The Chamber of Armageddon loomed before Milo Gearlock—massive and oppressive, like a nightmare brought to life.The black stone walls rose so high they seemed to vanish into the darkness above.
Milo didn't move. He stood there, watching in silence. He was a short, sturdy man, with the kind of build that isn't earned through training, but by fighting for every single day of your life.His face, framed by a thick and unruly beard, bore the roughness of someone who had seen too much—someone shaped by hardship. His dark brown hair fell over his forehead in wild strands, brushing against brows knit with tension. His pointed ears, revealing his halfling heritage, peeked out from his mane as if always on alert.
A reddish glow seeped from the cracks in the walls, filling the chamber with a dim light that barely revealed any detail.
The light fell across Milo's leather outfit—old and hardened by use. It was covered in patches and frayed stitches. Beneath it, he wore a vest of thick fabric. It was worn, but clearly crafted with care.
The old metal medallion hanging from his neck shifted slightly as a sharp pain suddenly tore through his body. It was a brutal burn, as if something inside him had caught fire.
Milo's muscles trembled. His knees threatened to give out, but his ironwill kept him standing. The ground beneath his feet was rough—covered in ash and bone fragments that crunched and crumbled with every step he took.
The small round symbol etched into his amulet glowed briefly. It was unclear whether that flicker was a warning… or an attempt to protect him.
Each time Milo tried to fill his lungs, all he managed was a mouthful of dust. His eyes, once bright with energy, were now dulled by exhaustion. He looked around with a clenched jaw, searching for something… something even he didn't quite know.
He clenched his fist without thinking. He was looking for something. A weapon. His body remembered it, as if he could still feel the familiar weight in his palm. It was part of him— as natural as his own shadow. But this time... it wasn't there.
"I remember I had… a dagger… What the hell? Where am I?"
The words slipped from Milo's lips in a rough, breathless whisper, and the chamber's thick air seemed to swallow them before they could go anywhere. Without thinking, he reached for the pendant he always wore around his neck. His fingers brushed against the metal, searching for comfort—like someone clutching a blanket in the dead of winter.
"This doesn't feel right... I need to get out of here…"
The heavy silence that ruled the Chamber suddenly cracked with a faint crunch. His ears perked up instinctively.
The sound became clearer—something was moving. Bone fragments scattered across the floor began to shift.
First came a hand. Pale, covered in dried blood, trembling. Then an arm, stretching with effort, pulling the rest of the body upward.
Milo took a step back without thinking, his body falling into a defensive stance out of sheer habit. A woman was slowly emerging from the pile of bones, dragging herself as if she had just escaped a terrible dream. She looked just as lost as he was.
"Shit…" he muttered under his breath. "I think she needs more help than I do right now…"
He stayed silent for a few seconds, watching her movements. Then he shook his head.
"To hell with it. Better stay still. I'm not looking to end up as dinner for some undead."
She rose to her feet beneath the reddish light. Milo noticed she was tall, slender, with a presence that clashed with everything around her. There was something about her that didn't belong in this place… or in the way she had arrived. It was as if she had just walked out of hell with a smile on her lips and not the slightest intention of apologizing.
Her hair fell in messy layers, a blend of chestnut and reddish tones, covering part of her face—almost as if hiding more than it revealed.
On her lips, a crooked smile. Mocking. But it wasn't clear whether she was laughing at Milo… or at death itself.
The woman raised her right hand and, with a slow, almost lazy gesture, pointed to something behind Milo. A dark stream of blood ran down her arm, dripping onto the floor. And yet… she didn't flinch, as if she hadn't even noticed the wound.
How had she ended up in this place? And how could she show no sign of pain, with a dagger still buried in her hand?
"For the love of hell!" she said suddenly, her voice strange—like a soft song tangled with the sound of tearing paper. "I thought I was in trouble… but look at that poor bastard over there."
The smile returned to her lips as her finger tilted slightly, pointing toward something behind Milo.
He hesitated.
He didn't want to turn around—at least not yet. But curiosity proved stronger than instinct. He turned to see what the hell was behind him.
A human body hung from the ceiling. It was upside down, its feet caught in metal hooks. The head swayed side to side, less than a meter from the floor, in a slow, pendulum-like motion.
There was a clean, precise cut across the neck, but no fresh blood. Only an old, silent wound remained. Whatever had happened, it had been hours ago… or maybe days.Beneath the body, the dried blood had mixed with ash and bits of bone, forming a dark pool that looked more like a shadow than anything that had once belonged to a person.
Milo had no idea how he had ended up in that place. He didn't know how his dagger had ended up lodged in that woman's hand either. But one thing was certain: this was no time for jokes.
"How observant," he said dryly, his voice sharp as a blade.
His eyes moved carefully, glancing between the dagger and the body hanging from the ceiling.
"Got any more brilliant insights… or are you going to explain how my dagger is stuck through your hand and you don't even flinch?"
The woman looked down at the dagger in her hand with a calm expression, as if it were something someone had left there by accident. She showed no pain, no urgency.
She grasped the hilt and pulled it free. The blade slid out with a soft sound. Milo barely had time to blink before realizing the wound wasn't bleeding.
