The ruins shook as though the jungle itself had turned against them. Stones cracked, dust rained from the ceiling, and the faceless god towered above James, its hollow eyes blazing with green fire. The relic seared his palm, fusing into his flesh, its whispers now a chorus inside his skull.
"You are mine," the voice thundered.
James staggered back, torch sputtering, machete useless. He could feel the god's hunger gnawing at him, pulling at his memories, his very soul. Faces of the dead flashed before him—explorers who had come before, swallowed whole by the ruins.
But James was not ready to surrender. With a roar, he raised the relic high. Its light flared, blinding, and for a heartbeat the god recoiled. The chanting figures shrieked, their robes dissolving into ash.
The ruins convulsed. The altar split. A fissure tore through the floor, swallowing bones and statues alike. James ran, lungs burning, the relic dragging him onward. The corridors twisted, collapsing behind him. Shadows clawed at his heels, whispering promises of eternal hunger.
He burst through the Gate of Bones into the jungle. The dawn was gray, the air heavy with silence. Behind him, the ruins groaned, then collapsed inward, vanishing into the earth as though they had never existed.
James fell to his knees, gasping. The relic pulsed in his hand, now fused to his skin, impossible to let go. Its whispers had quieted, but not vanished.
"You escaped," it murmured. "But you carry us still."
James stared at the jungle, at the endless green stretching before him. He had survived. But the curse had followed.
He rose, weary, scarred, and began the long walk back. Each step echoed with the truth: the ruins were gone, but their hunger lived on—in him.
And somewhere, deep in the earth, the faceless god waited.