“Right…” Sarah’s voice trailed into a low whistle as she crossed the threshold into the crumbling building. Her boots crunched across dust and fragmented tiles, the brittle remains of centuries past. Overhead, cracked ceiling orbs sputtered weakly, casting an uneven glow that flickered like candlelight on the edge of death. She glanced around. Shelves lined the walls in orderly rows, now long emptied. Only a few cracked glass display cases remained, their contents lost to time or rot. The air was heavy with disuse—like stale breath exhaled by a corpse that had waited too long to be remembered.

  “What was this place?” she murmured, tapping her chin, eyes scanning for patterns. She knelt down beside a shattered plinth half-swallowed by dust and decay. Inset into the surface was a small square etched with the same arcane symbols that had adorned the building’s fa?ade. Her fingers brushed against them with reverence, feeling the soft vibration in her bones as if the stone remembered her touch.

  Meanwhile, John stood just inside the entrance, posture tense. His eyes darted across the room’s shadowed corners, the tip of his boot testing each step like the floor might collapse beneath him. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted lazily into the stale air—almost as if the building itself was holding its breath.

  Ziraya stood further in, arms crossed, her slitted eyes narrowed as she surveyed the gloom. Her tail lashed the ground with impatient rhythm, the soft thud-thud-thud echoing faintly off the cracked walls. “This doesn’t look like the pump controls,” she hissed, voice tight with frustration.

  “Be patient!” Sarah snapped without looking up, already scribbling furiously into her notepad. “Try decoding an unknown language written by a civilization no one’s seen in millennia. Go on—I'll wait.”

  Ziraya gave a low, dismissive harrumph and turned away—only to pause, her gaze locking on a particular display case tucked at the back. Unlike the others, this one was more ornate, framed in tarnished bronze and etched with almost imperceptible glyphs that still shimmered faintly under the flickering light. Time had nearly erased them, but they clung to the surface like memories that refused to fade.

  Something about it called to her.

  Ziraya stepped closer, her breath fogging the dusty glass. Inside, nestled on what remained of a rotted red cushion, was a blade—sleek and elegant. It was slightly curved, forged from a smooth black obsidian that seemed to drink in the surrounding light. A single line of glowing green stone ran down the blade’s center, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Tiny golden engravings traced the seam—delicate, ancient, and illegible.

  “This place sold weapons,” Ziraya said softly, her voice touched by something almost reverent. It was as if the blade was drawing her closer, begging her to pick it up. “Looks like you were right, mercenary.”

  John walked over, his gaze falling on the weapon.

  “There’s no guard.” She continued. “It’s designed for offense—quick strikes, no hesitation. This isn’t a soldier’s blade. It’s for someone who knows how to kill before their enemy draws breath.”

  Sarah peered over the edge of the display, curiosity overtaking her irritation. “Interesting. So this is a weapon shop... but why are all the other displays empty—?”

  Ziraya didn’t wait. Her claws dug into the edge of the case, and with a crunch of metal and a shriek of ancient hinges, she forced it open. The faded glyphs flared briefly—bright and defiant—before they sputtered out in a shower of dying sparks. Whatever mechanism they had once controlled had long since failed.

  “Ziraya!” Sarah’s voice shot up an octave. “That’s a priceless artifact! How could you—!”

  “This is mine,” Ziraya said calmly, lifting the saber from its cradle. The moment her fingers closed around the hilt, the green vein in the blade brightened, casting a soft glow across her face. She gave it an experimental twirl—fluid, practiced, deadly. “It has good balance,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Lighter than I thought.” She reached back into the case and retrieved a matching scabbard—black as night, its lacquered surface etched with faded sigils. She slid the blade in with a satisfying click, then hooked it to her belt with practiced ease. “My family’s techniques are unmatched,” she added, her amber eyes narrowing into slits. “And we have no idea what’s hiding in these ruins.” She turned to Sarah, smirking. “You’re welcome to try and take it from me, if you dare.”

  The dwarf’s jaw clenched. The bruises from the dragon-blooded’s surprise strike still stung. “Fine,” she muttered. “But don’t go touching anything else. We don’t know what triggers what down here.”

  John scanned the empty shelves warily. “Still... if this was a weapon shop—why is that one blade still here?”

  “Maybe they left in a hurry,” Sarah added.

