Time slipped by. The labyrinth remained still and eerily quiet. Scarlet moonlight filtered through the mist, casting an ominous hue over the maze. Snowflakes drifted down, soaking the earth in a cold, squelching slush. A gentle breeze carried a biting chill that crept into the hearts of the maze's denizens. A storm was building, and they would soon need shelter from the rising winds.
A young man lay curled up, clutching the cobblestones as he snored softly. His breathing, once ragged, had eased but remained heavy and labored. His eyes twitched as though caught in the grip of a vivid dream or a nightmare. Blood streaked his face, and the tattered remains of his tracksuit barely clung to his battered body.
Around him, the corpses of giant rats littered the ground, their green ichor staining the snow. Deep wounds scored their leathery hides—a grim reminder of a recent struggle.
The snow squall thickened as the wind howled louder. Ymir's petite, fragile form trembled beneath the escalating cold.
Snow blanketed his body like a frosty shroud, melting slightly from his residual warmth. He stirred, awakened by the worsening weather. His sore limbs protested every movement. Groaning, he blinked through cracked lenses smeared with grime. All he saw was a flurry of falling snow.
His thoughts struggled to take shape. Who was he? What had happened? His mind felt clogged, unable to register anything clearly.
Pain clung to his muscles. The maze had toyed with him, and he'd tempted fate too many times. It was no wonder he felt like a man waking from a coma.
Cold seeped deep into his bones, raising goosebumps. Memories flickered. Flashes of combat, near-death. Then it hit him: he was alive. Somehow. By some stroke of luck. His wounds were gone, replaced by delicate scars etched into pale skin.
Ymir removed his nearly useless glasses, wiping the lenses with his damp sleeve before sliding them back on. His mind was sharp again. He no longer cared about the erratic rhythm of his heart or the hollowness in his chest.
He was still drained—no will, no energy left to dwell on survival or what it meant. He was alive, and his body had healed.
But so what? He'd been inside the maze for what felt like mere moments, yet faced danger repeatedly. That trauma had settled in, an invisible brand. It would mold him, change him, if he endured more.
He'd grown up in the dark. He knew hope was a double-edged sword—misuse it, and it cuts deep. Still, he had indulged. He'd hoped. Dreamed. Wished. Let expectations fester. All of it had pushed him to this edge.
If he had to define hope, he'd call it the first lie. It whispers meaning, only to vanish, yelling, "Don't rely on me, and I won't deceive you."
No, he shouldn't rely on hope. He shouldn't have survived the trial either. Yet here he was. Luck had spared him. But for how much longer?. He had enough brushes with death to last a lifetime. That didn't mean he had to surrender to it, though.
A sudden gust lashed his face, yanking him from the thought spiral. He shivered, the cold clinging to him with a ghost's tender, merciless touch.
Glancing around. The realization struck Ymir—the labyrinth was made of vines. Organic. Flammable.
Not wasting more time, he staggered toward the barbed wall, gripping his worn knife. The vines stirred slightly, as if aware of his intent. He tempered his expectations.
He selected a section where the vines were thinner. He needed a small haven, a break from the snowfall, a safe place to start a fire. With effort and caution, he sliced into the vines. Some barbs still caught his skin.
Eventually, he carved out a one-meter cubby. It wasn't impressive, but it was enough to stay dry and block the wind—good enough for fire.
Then, an unexpected boon: greenish vines, freshly cut, oozed water like broken pipes.
Grateful, Ymir cupped his hands and drank. No time to test it—he simply savored the cold sweetness against his cracked lips and parched throat.
Thirst quenched, he turned to the next task. Fire. All he needed was dry material and a spark. He had both.
Crouched within the vine-shell, aching and fatigued, Ymir began cutting brownish, less moist vines and piling them carefully. He worked slowly, avoiding thorns.
Sleep clawed at him. He yawned, eyes wet. Drowsiness clung to him like illness. He rubbed one gray eye and forced focus toward a withered vine.
Activating his fire-enhancement, a soft orange glow climbed the knife's chipped edge.
A bitter smile tugged his lips. This knife was his first gift from his savior. The first gesture of care in a bleak life. A token of a time long passed. Cheap, simple, precious. He remembered clutching it like it might vanish.
Now...
A sob broke from him. A lump clogged his throat. His eyes shimmered with tears.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I disappointed you, I know. But I tried. I really did."
His voice was lost to the storm. His frame trembled, pierced by cold and gnawed by regret.
Another sob escaped. His body moved on instinct. His mind still worked, but the labyrinth's pressure was unrelenting, creeping deeper.
This wasn't a trial anymore. It was a prison. One that healed your body only to strip away your soul. Pain and fear and hopelessness crept into every corner, until even the strongest lost themselves.
So why not end it? Why not give in like he had in the hangar? Because then, he'd believed in something after death. A trial. A chance.
But now? After what he'd seen? Death felt final. And like everyone else, he feared it. So no, he wouldn't rush it.
With effort, he crawled to the dry vines, sat cross-legged, pressed the glowing blade against them, and exhaled a shaky breath, fanning the fire.
Smoke curled upward, followed by a timid flicker of flame.
Bit by bit, it spread—eating away at the vines and radiating warmth around the boy, comforting him like a mother finally embracing her child.