forward, his face now serious and marked with a hint of sorrow. He picked up the scroll, which was lying undamaged on the pedestal, and rolled it up carefully.
For more than two thousand years he had kept his lonely watch and was so tired of it.
‘And again one has failed and now serves the mistress,’ he murmured, his words a faint echo in the empty hall. ‘But one day a mage will come who is strong enough to bring Likath into this world. Then non-space-time will be unleashed to plunge the universe into its void. And I will finally be free!’
For many centuries, Memnon had faithfully guarded the ‘Curse of Osiris’ in accordance with the punishment he humbly received from Anubis in the realm of the dead. But the endless time made the undead Nubian doubt his mission and the desire to finally be free stirred within him. So the Warden himself called upon Likath, who graciously promised him salvation if only he could find the chosen one. Blessed by the demon goddess with extraordinary gifts, Memnon set out on a quest that finally led him to Hirkunij – a weak link in an endless chain. The undead Nubian sighed in despair: it had been four centuries since he had the Necrozoicon of Apostata translated and printed. Perhaps it was time for a paperback edition?
With a last glance at the abandoned temple, the Gatekeeper disappeared in search of a new candidate, and the place was filled with a deep, oppressive silence.
© 2025 Q.A.Juyub alias Aldhar Ibn Beju
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