  The building responded with a distant clang, somewhere deep in the walls—a mechanical sound, sharp and metallic, like gears shifting after centuries of stillness.

  The group froze.

  John’s hand was already on his pistol, his cigarette forgotten, eyes scanning the shadows.

  Ziraya’s hand dropped to her new blade, knuckles white. “Maybe,” she said quietly, “there was something that made them leave.”

  “N-Nonsense,” Sarah stammered. “This city’s probably been dead for thousands of years. There’s nothing left alive here.”

  “If you say so.” John exhaled slowly through his nose, tension radiating off him in waves. “How’s the translation coming?”

  Sarah straightened, grateful for the change of subject. “It’s progressing. The symbols are similar to the scrolls I studied, but more complex—like a root language. Still, knowing this was a weapon shop gives me context.” She pointed at a half-cracked plaque inside the display. “This one was expensive. Probably a masterwork. The characters refer to something about ‘cutting’ or ‘strength.’ There’s a name too, but I can’t quite parse it. Maybe it’s the maker’s signature.”

  Ziraya rested a hand lightly on the weapon’s hilt, her expression unreadable.

  “Well,” Sarah continued, “with a few more samples, I should be able to map the grammar structure—”

  The lights overhead flickered again, casting dancing shadows across the room. For a moment, John thought he saw movement in the dark hallway outside. “Let’s not take too long,” he muttered. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.”

  Ziraya smiled, her fingers flexing on the new blade. “Good. I was starting to get bored.”

  “Onto the next one, then.” John’s voice was low as he glanced toward the darkened exit. The sound of his footsteps echoed like whispers in a tomb.

  The trio stepped out of the crumbling shop and back into the plaza. The flickering ceiling orbs above sputtered in and out of life, casting long, warped shadows across the fractured stonework. Pools of stagnant, murky water clung to the ground, their surfaces disturbed only by the occasional creak of shifting metal. The entire dome above groaned like a dying beast under the weight of time.

  “I still don’t get it,” John muttered, squinting up into the cracked gloom above. “Why build a city so deep? And under an ocean of corrosive water? It’s suicide.”

  “Maybe we’ll find out soon,” Sarah replied with a hopeful smile, though even that looked fragile beneath the weight of weariness. She stepped into the next structure, brushing past a veil of cobwebs that disintegrated on contact. Rows of stone tables greeted them inside, all fused to the ground as if grown from it rather than built. Cracked earthenware lay scattered across the floor like broken bones, and tarnished cutlery rusted in corners, half-submerged in puddles of oily grime. The air was musty, tinged with salt and something metallic—old blood, perhaps, or memories.

  John kicked aside a chair that had toppled over and raised an eyebrow. “Stone chairs? Seriously? They must’ve hated comfort.”

  Sarah had already drifted forward, drawn to a large obsidian slab embedded into the wall like a monument. Golden script snaked across its surface in swirling patterns, half-eaten by erosion. “If I assume... yes, right—” she murmured, scribbling quickly into her notepad. Her eyes gleamed behind her glasses. “It’s a menu. This was a cafeteria.”

  “A cafeteria?” Ziraya raised an unimpressed brow as she idly twirled a brittle fork between her fingers. “How quaint.”

  “They ate a lot of plant matter, fish too,” Sarah went on, more to herself now.

  “Fish?” John said. “Wait, are you saying there were fish down here?”

  “Maybe they kept aquariums—protected from the acidic water. Or maybe…” She glanced upward at the domed ceiling above. “Maybe the ocean wasn’t always like this. Maybe it was alive once.”

  Ziraya let the fork clatter to the floor. “Can we go? There’s nothing useful here.”

  Sarah gave a tight, distracted smile. “Yeah, alright. I just need a few more examples—” She froze in the doorway as her eyes lifted to the massive dome overhead. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Her notepad slipped slightly from her grasp, the pen falling to the floor with a soft clink. “T-This can’t be right…” she whispered, her fingers trembling as she frantically jotted down notes. “This can’t be right.”

  John’s expression darkened as he stepped beside her. “What is it?”

  “I thought those carvings on the dome were decorative,” she said, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “But they’re not.”

  Ziraya snatched the notepad from Sarah’s shaking hands. Her amber eyes scanned the translation, and for once, even the dragon-blooded warrior’s face paled. “‘Death is here,’” she read aloud. Her voice, usually so sharp, now wavered with uncertainty. “You sure you didn’t screw this up?”

