The door behind them vanished. It didn't close—it vanished, as if it had never been there. The hero turned and saw only a stone wall, covered in ancient cracks.
The labyrinth had transported them to Ancient Rome. Ahead lay a plaza. Vast, paved with white marble. Along its edges stood columns—massive Doric ones, supporting porticoes with carved pediments. Statues of gods and emperors rose on pedestals. The air was warm, smelling of the sea, olives, and wine.
Medusa slowly spun around, looking at the panorama.
It was a real city. White buildings, red tiled roofs, aqueducts on the horizon. The sky above was bright blue, the sun blazing down on their shoulders.
"How did we get here?" she whispered.
"I don't know," the hero took a step forward. The marble felt warm under his bare feet. Real.
People were walking around the square. Citizens in togas, slaves with amphorae, merchants with stalls. They spoke Latin, laughed, haggled. Everything seemed alive, real. But when the hero looked closer...
Faces. They had no faces. Only smooth skin where eyes, noses, and mouths should have been. The figures moved mechanically, repeating the same gestures over and over. A merchant held out an amphora, put it away, and held it out again. A woman laughed silently, throwing her head back every ten seconds.
"They're dead," Dolor said. "Echoes of the past."
Suddenly the square shook. Not an earthquake, but something else. Reality jerked like a poorly spliced film. For a moment, everything disappeared—the city, the sky, the statues. Only emptiness remained. Then it returned, but changed. The statues were broken, the columns cracked, the marble darkened by time.
And then the hero heard a sound. The clang of metal. Rhythmic, mechanical.
A legion emerged from around the corner of the temple. Hundreds of figures in red cloaks, with rectangular shields and short swords. Their armor was covered in dried blood. Their faces were blank, featureless. They marched in formation, perfectly synchronized.
And they looked straight at the hero. Even though they had no eyes.
The commander raised his sword. The legion ran.
"Run!" the hero shouted.
They dashed across the square. The faceless citizens continued their mechanical actions, oblivious to their pursuit. The hero ran through a merchant—he didn't even notice. A ghost. An echo.
Medusa turned and threw her trident. It pierced two legionnaires, but they continued to run, the trident lodged in their chests. Unstoppable.
"There!" Dolor pointed to an archway between the buildings.
They ducked into a narrow alley. Walls pressed in on both sides, and the smell of urine and rot assaulted their nostrils. These were slums—insulas, multi-story buildings for the poor. Stairs led upward into darkness.
The hero ran up the stairs. The wood creaked underfoot. The legionnaires' footsteps thundered behind him. They climbed to the second floor, the third, the fourth. The insula swayed, ready to collapse.
On the fifth floor, the hero ran out onto the balcony—and stopped. Below, in the street, stood the entire legion. Faceless faces looked up, spears at the ready.
"Nowhere to go," Medusa whispered.
The hero turned. The legionnaires were climbing the stairs. A trap. "Let's jump," he said.
"What?!"
"We will rise again. Let's jump."
He grabbed Medusa by the hand and leaped from the balcony. Dolor followed them. Falling. The wind whistled in his ears. Below, the legion raised their spears.
The hero fell straight onto the spears. Pain exploded in his chest, stomach, and thigh. Three points pierced him. He wheezed, blood pouring from his mouth. Medusa was pierced through the throat and stomach. Dolor through the heart.
The world went dark.
The hero came to, gasping for breath. He lay on a cold stone slab. A phantom pain throbbed in his chest—the memory of the spears. He sat up and looked around.
They were in the same square. White marble, columns, statues. Faceless figures continued their mechanical movements. The legion was forming again at the temple. "We need to find a way out," Dolor said, rising. "Quickly."
The hero looked around. There had to be a rift somewhere around here. A way to move on.
And he saw it.
Between two columns, at the edge of the square, the air shimmered. A barely noticeable ripple, like a haze over hot sand. A crack in reality.
"There!" the hero ran.
The legion chased them again. Spears whistled through the air. One pierced Medusa in the back, and she fell. The hero turned, grabbed her, and dragged her toward the rift. Dolor covered them, parrying the blows with his sword.
The hero reached for the shimmering air—and fell through.
The labyrinth hurled them into the Middle Ages. Gray stone. Low ceilings with wooden beams. Damp. Cold. The smell of mold and blood. Torches burned dimly, casting flickering shadows.
Medusa rose next to them, her snakes hissing anxiously.
The hero stood. They were in the castle dungeon. All around were cells with bars, chains on the walls, bloodstains on the floor. A torture chamber.
A figure emerged from the darkness. An executioner in a black hood, holding an axe. Behind him, another. And another. A dozen executioners surrounded them.
Beneath the hoods were only shadows. No faces.
The first executioner swung his axe. The hero tried to dodge, but the blade was faster. The axe sank into his shoulder, cleaving the bone. The hero screamed and fell to his knees. The second blow struck his back. His spine cracked. The third struck his neck.
The hero's head rolled across the floor.
A second later, he was resurrected. Whole, but with the memory of his severed body. Phantom pain throbbed at every point of impact.
