If someone would've told him where that old, worn and wretched book would lead, he would've left it right then and there, in that dead man's hands — right where it belonged.
– – –
"Mmmn, where do I put it? Here?"
No.
"No, no, no — it feels right, but it's not going in..."
He shifted closer, his skin prickling from the cold.
"How about here?"
Still wrong.
He could feel the wrongness, the resistance pushing back against him.
It needs to be smooth, just slide in easily.
"Hell naw, that's just weird."
He pulled his long hammer back and dragged a hand through his hair, while staring at the wall with focused intensity.
"Alright, how about we try something new. Let's try this..."
He ran his finger through the vertical slit, thinking through the angle — the best way to drive the chisel in and expose whatever was hiding underneath.
"Oh, God, yes, yes, that's it, Right there. Perfect."
His voice bounced off the cave walls and came back at him, embarrassingly loud.
Roek struck his chisel on the marking and dropped his tools, jumped to the ground with a loud thud, scattering dust in every direction.
*Cough* *Cough*
He covered his mouth until the dust settled, then looked himself over — clothes soaked through with sweat, grey with dust.
'Urghhhh'. He groaned.
He brushed himself off half-heartedly, dropped beside his scattered pack, and dug through it until his fingers found an old worn book,a pen, and his leftover noodle box Then he glanced up at the inscriptions on the wall he had just restored.
-------------------------------------
𐔀𐔍𐔀𐔆𐔀𐔑 𐔅𐔂𐔊𐔊𐔁𐔌 𐔇𐔏𐔁 𐔉𐔏𐔀𐔌𐔃𐔎 𐔊𐔃𐔆𐔌 ⟐ 𐔐𐔁𐔇 𐔏𐔂𐔉 𐔅𐔄𐔆𐔉𐔁 𐔉𐔇𐔂𐔊𐔊 𐔊𐔂𐔈𐔖𐔁𐔆𐔁𐔌 ⟐
𐔃𐔏 𐔃𐔄𐔇𐔊𐔀𐔈𐔌𐔁𐔆 𐔅𐔆𐔃𐔋 𐔀𐔈𐔃𐔇𐔏𐔁𐔆 𐔆𐔁𐔀𐔊𐔋 ⟐ 𐔅𐔊𐔀𐔂𐔋 𐔇𐔏𐔂𐔉 𐔎𐔆𐔁𐔇𐔂𐔏𐔁𐔌 𐔏𐔁𐔊𐔋 ⟐
𐔌𐔀𐔆𐔅𐔈𐔁𐔉𐔉 𐔉𐔏𐔀𐔊𐔊 𐔎𐔆𐔀𐔐 𐔐𐔃𐔄𐔆 𐔉𐔂𐔖𐔏𐔇 ⟐ 𐔇𐔀𐔉𐔇𐔁 𐔀𐔈𐔌 𐔉𐔁𐔈𐔇 𐔉𐔏𐔀𐔊𐔊 𐔅𐔀𐔌𐔁 𐔀𐔎𐔀𐔐 ⟐
𐔐𐔃𐔄 𐔉𐔏𐔀𐔊𐔊 𐔁𐔀𐔆 𐔁𐔈𐔌𐔊𐔁𐔉𐔉 𐔀𐔖𐔃𐔈𐔐 𐔀𐔈𐔌 𐔌𐔂𐔁 ⟐
--------------------------------------
At first, it looked unreadable, but the longer he stared, the more he understood what that text meant.
He slowly noted down the translations on the last page of the book – where he was supposed to write them.
*Slurp*
He scraped the last strands of noodles off the bottom of the container, with two fingers - they were the leftovers, the group tossed aside without a second thought.
Albeit, he didn't mind eating this – after all, there were weeks where he survived with whatever he could find – insects, dirt and all the things you couldn't even imagine.
After all of that, cold noodles were a five-star meal.
He had no money, No family, No one he could call "his".
All he had were his tools and an itch he couldn't scratch — the constant, gnawing need to discover something new.
So he'd found the archaeological sites and offered himself as free labor, trading his time and back for whatever scraps of knowledge the real archaeologists were willing to let slip.
He had to carry equipment twice his size without complaining and clean, arrange all of their things.
They didn't actually care about him the slightest, and didn't even bother to teach him anything.
But he watched.
He read their books when no one was looking, studied the way they moved and worked, and quietly taught himself what they wouldn't. It wasn't efficient. It wasn't clean. But it was enough to get the basic things done.
– – –
He set the container down and picked up the book instead, turning it over in his hands the way he always did before opening it — feeling the worn edges, the cover soft with age and handling. Most of his things were replaceable. This wasn't.
It had come from a tomb.