  “I wish I had,” Sarah whispered, reclaiming the notepad. “It’s all over the place—scrawled, slashed into stone. The grammar’s broken, the symbols smeared, almost frantic. Like… like the people writing them were running out of time.”

  John’s eyes flicked from the dome to the shopfronts that surrounded them like open mausoleums. “People? You mean—”

  “Different handwritings,” Sarah said, voice hollow. “Dozens. Maybe more. I counted twenty-two just on this side of the dome. All of them saying the same thing. Over and over.”

  “What do they say?” John asked, though he already felt the answer curling in his gut like smoke.

  “Doom. Death. Despair. Over and over. Some of it’s… personal. Farewells. Apologies. Others are just madness. One of them—” She pointed to a jagged line of script carved deep into the stone, as if gouged by claw. “—just says the word death, again and again.”

  Silence pressed down on them, heavier than the dome itself. The flickering light above seemed colder now. Shadows lengthened across the plaza, slithering across cracked tile like they had a mind of their own. The air felt thick with memory—sorrow baked into the stone, grief left to rot.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  John’s hand drifted to his pistol, his knuckles white. “So… this is what? The last words of a dying city? The end of a civilization,” he muttered. “And it’s right above us.” He took a drag from his cigarette—harsh and bitter—and then coughed, eyes watering. He instinctively covered his nose, his pulse spiking as his mind swirled with a terrifying idea. “This… it wasn’t a disease, right?” he asked. “It couldn’t have lasted this long.”

  “I-I don’t know,” Sarah admitted with a wry smile, though her face had gone pale. “But whatever it was... I don’t think it left survivors.”

  John stared at his own hand, half-expecting it to wither before his eyes. Beside him, Ziraya’s tail stilled, her posture tense, ears flicking as if listening for something just beyond hearing.

  “We should get going,” Ziraya said, her voice tight. She crossed her arms over her chest, but it did little to hide the tremors running through her limbs. “The longer we stay here, the—”

  The sound came first—a shriek of displaced air—and then the impact.

  An obsidian spear, thick as a tree trunk, tore through the gloom like a meteor. It hit her mid-sentence, and in the blink of an eye, Ziraya ceased to exist. Her body ruptured in a red mist, gore splattering in a wide arc across the cracked floor and walls. Bits of flesh hit the ground with wet slaps. Her blade, slick with her blood, skittered to a stop near John's feet.

  He dropped to one knee with a choked gasp. Something inside him twisted violently—a tether to his soul unraveling. It felt like a snake had coiled around his heart and squeezed. His mouth filled with the sharp tang of blood. “F-Fuck…” he gasped, spitting crimson onto the ground.

  Sarah stood frozen beside him, her eyes wide and glassy, staring at the far corridor where something moved within the shifting shadows. Her breath hitched, rising in uneven, panicked wheezes. Then came the sound—a mechanical rhythm, deliberate and inhuman. A metallic hiss that grew louder with each passing second.

  The corridor beyond the dome filled with mist from ruptured vents, and through it, the creature stepped forward.

  John’s breath caught in his throat.

  It skittered on four spider-like limbs, each one ending in claws that left deep gouges in the floor. Its body was a grotesque hybrid of machine and something once-living. A tangled mass of gray, veined tissue stretched between armor plates, pulsing like it still remembered how to bleed. Crystals, dim and cracked, were embedded in its body like tumors. Gears ticked within open wounds of flesh and metal, churning with sickening precision. Its torso stretched long and unnatural, covered in rows of fine barbed spines that flexed with every twitch. Where its head should have been, there was only a smooth, dark oval—featureless save for three glowing red eyes arranged in a triangular cluster. They burned like coals, unblinking.

  With a sudden hiss, steam burst from its back vents. The creature raised its right arm—if it could be called that—and with a mechanical snap, a circular saw unfolded from the elbow down. The blade began to spin, faster and faster, until it was a blur of death, whining like a banshee.

  Then it lunged.

  “W-What the fuck is that?!” John stumbled back, leveling his pistol with shaking hands. He emptied the magazine into the creature, the shots echoing like thunder in the chamber. The bullets hit—and bounced. They mushroomed uselessly against the armor, leaving nothing more than spiderweb cracks and faint dents. The shell casings hit the stone floor with cold, hollow clinks. “STOP!” John screamed, his voice cracking with panic. He dropped the pistol and drew his revolver, hands slick with sweat. The weapon felt like a toy in his grip as he fumbled to aim.