Medusa fought two executioners. Her trident pierced one in the chest, but he continued to attack. She tried to use the gorgon's gaze, but to no avail. They had no eyes to meet hers.
The axe cut her in half from shoulder to hip. She collapsed, bleeding.
Dolor held on longer. His sword was fast, precise. He chopped off heads, arms, legs. But the executioners didn't die. The headless body continued to attack. The armless figure lashed out with its stumps.
Finally, they overwhelmed him with numbers. The axes fell again and again, chopping him to pieces.
The hero rose for the third time. And he realized that fighting was futile. He had to find a way out.
"Find the exit!" he shouted, dodging the axe.
Medusa looked around, her gaze darting across the torture chambers. Dolor covered their backs, parrying the executioners' blows.
"There!" Medusa pointed to the far corner of the dungeon.
Beyond the rack, in the shadows, the air trembled. The same effect—shimmering, rippling. A fissure.
The hero rushed there. The executioners pursued, their heavy footsteps thundering across the stone. An axe whistled past his head, chipping away a chunk of the stone wall.
The hero dove into the shimmering air.
The labyrinth transported them to the Victorian era. A ballroom. Enormous, with crystal chandeliers and mirrored walls. The floor was paved with polished marble, across which couples danced. Ladies in voluminous dresses, gentlemen in tails. Music played—a waltz, slow and mournful.
The hero stood. They were in the middle of the hall. Dancing couples circled around them, oblivious.
But the dancers were dead. Their skin was gray, waxen. Their eyes were dull, empty. They moved mechanically, like clockwork dolls. And they reeked of decay.
One of the ladies turned her head toward the hero. She smiled, revealing sharp fangs. Her eyes flashed red.
Medusa took a step back.
The music stopped. The dancers stopped. Everyone turned to face the group. Hundreds of dead eyes stared at them.
Then they attacked.
The vampires moved inhumanly fast. The hero didn't even have time to raise his dagger before he was knocked off his feet. Fangs sank into his neck, severing an artery. Blood gushed like a fountain. Another vampire bit into his stomach, tearing out his entrails.
Medusa was surrounded by dozens. They tore her apart, drinking blood from every wound. Her scream was cut off when her throat was torn out.
Dolor was thrown to the floor. The vampires gnawed at him, tearing his flesh with their teeth. His blood soaked the marble floor.
The hero revived, gasping. The phantom pain from the bites pulsed throughout his body. He sat up.
The ballroom. The same dancers. The same vampires. They were already turning to face him.
"The Rift!" the hero shouted. "Where is the Rift?!" Dolor looked around, his gaze darting to the mirrored walls.
"Mirrors!" he pointed. "One of them!"
The hero looked closer. Most of the mirrors reflected the hall. But one... one didn't show a reflection. Something else was visible in it. A distorted space. A shimmer.
The vampires attacked.
The hero lunged for the mirror, fending off claws and fangs. Medusa lashed out with her trident, clearing a path. Dolor covered their rear.
The vampire grabbed the hero's shoulder, tearing muscle. The hero didn't stop—he lunged forward, leaving a chunk of flesh in the creature's jaws.
He leaped into the mirror.
The labyrinth transported them to the First World War. Mud. Trenches. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and decay. The sky overhead was gray, thick with smoke. Explosions thundered far ahead.
The hero rose. They stood in a trench—narrow, knee-deep in dirty water. Walls of earth and sandbags. Corpses floated along the bottom—bloated, decomposing.
Medusa emerged from the water, spitting.
"I hate this place."
Whistle. The hero raised his head—and saw a shell flying straight at them. He fell into the trench.
Explosion.
The hero woke up without his legs. They had been torn off by the blast wave and lay a few meters away. He tried to scream, but his lungs were damaged. Blood filled his mouth.
Medusa lay nearby—or what was left of her. The explosion had torn her to pieces.
Dolor was dead. Shrapnel had pierced him in a dozen places.
The hero died slowly, bleeding out in the filthy water of the trench. Rats were already approaching his body, beginning to gnaw at his flesh.
Resurrection.
Trench. Again. The hero rose, his body shaking with phantom pain. His severed legs. He remembered every second.
"A rift," he croaked. "Quickly."
They looked around. The trenches stretched in both directions, disappearing into the gray smoke. Explosions thundered ever closer.
"There!" Medusa pointed ahead.
Between the sandbags, where the trench turned, the space trembled. Shimmering. A rift.
They ran. Dirty water splashed underfoot. The whistle of shells filled the air.
Soldiers rose from the trenches. Zombies in tattered uniforms, faceless. They advanced on them with bayonets raised.
The gas attack began. Green smoke crawled along the trench. The hero suffocated, his lungs burning. He fell, coughing up blood.
Resurrection. The hero stood up without wasting time. The Rift was close. He ran, ignoring the zombie soldiers, the gas, the shells.
A bayonet pierced him in the stomach. He kept running, dragging the soldier along with him. Another bayonet in the back. Another.
The hero reached for the shimmering air and fell through.
