Stretching before him like a living amalgamation of menace and beauty was the entrance to a labyrinth that seemed to have been crafted by mother nature itself.
Its towering walls, woven from thick, gnarled vines that had been twisted together into labyrinthine corridors. Deep emerald vines glistened with morning dew, each droplet catching and reflecting light like tiny shards. Threaded throughout the living walls were thorns as long as human fingers, their surfaces gleaming like obsidian and promising an agonizing. punishment for any who dared to touch them.
Interwoven among the deadly thorns were vivid red flowers, their petals unfurling like bloodstains against the green background. Each bloom was perfect and sinister, as if beauty. Their scent was sickeningly sweet and intoxicating, carried on the damp, still air that clung heavily around him like an invisible shroud.
The ground beneath his feet consisted of uneven cobblestones that had been sprinkles with white pathed. Moss crept through the cracks between the stones.
An archway gate, ornate and foreboding, separated him from the maze's dark interior.
Ymir felt an almost overwhelming urge to rush forward and begin his journey immediately, afraid that this entire experience might be nothing more than a cruel dream or an elaborate joke being played on him by forces beyond his understanding.
But before he could act on this impulse, his sense of reason flared back, and a serious, reluctant expression replaced the excitement on his gaunt face.
The fear of what lay ahead served as a sobering reminder that his next few steps would throw him headfirst into a world he was never prepared for, could never have been prepared for.
He knew with absolute certainty that he had already died once. Though he had initially found peace in that transition, now that his situation seemed unexpectedly more hopeful and the possibilities were layed infront of him, he couldn't help but feel a profound sense of apprehension at the prospect of dying again and losing this chance to grasp at an entirely new life.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold, freezing air. The shivering sensation that invaded him helped shake off the creeping unease that was threatening to overwhelm his thoughts, bringing a measure of calm to his racing mind.
Clearing his thoughts and focusing his attention, his eyebrows narrowed as he went over his prospects. "What disadvantages do I have?" he asked himself aloud.
It was a simple question, yet its ramifications were dire and far-reaching. "Oh," he realized with growing dismay, "I think the better question is what advantages I have, since I obviously have more disadvantages than I can count."
He assessed his physical condition, and his findings painted a grim picture. A sour, bitter smile crossed his cracked lips as he noted the liabilities dragging him down: "Frail body, check. I'm hungry and thirsty since I couldn't get anything from yesterday, check. No armor or weapons, check. And my glasses are half-ruined, double-check."
A sense of loss and helplessness took root over his grimly looking situation, then, as if a light bulb suddenly illuminated inside his head, he began rummaging through his tracksuit pockets with desperate hope. His searching fingers finally closed around a familiar object—a wrench-like tool that was surprisingly light and sleek, its polished surface reflecting the dim light like a mirror.
He grasped it with both his small, delicate hands and whispered, "Yes!" A genuine smile, the first real smile in what felt like years, decorated his cracked lips.
This was a multi-use knife, a precious gift from his late boss and savior—the one person who had shown him any kindness in his short, miserable life. The tool represented more than just a potential weapon, it was a connection to better times, a reminder that he had once mattered to someone.
"At least I have a makeshift weapon," he exclaimed, sighing in profound relief.
Tightening his grasp around the knife until his knuckles turned white, Ymir steeled his resolve and walked forward with measured steps. He had delayed his entry long enough—it was time to face whatever horrors awaited him within the labyrinth's twisting corridors.
The moment he crossed the threshold of the gate, reality shifted around him. The entrance sealed behind him with a sound like grinding stone, the living vines slithering shut like a massive mouth closing, effectively trapping him within the maze's hold.
Ymir felt the writing on his left hand change shape once again, the sensation both familiar and deeply unsettling. When he examined the new message, what he saw filled him with confusion and a growing sense of worry.
The symbols now read: 'Aspirant, the count down has begun. You trial is the Labyrinth of nightmares. The deeper you go the better the outcame'
Ymir continued staring at the symbol for several more seconds, his mind racing as he focused on 'nightmares', his eyes twitched, a droplet of sweat traced his forehead down his cheek " why did the symbols have to use that word of all things.. god, I hate Nightmares."
It's true Ymir hated nightmares ever since he was a kind, after finding himself sleeping alone in some abandoned alleyway, or building. Darkness was a constant, but for a kind kind nightmares accompanied it. And he hated that he had refugee when he was scared and shivering. He got used to the crippling loneliness. But the nightmares lingered. A reminder of a time he'd rather forget.
The question had barely left his lips when, the dimly lit environment of the labyrinth was lit in crimson red.
Acting on pure impulse, Ymir lifted his head upward to gaze at the sky above, eager to see the moon he assumed levitated above him.
The moment he did so, however, he regretted it with every fiber of his being.
His breath caught in his throat, his pupils dilated to their absolute limits, and his entire body froze in paralysis. His already pale skin drained of what little color it possessed, turning an ashen, grayish hue that made him look more corpse than living being. His mind actively refused to process what he was seeing, or more accurately, what was currently observing him with malevolent intelligence.
A grotesque, titanic eye was bulging from the very fabric of the sky itself, its massive form revolting. The eye's veined, bloodshot iris pulsed with a sickly, phosphorescent glow that seemed to penetrate directly into his soul. Thick, sinewy tendrils—like gnarled tree roots that had been fused with writhing, living flesh—sprawled outward from the central mass in all directions. Each tendril glistened with a slick, crimson sheen that reflected the unnatural light emanating from the eye itself.
Jagged capillaries snaked across the eye's swollen surface like rivers of blood, throbbing with each unnatural heartbeat. Ragged folds of skin sagged like melted wax around the distorted pupil that eminated crimson light.
The only coherent thought that managed to penetrate Ymir's terror-stricken mind as he witnessed this living embodiment of cosmic horror was a simple, desperate question:
"What have I gotten myself into?"