  He pulled the trigger. The revolver roared.

  The .45-70 slug punched into the creature’s chest, gouging out a chunk of armor—but the beast didn’t even flinch. The next shots missed entirely, pinging off the dome with sharp sparks. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

  John stared down at the weapon in disbelief. “No, no, no—”

  The creature was already there.

  It raised the saw.

  Sarah still hadn’t moved—her face was pale, her eyes fixed on death. No scream came. Just the sound of whirring metal as the blade came down.

  There was no clean cut. No mercy.

  It ripped through her like wet paper.

  A spray of flesh and blood hit John like a tidal wave. Chunks of bone. Shreds of muscle. Her notepad fluttered into the air like falling leaves.

  John collapsed to the floor, choking. His body convulsed as he vomited, bile mixing with the blood coating his chest. The taste of iron filled his mouth. He looked up, eyes blurred by tears and terror.

  The creature turned.

  Its three red eyes locked onto him.

  There was no time. No words. No chance to fight.

  Just a blink—and then—

  Darkness.

  “This blade was very expensive—” Sarah began, admiring the etched metal—until a loud crash cut her off.

  John collapsed into the center of the shop like a puppet with its strings cut, face-first into the dusty floor. He gasped as though surfacing from deep water, fingers clawing at the ground, limbs spasming.

  Sarah dropped to her knees, concern etched into every line of her face. She reached for him, but he flinched away.

  He looked at her—and saw blood. Bits of bone. Her ruined body sprayed across the walls. The memory clung to her image like a shroud, overlapping reality.

  His hands shook violently. “No, no no no—”

  Ziraya had already drawn her blade, stance tense, her eyes darting to the corners of the room. “A trap?” she hissed, voice cold but tight with unease.

  “I…” John stared at his hands as if they were no longer his. His pulse pounded in his ears. He tried to breathe, but his lungs wouldn’t obey. The faint burn of his half-smoked cigarette caught his eye—right where he’d left it before. He pulled another from his coat, but his fingers were twitching too hard to light it.

  “What happened,” Sarah said softly, watching him with increasing worry.

  Ziraya’s expression remained composed, but her eyes betrayed her—flitting between shadows, her fingers flexing around the hilt of her blade.

  “We—we need to leave,” John croaked, forcing himself to his feet. His knees buckled, but he grabbed his pistol. “Ten minutes. At most.”

  A blue window flickered to life, numbers glowing cold and sharp.

  “What are you talking about?” Ziraya asked, scanning the shop’s broken interior.

  “Something’s coming,” John snapped. He switched to his revolver, the weapon’s cold steel grounding him for just a second. “I don’t have time to explain. But whatever killed this city—it’s still here. And it’s on its way.”

  Ziraya raised a brow, her voice edged with disbelief. “You’ve lost it.”

  Sarah stepped back slightly. “Wait… how can you be sure?”

  John met her gaze, his mind racing for a moment to make up a believable story. “Because I saw it. All of it. The next five minutes—I lived them. We were standing right here when it found us. When it killed us.”

  He hesitated, eyes flicking between them, desperation cracking through his voice like lightning through glass. “Call it a side effect of the curse. It... it gave me a glimpse.”

  Ziraya scoffed. “You saw the future? What nonsense—”

  “Your sword,” John interrupted, pointing. “It has a name. Something about cutting or strength. But there’s another word. Sarah hasn’t deciphered it yet, but then she’s going to ask to check another shop to cross-reference the symbols.”

  Ziraya blinked, caught mid-thought.

  Sarah’s mouth parted. “That’s… exactly what I wanted to say. Word for word.”

  Ziraya stared at John for a long moment. The humor drained from her face. “Fine,” she said quietly. “What’s the plan?”

  John shook his head. “I—I don’t have one. I know that whatever it is, it tore through us like we were paper. The only difference this time is that now, maybe, we can change the outcome.”

  Ziraya’s grip on her blade tightened. Memories of shadows beneath the sea flickered behind her eyes—things too large to fight. “We hide?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  “In my vision, we were in the open when it struck,” John said, scanning the dusty shop. “Too big to fit in here... I think. If we stay low, it might not see us.”

