The steps ended at a wall of black glass.
Not a door. Just a smooth surface, reflecting the three of them—the hero, Medusa, Dolor—distortedly, as if in a funhouse mirror.
The hero reached out and touched it. It was cold, but not hard. His hand passed through as if through water.
"Passage," he said.
The sound of his voice reflected off the glass, echoing back:
Passage... passage... passage...
Then—silence.
But something changed. The air became tangible, as if space had thickened. The hero blinked—and an arched passage appeared before him, a meter away. Literally materializing out of thin air, stone forming out of nothing.
"What..." Medusa began.
Her voice echoed:
What... something... something...
A flash of light. The air thickened, and an object emerged from it—something vague, blurry, but clearly corporeal. It hung in the air for a second, then dissipated.
Dolor silently raised his hand, indicating: be careful.
They passed through the glass wall, one after the other.
The hall beyond was endless.
Emptiness stretched in all directions, reflected in black, mirrored surfaces. Floor, walls, ceiling—all made of polished obsidian, reflective yet distorting. There were no boundaries, no landmarks. Only black mirror and reflections.
And silence.
Absolute, oppressive silence. The hero could hear his own breathing—loud, like a hurricane in this void. His heartbeat echoed like a drumbeat.
He took a step. The sound of his boot on stone thundered like an explosion.
Step... aa ... And where the foot had stepped, a mark appeared—not a print, but a hole. A black pit in the floor, descending into nothingness.
The hero jumped back, nearly losing his balance on the edge.
"Sounds..." he whispered quietly, hoping the whisper wouldn't activate the mechanism.
Sounds... ooks... death... death...
The echo distorted the word. "Sounds" became "death."
A flash. The air thickened, and a creature materialized before the hero—a skeleton with a scythe, a classic Death, but blurry, incomplete, as if poorly drawn.
She swung.
The hero dodged, the scythe missed. The creature dissipated like smoke a second later.
But the lesson had been learned.
Every sound materialized. And the echo distorted words unpredictably. The hero turned to Medusa and Dolor, putting his finger to his lips: quiet.
They nodded.
They moved forward, step by step, trying to advance softly, silently. Medusa removed her armor so it wouldn't jingle. Dolor walked slowly, holding his sword horizontally so as not to hit the floor.
The silence was oppressive. The longer they remained silent, the louder their own sounds seemed—their breath roared, their hearts thundered, even the movement of their clothes rustled like an avalanche.
The hero felt himself going mad from the silence. He wanted to scream, to say something, to break this silence.
But he held on.
They walked perhaps a hundred meters. Or a thousand. Distances were deceptive in this mirror-like void.
Then Medusa stumbled. The snake on her head hissed—quietly, almost inaudibly, but in this silence the sound was like thunder. Shhh... snake... poison... poison...
Flash. The air thickened, and snakes gushed out—dozens of them, real, poisonous, falling to the floor, hissing, and lunging at the group.
Dolor swung his sword, controlling every movement—silently cutting down several. But one snake dodged, and the blade caught stone.
Clink. Metal on the floor.
Flash. Blades appeared in the air—two, three, materialized by the echo. One pierced Dolor's shoulder, the other slashed at the hero's arm. The God of Suffering didn't cry out—he was used to pain—he simply pulled the blade out and threw it aside.
But the hero couldn't hold back. The pain from the cut tore a scream from his throat.
The scream echoed back:
Aaah... pain... PAIN... AGONY...
Flash. The air exploded with materialization.
A humanoid made of barbed wire and spikes, the embodiment of pain. It moved jerkily, like a puppet, reaching out to the hero with its sharp arms.
The hero tried to retreat, but the creature was too fast. The spiked arms grabbed him by the shoulders and sank into his skin. Hundreds of needles pierced his flesh simultaneously.
Pain exploded.
Not ordinary pain—amplified, multiplied. Each spike transmitted pure agony straight to his nerves, to his brain. The hero felt all his past deaths flare up at once—acid, fire, shattered bones, dissolution. The creature sucked the pain from his memory, amplified it, and poured it back in.
His knees buckled. The hero fell, writhing and screaming. The creature didn't let go, continuing to dig deeper, the spikes twisting under his skin, tearing at his muscles.
Medusa darted, piercing the creature with her trident, and flung it away from the hero. It dissipated into thin air, but the spikes left hundreds of bleeding wounds.
The snakes continued to attack. One bit the hero on the leg. Venom gushed into his blood, burning his veins from the inside.
Two more attacked Medusa, biting into his arms. She tried to shake them off, but the poison was already taking effect—her limbs went numb, her vision blurred.
Dolor slashed with his sword, but the materialized blades continued to appear. One pierced his side, another his throat. Blood gushed like a fountain.
Darkness enveloped the hero. The last thing he saw was Medusa falling beneath dozens of snakes, and Dolor bleeding amid the materialized blades.
Inhale.
The hero woke up at the beginning of the hall, by the glass wall. Medusa and Dolor stood nearby, also resurrected.
They looked at each other in silence. The lesson had been deeply learned.
No sounds allowed. At all. Even thoughts are dangerous.
Dolor gestured: I'll go first. He's the quietest, the most controlled.
The hero and Medusa nodded.
They moved again. This time even more slowly, even more carefully. Dolor led the way, each step measured, his breathing controlled. Medusa followed, then the hero.
They walked further. The silence oppressed them, but they endured.
Ahead, a structure appeared. A door. Massive, made of the same black obsidian, but with one difference—a symbol was engraved on it. A mouth. An open mouth, from which words-runes flew.
The hero approached. The door had no handle, no lock, nothing. Just a mouth.
To open it, he had to speak a word. But what?
He thought—carefully, controlling his thoughts. Open? Exit? Freedom?
He tried. Whispered:
— Open.
Open... swarm... formation... destruction...
The echo distorted. A flash—and a falling column materialized, enormous, made of the same obsidian. The hero jumped back, the column collapsed, shattering on the floor.
Wrong word.
Medusa tried:
— Freedom.
Freedom... vaults... shackles... chains...
A flash. The chains materialized, wrapped around her legs, and pulled her down. Dolor cut them with his sword before she fell.
Not that either.
Dolor looked at the door for a long moment, thinking. Then, for the first time on the entire floor, he uttered a single, clear word:
— Silence.
Silence... hush... seek... peace...
The echo didn't distort. It repeated with agreement.
The door trembled. The mouth on it opened wider, soundlessly. And the doors parted, revealing a passage.
The hero looked at Dolor with respect. The God of Suffering shrugged—his silence proved the key.
They passed through the door, quickly, before it closed.
Beyond were steps. Up. And the silence here was ordinary—not oppressive, not materializing. Just silence.
The hero sank onto the steps and exhaled loudly, unafraid of the sound. Medusa laughed next to him—relieved, almost hysterical.
"We can speak," she said, her voice sounding strange after the long silence. "Gods, how I've missed sound."
Dolor sat down next to her, his sword resting on his lap.
"Words have power," he said quietly. "Always have. It was just so obvious here."
The hero nodded.
"Be careful what you say. Lesson learned."
They sat for a few more minutes, simply recovering from the tension of absolute silence, from the fear of every sound.
Then they stood and moved further up.