A few years ago, he visited a site with a group of archaeology students. They'd stumbled upon a plain, unmarked tomb — no grand symbols, no golden inscriptions — and moved on without a second glance, not wanting to waste their time.
Even though Roek didn't know much about archaeology than those students – he in fact, knew that nothing in an archaeological site is a "waste".
His curiosity won over.
After the students finished their work and cleared out, he got permission from the head archaeologist and went back to the tomb alone.
He crouched over the coffin and opened it.
A skeleton lay inside, both hands clasped over its chest — gripping an old, worn book as if it had refused to let go even in death.
Roek tried to remove the book gently, but it wouldn't budge. He tried a little harder this time, still nothing.
Undeterred, he jerked it free, and the book unclapsed from the skeleton as he fell backward.
He didn't bother standing up,as he sat there, opened the book, and found it was filled with strange letters – a script unlike anything he'd seen.
His curiosity intensified more.
He wanted to know what was so important that someone had carried it all the way to their grave.
What was so important that someone had carried it all the way to their grave?
Years passed as his skills grew, he eventually cracked the script.
It was a novel.
A novel. He'd stared at the page for a long moment when he realized it. Who buries a novel with them?
It was a fantasy story about a boy named Azarax, who rose from nothing to become the pinnacle of humanity.
He defeated all the evil entities before becoming the sovereign of the reality.
Roek had never admitted why kept reading it – even though it was boring.
Why was it?
He didn't know.
Azarax started as nothing too. He recalled
Roek had read it countless times. – more than he could remember.
Then a few days ago, his thumb caught on something near the back – two pages were stuck together.
He separated them carefully, afraid of damaging the paper.
The paper felt older and thicker than the rest, heavier somehow.
It was a map.
Its ink was much blacker and darker than the others – as if it was written recently.
He stared at it trying to locate the location.
Then it hit him before a shocking expression filled his face 'But why that place?'
He was shocked to find that the map was of an abandoned place, one that all the archeologists and he himself had abandoned – as they were unable to find anything.
But the longer he stared, the more he understood what was hidden inside that place.
– – –
After three days of continuous travel, he finally reached the cave – where the map was pointing to.
His heart raced with anticipation, eager to uncover the secrets that lay hidden within the cave.
As he stepped inside, he pondered, "It looks like any other cave," but his thoughts were diminished when he glanced at the map, which clearly instructed him what to do.
He climbed onto a nearby rock and scraped the wall. The dirt came off easily at first – then his chisel hit something solid underneath that wouldn't budge.
He switched to scraping sideways, slowly clearing the mud away until the surface beneath came clean.
It was the same script as the book.
He jumped down, pulled out his book, and began deciphering. It only took a few minutes – he knew this script well by now.
He wrote the entire translation on a blank note in the same book as the novel, as he read the text out aloud.
"Azarax killed the shadow lord, yet his curse still lingered…
Oh outlander, from another realm, claim this wretched helm:
Darkness shall wrap your sight.
Taste and scent shall fade away.
You shall bear endless agony and die….."
The remaining words were erased from the wall.
"What," Roek's face went pale.
He didn't want to believe it. He wanted to think it was just part of the story.
But the words "Oh outlander, from another realm" kept echoing in his mind.
Again and again and again.
They didn't sound like ordinary words at all – they sounded like a voice speaking directly to him – fsce to face
He shut the book and let it rest on his lap.
The cave fell strangelt silent. – which insefied slowly.
He muttered quietly — "I need to head back. They'll notice if the equipment isn't packed by the day after tomorrow."
But just then, he noticed something strange.
There was no rock beneath him, no ground.
He was falling.
"Arrrrrhhhhhhh!"
But it was already too late.
– – –
What happened?
Roek groaned, his body wracked with pain.
He saw the blood flowing out of him, spreading across the cold stone.
"Arh." He groaned as he looked around.
'Wha- what is this place?' he wondered, as the eerie silence and shadowy void enveloped him, heightening his sense of isolation.
He was on a circular stone platform hovering in complete darkness — no walls, no ceiling, no ground visible beneath it - at least he assumed it to be the case or there was a pillar beneath.
The surface was covered in inscriptions he didn't recognize, though they felt familiar – like something just out of reach.
Then the blood began moving.
It crept slowly toward the inscriptions.It seeped into the carved lines, then evaporated, lifting off the stone as thin black mist that spread rapidly in every direction.
A strange voice echoed in his ears, combined with letters hovering in front of his eyes.
Both said the same thing — before darkness wrapped his sight.
[ Marvelous, Your dream ends here.]
[Greetings, Aspirant!! You have been Ascended.]
[Prepare for appraisal.....]