The door opened, and the world exploded with light.
Not blinding. Soft, golden, perfect. The hero closed his eyes, then slowly opened them.
A field stretched before them. An endless field, covered with golden grass that swayed in the warm wind. Flowers grew among the grass—white, yellow, blue—thousands of flowers, exuding a sweet scent. The sky above was pink-gold, the clouds drifting slowly, painted in pastel hues. And on the horizon, half hidden by the ground, hung the sun. A perfect dawn.
Birdsong filled the air—melodious, soothing. Somewhere in the distance, a stream gurgled. The wind carried the scent of freshness and warmth.
It was... beautiful.
The jellyfish took a step forward, the grass rustling beneath her feet. The snakes on her head swayed relaxed, for the first time in a long time not hissing or preparing for battle.
"Gods," she whispered. "How beautiful..."
Dolor lowered his sword, looking out over the field. Something akin to peace flickered across his face—always gloomy, always heavy.
The hero felt it too. The warmth of the sun on his skin. The scent of flowers. The softness of the grass underfoot. After the White Room, after the theater, after all the horrors of the dungeon—this place seemed like paradise.
"Perhaps we should rest?" Medusa suggested, looking at the hero. "At least for a little while. We're tired."
The hero looked at her. She truly did look tired—dark circles under her eyes, tension in her shoulders. Dolor, too. They were all exhausted.
"Okay," he nodded. "But not for long. Five minutes."
They sat down on the grass. Soft, springy, smelling of summer. Medusa lay down, closed her eyes, and turned her face to the sun. Dolor sat down next to her, placing his sword on his lap.
The hero watched the dawn. The sun hung on the horizon, neither rising nor setting. The perfect moment between night and day. The light was warm, but not hot. Soft, yet bright enough.
Strange, he thought. The sun doesn't move.
But his thoughts were lazy, dull. He didn't want to think. He simply wanted to lie on the grass, listen to the birds singing, feel the warmth.
Five minutes turned to ten. Then twenty.
"Time to go," the hero finally said, forcing himself to stand.
Medusa opened her eyes and looked at him.
"Already?" There was disappointment in her voice. "Perhaps a little longer?"
"No. Let's go."
Reluctantly, they rose. Dolor took the sword, Medusa the trident. The hero checked the dagger at his belt.
They walked forward, toward the horizon, where the sun hung.
An hour later
"Does it feel like we're moving nowhere?" Medusa asked.
The hero stopped and looked around. It was the same field. The same flowers. The same grass. The same dawn. The sun hung in the same spot on the horizon, no closer and no further.
"We've been walking for an hour," Medusa continued. "But nothing has changed. Even the sun..."
"It's not moving," the hero finished. "Yes. I noticed."
Dolor silently pointed back. The hero turned. Behind them, the same field. No tracks in the grass. No landmarks.
"What the hell?" the hero muttered.
"Maybe we're going the wrong way?" Medusa suggested.
They tried going left. Then right. Then back. The result was the same—the field remained unchanged, the sun hung on the horizon, nothing changed.
"It's a trap," the hero said. "We're stuck."
Medusa frowned, looking around.
"But there are no enemies here. No monsters. Just... a field."
"Exactly," the hero clenched his fists. "Too simple. Too beautiful."
They continued walking. Hour after hour. The sun didn't move. Time passed—the hero felt hunger growing in his belly, thirst drying his throat—but the world around him remained unchanged.
The hero lost track of time. They walked, and walked, and walked. They stopped to rest—the grass was so soft, the air so pleasant. Then they walked again.
Hunger became acute, painful. A cramp twisted in his stomach. Medusa turned pale, Dolor walked more slowly.
"There's no food," Medusa said, looking around the field. "Nothing. Just grass and flowers."
The hero plucked a flower and sniffed it. A sweet aroma. He bit off a piece of a petal—it tasted like air. No nourishment.
"Damn it," he threw the flower away. "We'll starve to death here."
"You'll rise again," Medusa reminded him.
"Yes. And I'll be hungry again." The hero looked at her. "So let's move on, there must be a way out."
They quickened their pace. Then they ran. The grass rustled underfoot, birds sang, the wind caressed their skin. But nothing changed. They could run forever, and the field would remain the same.
Finally, Medusa tripped and fell. The hero stopped and helped her up. "I can't..." she croaked. "Tired. Hungry."
Dolor also stopped, breathing heavily. Even his iron endurance had its limits.
"Let's rest," the hero said.
They sat down. Medusa lay down on the grass, closing her eyes. Dolor sat, leaning on his sword.
The hero looked at the dawn. Beautiful. Perfect. Unchanging.
A trap. We are trapped in beauty.
The hero didn't know how much time had passed—maybe a week, maybe a month. Time lost its meaning. The sun didn't move, day didn't turn to night. They walked, stopped, slept (though there was no darkness), walked again.
The hunger became unbearable. Medusa walked unsteadily, her face drawn. Dolor was silent, but his pace slowed.
And then they saw people.
Ahead, on the grass, sat a group. Men, women, children. About twenty people. They sat in a circle, smiling, talking quietly. They were dressed in rags, their skin stretched tightly over their bones, but their faces were happy.
The hero approached.
"Hey!" he called. "Are you stuck here?"
One of the men turned. He smiled broadly, but his eyes were empty.
"Stuck?" he repeated. "No, we live here."
