After 'Isha, the Great Minaret fell into a hush broken only by the soft recitation of Qur'an and the distant rumble of the besieged city above. Malcolm performed his wudu at an ancient fountain carved with flowing calligraphy, the cool water washing away dried blood and lingering shadows. He felt lighter than he had in years—Shadowfang at his side, but his heart anchored by renewed purpose.
Shaykha Amina led them through a concealed door behind the mihrab, down a narrow passage lit by lanterns etched with verses of light. The air grew cooler, scented with earth and faint zamzam as they descended into chambers older than Neo-Eldoria itself.
At the bottom lay a vast circular hall, its domed ceiling painted with stars and protective inscriptions. In the center stood a massive black stone gate, sealed with chains of silver inscribed in flawless Arabic: Hasbiyallahu la ilaha illa huwa 'alayhi tawakkaltu wa huwa rabbu al-'arshi al-'azim. The words glowed softly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Seven elderly scholars—the Upper Chorus—awaited them. They wore simple white thobes, their faces radiant with the serenity of lifelong guardianship. The eldest, Imam Yusuf al-Mujahid, stepped forward. His voice carried the weight of decades spent watching this threshold.
"Assalamu 'alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh," said Imam Yusuf. "You have arrived at the appointed hour. The seal weakens, and what lies below stirs once more."
"Wa 'alaikum assalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh, Imam," replied Malcolm. "We are ready to descend."
The Imam studied Malcolm for a long moment, eyes kind but piercing.
"Your resolve shines, my son," he said. "The darkness below feeds on doubt, on pride, on the illusion of self-sufficiency. But you carry remembrance and discipline—that is the greatest weapon."
He gestured to the gate. Holographic archives—preserved by the scholars—materialized in the air, displaying ancient records in Arabic, English, and Elvish script.
"Centuries ago, before the corps built their towers, this city was a place of knowledge and worship. Beneath it lies a labyrinth—not built by human hands, but uncovered. Tunnels and chambers that twist beyond reason, older than the stars we know. Within them sleep entities of pure chaos and hunger, alien to the order of creation. They whisper promises of power, of dominion, of godhood."
Elara's voice was quiet. "And someone listened."
"Yes," said Imam Yusuf. "In the early days of the corps, a secret expedition—funded by off-world interests and led by a cabal driven by supremacist ideology—breached the upper layers. They sought artifacts, weapons, anything to secure permanent dominance. They found the entities instead. Some perished. Others… changed. They returned carrying corruption in their blood, believing they had been chosen for a greater purpose. That corruption spread slowly, hidden beneath corporate veils, until it became the plague we fight today."
Malcolm felt a chill. "The Necromancer?"
"The title they gave their leader," the Imam replied. "The true source is deeper—an ancient entity they awakened, one that feeds on worship and control. It uses the undead as tools, the rifts as doorways. It wants the surface world to kneel."
Kira clenched her fists. "And the Guild never stopped them?"
"The Guild tried," said Imam Yusuf sadly. "Many good hunters fell. But the corruption reached high places. Only this ward, protected by faith and knowledge, has remained untouched. The scholars here have guarded the seal since the beginning, renewing it with recitation and vigilance every night."
Gronk spoke for the first time, his deep voice respectful. "Then we break their plan. We go down, we end it."
The Imam smiled faintly. "So be it. But know this: the labyrinth tests everything. It shows you your deepest fears, your hidden desires. Many who entered with strong conviction emerged stronger. Others… did not emerge at all."
He turned to the gate. The seven scholars formed a circle around it, raising their hands in supplication. Their voices rose in unison, reciting powerful verses of protection. The chains glowed brighter, then loosened and fell away with a sound like distant thunder.
The gate groaned open, revealing a spiral staircase descending into absolute darkness. A cold wind rose, carrying the stench of decay and something older—something that made Malcolm's skin crawl even through his renewed resolve.
"Take these." The Imam handed each of them a small leather-bound Qur'an and a vial of water from the blessed wells. "Recite when the whispers come. Drink when strength fails. And remember: La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah. There is no power nor strength except through discipline and truth."
Malcolm tucked the Qur'an into his chest rig, beside his heart. "Jazakumullahu khayran."
The scholars embraced each hunter in turn, murmuring words of encouragement. Then the team stepped forward.
Malcolm led, Shadow Step ready but Noor of Protection already humming faintly around him—a soft golden aura visible only to those with clarity. Elara followed, bow strung with arrows tipped in blessed silver. Kira's arms crackled with restrained lightning, now threaded with light from the Ministration. Gronk brought up the rear, hammer resting on his shoulder, moving with quiet determination.
The gate sealed behind them with a finality that echoed through the stone.
The descent was long. The stairs twisted in ways that defied geometry—sometimes narrowing, sometimes widening into vast chambers where ancient carvings depicted stars and beings that hurt to look upon directly. Malcolm kept his gaze lowered, focusing on steady recitation until the unease passed.
After what felt like hours, the stairs ended at a massive arched doorway carved with symbols that predated any known language. Beyond it lay the labyrinth proper: corridors of black stone veined with pulsing red light, floors slick with condensation, air thick and oppressive.