The Rift spat them out into a cyberpunk future. A city. Enormous, skyscrapers reaching into the sky. Neon signs glowed in the darkness—red, blue, pink. Holograms hovered in the air, advertising products in unfamiliar languages. Flying cars sped between the buildings.
They stood in a narrow alley between two skyscrapers. The walls were covered in graffiti, trash was strewn everywhere. It smelled of ozone and burning.
A figure emerged from the depths of the alley. A cyborg—a humanoid body with metal limbs and glowing red eyes. It held an energy weapon.
—UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY.—The voice was mechanical, emotionless.—TERMINATE.
He fired. A blue beam of light whistled past the hero's head, leaving a charred mark on the wall.
—Run! Find the rift!—the hero shouted.
They ran out of the alley and onto the street. The neon light blinded their eyes. Flying cars sped past at breakneck speed.
The hero looked around. Where? Where's the rift?
And then he was hit by a car.
The impact was instantaneous. The hero felt his body break—bones shattering, organs rupturing. He flew several meters and hit the wall of a skyscraper. His spine snapped. He collapsed onto the pavement, paralyzed.
The car slammed into Medusa, tearing her in half. Dolor was run over, killed.
The hero lay there, unable to move, and watched as the cyborgs approached. Dozens. They surrounded him, weapons raised.
A volley. His body evaporated in blue fire.
Resurrection.
An alley. The cyborg emerged from the shadows again.
The hero didn't wait. He ran in the opposite direction, away from the street. Medusa and Dolor followed him.
The alley led deeper, between buildings. A dead end? No. The hero saw—there, at the end, the air shimmered. A rift.
The cyborgs were pursuing. Their footsteps thundered on metal. Plasma shots charred the walls.
The hero reached the rift and dove inside.
The labyrinth hurled them into a post-apocalypse. Ash. Ruins. A dead gray sky.
The hero stood in the middle of a ruined city. The buildings were destroyed, reduced to skeletons of concrete and rusty metal. The streets were overgrown with dead grass. The air was hot, toxic.
Figures wandered in the distance. Mutants—deformed, with extra limbs, glowing ulcers on their skin. They hunted in packs.
"How much longer?" Medusa croaked. She was exhausted. Dying over and over again, resurrecting with new pain.
"I don't know," the hero replied. "But this has to end. It has to."
He looked around. He searched for the rift. There had to be a way out somewhere. Further. And then he saw.
In the distance, among the ruins, something shimmered. Not a building. Not a mirage. A rift. A crack in reality, through which something else shone.
"That way," the hero pointed.
They ran. The mutants noticed them and gave chase. The hero didn't look back. He simply ran, leaping over rubble, squeezing through the ruins.
A mutant caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder. The hero didn't stop—he lunged forward, leaving a chunk of flesh in the creature's claws. Medusa was grabbed by the leg, and she fell. Dolor turned, severed the mutant's arm, and lifted it.
The crack was close. Very close.
The hero jumped.
And fell into the void.
Emptiness. Not white. Not black. Just... absence. A place outside of time. The hero floated in nothingness. Medusa and Dolor were nearby.
"Where are we?" she whispered.
"Between," Dolor replied. "Between times."
The hero looked back. And saw.
Eras. All at once. They existed simultaneously, layered over each other like transparent sheets. Legionnaires marched through trenches. Vampires danced among ruins. Cyborgs patrolled ancient streets.
The Labyrinth revealed its true nature—all eras were one place. They overlapped, intertwined, forming an endless loop of time.
"How do we get out?" Medusa asked.
The hero thought. He recalled all the deaths. All the rifts. He searched for a pattern.
And found one.
"Time moves in a circle," he said. "From antiquity to the future, then to the end. And after the end... the beginning. Again."
"And?"
"We must break the circle. Step at the moment when the end becomes the beginning. Into the loop itself." He looked around. Somewhere here, in this void, was a moment of transition. A millisecond when one era returned to another.
The hero closed his eyes. He felt it. Immortality pulsed within him like a second heart. It knew. It always knew.
He stepped.
And he fell.
A stone floor. Cold, hard. The hero opened his eyes. They were in a corridor. An ordinary, gray one, lit by torches. A dungeon corridor.
"We... went out?" Medusa sat up and looked around.
"Yes," the hero stood up. "We went out."
Dolor was the last to stand. A flicker of relief crossed his face.
The hero turned around. There was no door behind them. Only a wall. The labyrinth of time was left behind. With all the eras, the deaths, the endless cycles.
He looked at his hands. They were whole. But a phantom pain pulsed at every point where he had been killed. A pierced neck. A severed body. Severed legs. Burned flesh. Dozens of deaths piled on top of each other, leaving invisible scars on his soul.
"How many times?" Medusa whispered. "How many times did we die there?"
The hero didn't answer. He'd lost count of the deaths.
"Too many," Dolor said quietly.
They moved down the corridor. Slowly. Wearily. Each carrying the burden of memories of their own deaths. Of pain. Of fear. Of how history had killed them again and again.
Ahead loomed another door. The next floor. The next test.
But now they were alive. Here. Now. In the present.
And that was all that mattered.