Instead of blood, the gash began to close—slowly, smoothly, as if her skin was sealing itself.Rather than returning the weapon, the woman tucked it elegantly into a fold of her clothing. The movement was so natural, so fluid, it looked like something she'd done a hundred times before. Her eyes, now fully visible under the red light, were a vivid, intense amber.
She looked at him with a relaxed expression; to her, it all seemed like just another ordinary day. She even seemed mildly amused.
Milo frowned. That casual air, in the middle of such a grotesque scene, turned his stomach. He wasn't sure what bothered him more: not having his dagger… or not knowing what the hell kind of creature he was dealing with.
"Would you mind giving me back my dagger?" he said with a calm he didn't feel, but had long since learned to fake. "And while we're at it, I'd really love to know who the hell you are… and what the fuck this place is."
The woman just smiled. This time, more openly—but the smile never reached her eyes.
"That assumes I know who I am," she said softly, almost sing-song. "Which… might be a lot to assume, little one."
Before Milo could answer, a low, dry sound rumbled through the chamber. Both of them turned at the same time.
At the far end of the chamber stood a massive stone coffin—cracked and utterly out of place.
Its thick, heavy lid had begun to shift, slowly. It wasn't flung open, but moved inch by inch, as if something on the other side were pushing with great effort.
Milo tensed every muscle. His entire body warned him to brace for the worst, and he silently cursed not having his dagger. Being unarmed in this place felt like standing naked in the middle of a storm.
The woman, by contrast, watched the coffin with a mix of amusement and anticipation, savoring every second—like someone about to witness something fascinating.
"Looks like our little party's getting bigger," she said lightly.
The lid finally gave way, releasing a deep screech that echoed through the chamber. And in that moment, something—or someone—began to emerge from within.
First came a hand, encased in a rusted gauntlet, the metal scarred from old battles.
The figure rose with difficulty. Every movement seemed to cost twice the effort, as if he bore the weight of the world… or of death itself. The most disturbing detail was the broken javelin piercing his left thigh. The shaft—made of splintered, dark wood—protruded from both sides of the leg, about thirty centimeters on each end. The metal tip jutted out the back, caked in dried blood.
It was a man. Without a doubt, a knight.
He sat on the edge of the coffin, and Milo got a better look. His armor, once proud and shining, was in ruins. Some pieces were missing; others were so battered it seemed a miracle they still offered any protection at all.
His face had once been handsome—angular, well-formed, with a strong jawline. But now it was worn. Suffering had etched deep marks into him. His ashen-blond hair, dirty and tangled, hung to his shoulders.
And his eyes… that was the most unsettling part.
They were pale blue—but lifeless. Empty. Lost.
He had barely managed to stand when his body was seized by a violent spasm. The knight doubled over suddenly and vomited. A thick, black liquid spilled from his mouth, splattering the floor with a wet sound.
"Well, well…" the woman sang mockingly, her tone so sharp it almost cut the air. "Looks like our knight in shining armor isn't quite in shape to save anyone. What a disappointment," she added, tilting her head slightly. "I was at least hoping he'd stay upright before spilling his insides."
"By my ancestors' beards…" Milo muttered, unable to keep the concern from creeping into his voice.
He was torn. Part of him wanted to walk away, to stay far from this whole disaster. But another part—stubborn and reckless—felt the urge to help, even if every instinct told him it was a terrible idea.
"What the hell is this place?"
The woman let out a soft laugh that didn't fit the scene at all. It was almost beautiful… and precisely because of that, it was chilling.
"A fascinating place, I'd say," she replied, still watching the knight. "I wonder what other surprises this chamber has in store for us."
The knight continued to tremble, his spasms so intense it seemed they might tear his body apart.
"W-where… where am I…?" he managed to say in a hoarse voice.
Milo took a careful step forward, like someone approaching a wounded beast that might still lash out. He kept a safe distance—but close enough for the knight to see him clearly.
"Looks like you're stuck in the same mess we are," Milo said in a neutral tone, though a hint of empathy slipped through his words. "I'm Milo Gearlock," he added, the courtesy slightly forced.
The knight tried to stand, but the moment he moved his wounded leg, the pain brought him crashing back down. He remained on his knees, breathing heavily, yet still found the strength to lift his head slightly.
"Broken Bridge," he said with a weak but steady voice. "Shay Broken Bridge Valmar."
He said it with a formality that bordered on absurd, surrounded as he was by dried blood, rusted metal, and faintly glowing runes. Then, for a brief moment, his gaze faltered, and the certainty on his face slipped away.
"Or at least… I think that's what I remember."
The woman watched them in silence. Not attentively, but analytically. Her expression shifted—growing colder, clinical—like a doctor studying a wound. She didn't see them as people, but as things. Curious, yes. But not important.
She didn't say her name. She offered no explanation. Only that gaze, hanging in the air—piercing through everything, even what none of them had yet come to understand.
Milo looked at them both, his mind racing despite the confusion. He didn't know who they truly were, or how much he could trust them… but he knew one thing for certain: they were trapped together.
"I have no idea where we are exactly," he finally said, his voice low and tense. "But this place… something's wrong. Deeply wrong."
There was no time for more.
A scream tore through the distance, slicing the silence like a frozen blade. It was a raw sound—full of fear and pain.
Its echo lingered, as if the place itself refused to let it go.
"Shit…" Milo muttered, every muscle in his body tensing. "This is about to get ugly…"