The first threat came without warning.
Shambling forms emerged from side passages—undead, but wrong. Their bodies were elongated, joints bending backward, faces covered in too many eyes that wept black ichor. They moved in unnatural silence, as though the labyrinth itself guided them.
"Bismillah."
Malcolm raised his hand. Noor of Protection flared outward—a dome of golden light that burned the nearest creatures where they stood. They shrieked, flesh sizzling, collapsing into ash that whispered away on the wind.
The team pressed forward.
Deeper in, the corridors opened into vast halls supported by pillars carved into grotesque shapes—half-human, half-something else. Rivers of dark liquid ran through channels in the floor, bubbling softly.
Kira scanned with her augmented eyes. "Mana readings off the charts. This place is alive."
Elara notched an arrow. "And watching."
Malcolm felt it too—eyes on them, not physical, but aware. The whispers began, faint at first.
You are tired. Rest. We can give you power beyond limits…
He recited loudly: "A'udhu billahi min ash-shaytan ir-rajim." The whispers recoiled.
They reached a crossroads marked by a massive statue: a robed figure holding a star-shaped emblem, face hidden beneath a hood. The stone was worn, but the posture suggested arrogance.
"This is one of their markers," said Elara. "The expedition left these."
Malcolm touched the statue. A vision flashed—brief, involuntary: men and women in corporate suits, faces hard with entitlement, planting the statue centuries ago, laughing as they defiled the depths.
He pulled his hand away. "They thought they owned this place. They were wrong."
A low rumble shook the hall. From the shadows poured a new wave—this time led by something larger. An alpha, but evolved: armored in bone and metal fused together, wielding a massive cleaver etched with the same star emblem. Its eyes glowed with intelligence.
"Believers," it said, its voice layered and mocking. "How quaint. Your faith cannot reach here."
Malcolm stepped forward, Noor flaring brighter. "Faith reaches everywhere. Even here."
The battle was fierce.
The lesser undead swarmed. Gronk met them head-on, hammer swinging in wide arcs, each impact accompanied by his own battle cry. Kira unleashed controlled lightning that arced through multiple targets, purified by the Ministration into white-blue fire. Elara's arrows found weak points with deadly precision, each shot whispered with focus.
Malcolm danced through the chaos—Shadow Step to flank, Shadowfang drinking corruption, Noor burning away tendrils that reached for him. When the alpha charged, he met it directly.
Cleaver met katana in a shower of sparks. The impact drove Malcolm to one knee, but he held.
"You will break," the alpha taunted.
"La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah."
Malcolm channeled everything—Noor of Protection surging through Shadowfang. The blade blazed with golden light. One thrust pierced the alpha's core.
The creature screamed as light poured into it, burning away layers of corruption. It collapsed, body dissolving into black mist that fled deeper into the labyrinth.
The team stood panting amid the ashes.
Kira wiped sweat from her brow. "That thing spoke like it knew us."
"It knows fear," said Elara. "We carry what it cannot touch."
They pressed on.
Hours blurred into a timeless march. The labyrinth shifted around them—corridors lengthening, walls breathing, floors tilting. Illusions appeared: visions of lost loved ones calling from side passages, promises of wealth and power projected on the walls.
Each time, they stopped, recited together, drank from the blessed vials. The illusions shattered like glass.
At one point, they found an ancient chamber lined with broken altars. In the center lay the remains of an expedition member—corporate uniform still visible, star emblem pinned to the chest. A journal lay open beside the skeleton.
Malcolm read aloud, voice steady:
"Day 47. The voices are clearer now. They say we were chosen. That the old gods need vessels of superior will. The locals above are weak—clinging to their primitive faith. We will bring order. We will rule."
He closed the journal.
"Pride," said Malcolm. "That's what killed them. Not the entities—their own arrogance."
Gronk crushed the star emblem under his boot.
Deeper still, the air grew colder. The red veins in the walls pulsed faster. They reached a massive bridge spanning a chasm so deep no bottom was visible—only writhing shadows far below.
Halfway across, the bridge trembled. From the darkness rose a guardian: a colossal amalgam of flesh and stone, many-eyed, many-limbed, the expedition's star carved into its chest like a brand.
It spoke with a hundred voices. "None pass. The chosen sealed this path. The new order rises."
Malcolm raised his Qur'an. The team formed a line.
Together they recited protective verses in unison. The words thundered through the chasm, golden light exploding outward.
The guardian shrieked, limbs cracking, eyes bursting. It crumbled into dust that rained into the abyss.
Silence returned.
On the far side, a final gate awaited—smaller, but radiating the strongest corruption yet. Beyond it, Malcolm sensed the heart of the labyrinth.
He turned to his companions.
"Whatever waits inside, we face it together," he said. "With discipline and truth, we end this."
They nodded, faces resolute.
Malcolm placed his hand on the gate. The team joined him, palms together.
In one voice, they said:
"Bismillah. La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah."
The gate shuddered open.
Cold wind howled through.
They stepped into the heart of the labyrinth—ready for whatever ancient horror waited, armed not just with steel and magic, but with the light no darkness could extinguish.
To be continued...