The passing snowstorm had quieted, leaving Ymir's every step ringing sharply through the corridor. Each crunch of boot on soft snow echoed into the silence—loud and dangerous.
It didn't bother him much. If he could make noise, he could hear noise. That was enough for now.
Footprints littered the icy paths ahead, some vanishing into branches that led deeper into the maze. Trails of those who came before. A warning. A reminder to tread lightly.
Ymir wasn't a battle maniac. He wasn't bloodthirsty. He survived through grit, caution, and the occasional flicker of luck. Nothing more. Just a strange, unreliable fluke that hadn't run out yet.
A sudden gust brushed the back of his neck. Cold bit into, stealing the breath from his lungs. He shivered, clenched his jaw, and muttered through chattering teeth, "S-So c-cold..."
Without thinking, he yanked loose the old zipper that had kept his unruly hair in a makeshift bun. The strands tumbled down, falling across his face like a rough scarf. Crude, but it gave some warmth against the bitter air.
It was a habit born from necessity. No credits, no proper gear, and no time to care about vanity. Just survival. The void of space wasn't forgiving—cold, vast, and empty. When everything else failed, you used what you had. Even your hair.
For now, the road ahead remained uneventful. He encountered gremlins now and then. Fortunately, the cold had forced them into hibernation. Curled up in piles, limbs tangled, they looked almost peaceful. But each time his footsteps disturbed the snow near them, Ymir froze mid-breath, heart pounding in his throat, praying none of them stirred.
Anxiety coated him like a second skin. The gales stung his eyes and blurred the world, numbing him to hunger, pain, even fear. His body moved forward, but something inside lagged behind—shivering, clinging to fading resolve.
"I feel like I'm going in circles..." He bit down on his thumbnail, his breath clouding the air. "For heaven's sake, when will this end?"
As if in answer, crimson rays seeped from the sky above—cutting through the dissipating clouds. It looked like a beacon of hope. Or at least the idea of it.
But Ymir had learned better.
The pale walls shimmered under the red light, green veins pulsing faintly across their surface. Beauty twisted into unease. The maze, for all its breathtaking design, remained a deathtrap.
He looked up—and froze.
There it was again. That eye. An entity forgotten in the chaos of the last few hours. Its massive form loomed above. Clouds had hidden it before, but now it returned, its lid halfway down like a grotesque curtain.
"Hmph. Just as I thought. The monster's nothing but a fleshy clock." His voice was flat, empty. "What a waste."
The thing didn't react. It just hovered, blinking slowly.
A coarse, thick eyelid covered most of it, leaving only a sliver of glowing iris visible. Ymir could only guess its purpose. A trial. A countdown. Maybe if he survived until it shut completely, he would be done.
Hope rose in him again—but he crushed it.
He wouldn't trust hope. Not anymore. Hope was a knife with no hilt—good for stabbing, not for holding. Even when he had nothing, he wouldn't lean on something that betrayed him time and again.
There had been nights he couldn't sleep, mind buzzing with plans for a better life. That anticipation, that glimmer of possibility, had once kept him going. But it had also kept him from resting, from breathing, from seeing clearly.
He had learned to let it go.
That was how he survived. That was how he'd continue.
Still, the sight above was... stunning. The maze, drenched in crimson glow, looked like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare painted beautifully. It lulled the eyes, dulled the nerves. Danger hiding in plain sight.
No time to admire it.
He heard something—quiet, distant, but growing. Snow being disturbed. Something walking. Crunching slowly, deliberately.
His heartbeat peaked. He ducked closer to a wall, eyes scanning for movement. He ramaged around his suit, fingers brushing against the pouch containing the last remnants of food. Meat. Cooked, warm once, now cold.
He hesitated. His stomach growled in protest.
"I can never catch a break..." he whispered, pulling it free. The tone was quiet, resigned.
Losing the food hurt more than he expected. It was his last decent meal. But noise attracted predators. A decision had to be made.
He pulled out his knife, slicing the meat into smaller chunks, then scattered them across the snow. The moment he moved, something stirred behind the wall—a low growl.
No time left.
He sprinted down a branching path, boots skidding on ice. Behind him, the predator pounced—but paused at the scent of meat. Good. That would buy him a few seconds. Seconds were all he needed.
The eye above still hovered, its lid inching downward ever so slightly.
Ymir moved quietly, watching its position whenever the path bent toward the sky. He regretted not having his watch. Not that it would've survived the onslaught with the rats.
All around him, the maze repeated. Corridors mirrored one another—same twists, same junctions, same pulsing walls. It felt like walking through reflections.
Each time he noticed the eyelid lower a little more, he felt a flicker of relief. Progress. It meant he wasn't hallucinating. Not completely.
Excitemet for the trial faded. He just wanted out.
The covenant was a mystery. A story circling through backwater settlements, through smugglers and failed adventurers. No one knew who made it, or why.
One thing was certain: power awaited triumphant seekers of truth.
If you braved the unknown, tempted fate, and walked where others died—then maybe, just maybe, you stood a chance.
That was the seduction. The glimmer of greatness. Power, fame, or maybe just answers. Whatever you sought, it promised something worth bleeding for.
But if you were poor? Untrained? Forgotten? The trial wasn't kind.
It was built on secrets. On withheld knowledge. On layers of lies spun by those who already stood at the top. They controlled who got the maps. Who knew the rules. Who got a head start.
Ymir had no such privilege. He was ignorant to the universe's mechanics.
All he had was instinct. A heartbeat. A ticking eye above, and footsteps behind.
And so, he pressed on. Through mirror-like halls and snow-covered floors. Through numb fingers and shaking limbs. Through uncertainty, and the crushing silence that waited to devour the weak.
Until the eye closed.
Or until his did.