"Live?" Medusa frowned. "How long?"
The man paused.
"I don't know. A long time. A very long time. But why count? It's so beautiful here..."
The woman next to him nodded.
"Yes. So beautiful. Sunshine, flowers, warmth. Why leave?"
"Aren't you hungry?" the hero asked.
"Hungry," the man shrugged. "But that's not important. Beauty is more important."
The hero looked at them more closely. They were emaciated to the point of being skin and bones. But they were smiling, contented. Dolor silently circled the group. He stopped and pointed to the grass.
The hero approached, looked down, and his stomach clenched.
Skeletons.
Dozens of skeletons, lying in the grass. Some whole, some scattered. All in tatters. They lay among the flowers, under the eternal dawn.
"Those who died of hunger," Medusa whispered.
"But even in death they could not escape," the hero added.
He turned to the living.
"Do you understand that you will die here?"
The man nodded.
"Yes. But we will die in beauty. Isn't it wonderful?"
"You are mad," said Medusa.
"Perhaps," the woman smiled. "But we are happy. Stay with us. It is so beautiful here..."
The hero retreated.
"No. We are leaving."
"There is no way out," the man shook his head. "We've tried. Everyone has tried. There is no way out here. Only beauty. Eternal, endless beauty."
"Then we will find a way."
The hero turned and walked away. Medusa and Dolor followed him.
Behind them, the trapped ones continued to sit, smiling at the dawn.
They walked for a long time. Medusa fell twice, and the hero picked her up. Dolor walked, leaning on his sword like a staff.
The hero also felt a hunger—a sharp, all-consuming one. But not just a physical one. A hunger for meaning. For purpose.
Why go? It's so beautiful here. You can lie down on the grass, close your eyes, and just... be. In beauty. In peace.
He stopped.
"No," he said out loud. "No, I won't give in."
Medusa looked at him.
"What?"
"This floor," the hero gestured toward the field. "It feeds on our desire to stay. Beauty draws us in. The more we admire it, the tighter it grips us."
"What are you suggesting?" Medusa asked.
The hero looked at the dawn. Perfect, beautiful, eternal.
"Stop looking at it."
"What?"
"Close your eyes. Or turn away. Don't admire it. Don't appreciate beauty." The hero turned his back to the sun. "Walk blindly."
Medusa frowned, but nodded.
"We'll try."
Dolor turned silently, standing with his back to the dawn.
"Close your eyes," the hero said. "And go straight ahead. Don't look at the field. Don't listen to the birds. Don't smell the flowers. Just go."
He closed his eyes. Darkness. Blessed darkness after the endless light.
He took a step. Then another.
The first seconds were hard. He longed to open his eyes, to look at the beauty. The birdsong sounded so melodic. The scent of the flowers was so sweet.
No. This is a prison. Beautiful, but a prison.
He continued walking. Step by step, in the darkness beneath his eyelids.
A minute. Two. Five.
"I feel..." Medusa whispered. "Something is changing."
The hero felt it too. The air grew colder. The birdsong quieter. The scent of the flowers waning.
"Don't open your eyes!" he warned. "Keep walking!"
They walked. For a long time. The hero lost count of the steps. His legs moved mechanically. He stumbled over something—not grass, but something hard. Stones?
The wind grew sharp, cold. The birdsong disappeared completely. Only silence and footsteps.
"Can I open it?" Medusa asked.
"Just a little further," the hero replied.
He continued walking until he bumped into something. His hand found it—a tree. Rough bark, cold under his fingers.
"Now I can."
He opened his eyes.
They stood in a forest. Dark, damp, cold. The trees around were dead, leafless, branches like bones. The sky was gray, heavy. No sun, no dawn. Only twilight.
Medusa looked around, shivering.
"Where are we?"
"We're out," the hero replied. "Out of the trap."
He turned. Behind them, between the trees, he saw a gap. Golden light. A field, dawn, beauty. But now it seemed... fake. Cardboard. A decoration.
"We could have died there," Medusa whispered. "Died of hunger, looking at the beauty."
"Yes," the hero turned away from the clearing. "Even paradise can become hell if you can't leave."
Dolor nodded silently.
The hero looked ahead. The forest was gloomy, cold, frightening. But it was real. Not a trap. Just the next floor of the dungeon.
"Let's go," he said.
They moved deeper into the forest. Away from the eternal dawn, away from the beautiful prison.
Hunger still gnawed at them from within. Fatigue weighed on their shoulders. But they were free.
And that was more important than any beauty.
An hour later, they found a stream. The water was murky, cold, but real. The hero drank greedily, feeling the liquid burn his parched throat. Medusa sat down on a rock and dipped her feet into the water.
"How did you guess?" she asked. "About the eyes."
The hero shrugged.
"The White Room taught me. Sometimes you have to turn away from what you see. To see the truth."
Medusa nodded, looking thoughtfully at the water.
"Those people... trapped..." She looked at the hero. "They chose to stay. Even knowing they would die."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The hero looked back, toward the forest and beyond it, the eternal dawn.
"Because sometimes beauty is more dangerous than pain," he replied. "Pain makes you fight. Beauty... lulls you. Makes you surrender."
He stood and extended his hand to Medusa.
"But we won't give up. Right?"
Medusa smiled—tiredly, but sincerely. She took his hand.
"True."
Dolor stood and raised his sword. They moved further, deeper into the dark forest.