The night outside the ancient estate felt strangely heavier than before, as if the air itself remembered a tragedy no one dared to speak about. The hallway was silent after the secret room collapsed behind them, dust floating like ghostly snowflakes in the dim light.
The girl—still trembling—looked up at #@&# with wide eyes.
"Is it… over?"
#@&# brushed a layer of dust off his shoulder. "Over? No. Things only 'end' when I say they end. And I didn't say it yet."
Writer: You literally fell through a hole and screamed like a kettle. #@&#: "THAT WAS A STRATEGIC SCREAM!"
But the jokes died quickly when they both noticed it.
A draft of cold wind.
A whisper-like hum.
And a faint glow under one half–broken door at the end of the corridor.
"Something's there," the girl whispered.
#@&# nodded. "Which means we're going there. Slowly. Carefully. Heroically. Possibly screaming."
Writer: You had to add that last part? #@&#: "REALISM."
They approached the door. The glow grew brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat.
#@&# pushed the door open.
Inside was a room unlike anything they'd seen so far.
A large stone chamber, lit by strange blue fire that floated in midair. The walls were covered in carvings—centuries old, worn down yet still readable.
Depictions of a knight kneeling before a princess.
A forbidden love.
A secret oath.
A tragic end.
The girl gasped. "It's them—the story I told you about."
#@&# stepped closer, inspecting the carvings. "So it wasn't a fairy tale. This place… it's like a shrine."
He traced a finger along one carving—and the moment he touched it, the wall shifted.
A piece of stone moved aside with a deep rumble.
Revealing a massive mural behind it.
The princess stood in a flowing dress, eyes full of tears.
The knight stood before her, sword lowered.
Behind them—dark silhouettes of four masked figures.
Not lovers dying by choice.
But victims.
"Killed," the girl whispered. "They were killed."
#@&# nodded slowly. "Someone rewrote the story. Someone wanted people to believe they took their own lives."
Writer: This just got a lot darker than expected. #@&#: "Welcome to reality."
The girl stepped closer, her fingers trembling. "My grandfather… he tried to uncover the truth. But he died before he could finish."
#@&# frowned. "And now someone doesn't want you to finish it either."
As if on cue, a metallic click echoed through the room.
Both froze.
The door behind them slowly shut on its own.
Then, from somewhere deep inside the walls, gears began turning.
#@&#: "…That's never a good sign." Writer: You think?!
The blue flames flickered and rearranged themselves—forming a glowing trail across the room, leading toward a stone pedestal in the center.
On it sat an old wooden box, its surface carved with the same symbol seen on the knight's armor.
A crescent moon crossed by a sword.
The girl whispered, "Grandfather said this symbol is cursed. Anyone who seeks it…"
"Gets killed?" #@&# said.
She nodded.
"…Lovely," he muttered. "Danger plus history equals my tax bracket."
He approached the box cautiously.
Writer: Don't open it! #@&#: "Oh, so NOW you care?" Writer: I always care when cursed boxes are involved!
He lifted the lid.
Inside was—
A torn piece of parchment.
Old. Delicate. Burned at the edges.
On it was a single line, written in old ink:
"The knight never died by the blade of honor… but by the hand of betrayal."
Below it: a list of four names.
All crossed out.
Except one.
The girl's breath caught.
"That last name… it's my family name."
The room felt colder instantly.
#@&# turned to her slowly. "Your ancestors weren't victims."
He held up the parchment.
"They were witnesses… or accomplices."
Before she could respond—
BOOM!
A violent explosion shook the chamber. Dust fell from the ceiling. Stones cracked.
"What was that?!" she cried.
Footsteps echoed from beyond the walls.
Not one person.
An entire group.
Writer: Please tell me those aren't assassins. #@&#: "…They're assassins."
The blue flames went out all at once.
Darkness swallowed the room.
A single voice echoed:
"Leave the past buried… or be buried with it."
The girl clutched #@&#'s arm.
"W–what do we do?"
He straightened up, cracked his fingers dramatically (even though they made no sound), and whispered:
"We run."
Writer: That's your genius plan? #@&#: "YES. A tactical retreat is still strategy!"
The stone door behind them cracked open from the force of someone trying to break in.
Shadows approached.
Weapons gleamed.
The assassins were coming.
#@&# grabbed the girl's hand.
"Come on! This story isn't done yet!"
They sprinted through a hidden passage revealed by the falling stones, deep into the darkness of the ancient estate—
Chased by ghosts of history
…assassins of the present
…and a truth older than both.
To be continued…
(Next chapter: the secret of the four masked killers—and the truth behind the knight and princess.)