  Sarah pointed toward the back of the shop. “Those shelves are thick. They’ll block line of sight from the entrance.”

  They rushed into position, ducking behind the shelves, pressing themselves into the shadows. John crouched low, revolver tight in his hands. Every breath was thunder in his ears.

  Then came the sound.

  Skittering.

  High-pitched, metallic. Echoing. Unnatural.

  Ziraya’s confident smirk had vanished. Her eyes were wide now, locked on the entrance. Her blade trembled ever so slightly in her grip.

  A shadow swept past the storefront.

  Spider-like legs slammed into the dome’s floor with every step, rattling the shelves around them. The creature darted past the opening, its silhouette briefly visible: too many limbs, jagged armor, red lights glowing like the eyes of a demon.

  Steam hissed from unseen vents. The beast prowled the empty dome, crossbow-limb raised, sweeping left to right. Searching.

  Hunting.

  Inside the shop, no one moved. Time stretched. Every heartbeat was a war drum in John’s chest.

  The skittering paused. For a second, he thought the creature would burst in—tear the place apart.

  But it didn’t.

  The clicking footsteps resumed, growing distant.

  It was moving on.

  The trio remained perfectly still. Even after the noise faded, none of them dared to breathe too loudly. A minute passed. Then two.

  Only when the silence returned in full did John dare to whisper: “It’s gone.”

  But no one felt safe.

  Not really.

  Not anymore.

  John was the first one to risk a glance outside.

  The doorway loomed like the mouth of a sleeping beast—silent, unmoving, but holding the threat of sudden violence. Shadows stretched from the entrance like claws on the tiles. He edged forward, slow and crouched, each step careful, deliberate. His breath hitched as he peered into the open plaza. “E-empty,” he whispered, voice cracking from the tension in his throat. He exhaled shakily, a single bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. “For now.”

  It wasn’t safety. It was a pause. A moment in the eye of a storm.

  He motioned to the others. “Let’s move.”

  The trio slipped out of the shattered weapon shop and ducked across the plaza. Every footstep felt too loud. Every second stretched. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was waiting.

  “We head to the cafeteria next,” John said, gesturing to a squat, shadowed building next to their previous hideout. “We keep low, go shop to shop, stay out of the open.”

  “And then what?” Ziraya asked as they stepped above the remains of a rusted door. Dust puffed into the air like breath from a corpse.

  John hesitated as they stepped into the cafeteria, its long-abandoned tables covered in grime and crumbling trays. “It came from that direction,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the plaza. “Could still be out there. But it's the only path forward.”

  Ziraya scoffed, folding her arms with theatrical disdain. “Still can’t believe you got visions of the future. Why didn’t I get anything?” Her fingers tightened into fists. “Maybe whatever cursed you knew I wouldn’t need any help.”

  John gave a dry chuckle, his nerves fraying. “In my vision, you were the first to die.”

  She froze, then forced a laugh, flipping her braids over her shoulder. “You’re just trying to rattle me. There’s no way I’d go down like that. Who do you think I am?”

  “You’re alive,” John shot back, voice low. “Because I pulled you out. A little gratitude wouldn’t kill you, princess.”

  Ziraya’s eyes narrowed. Her tail twitched once, sharply. “Why am I even wasting time talking to you?” she muttered, but her voice lacked venom. It sounded more like a shield being raised—one with a few cracks.

  John turned away, pulse still pounding, and focused on Sarah instead. She stood near the rusted menu board, scribbling into her notebook as her eyes darted between runes and translations. “Any progress?”

  “I think so,” Sarah replied, not looking up. “Enough to understand the gist. Not full fluency yet, but I’m close.”

  “Good.” But John only half-listened. His gaze kept drifting to the glass doors at the far end of the cafeteria, where the shadows pooled thickest. He stared so long, the darkness seemed to breathe.

  “What now?” he whispered. If the checkpoint was set ten minutes back… then there was no infinite safety net. Each use bled from the Improbability Factor, inching closer to the bottom of the well.

  And when it ran out?

  That would be it.

  A cold sweat crept down his back.

  Permanent death.

  The word struck something inside him—deep and primal. Like a note too loud in a quiet room, it resonated through his bones. Permanent. Final. Irreversible.

  His hand went to his chest as if the fear had physical weight. His legs felt hollow. “One step at a time,” he whispered, grounding himself. He stole another peek outside.

  Still empty.

  Still wrong.

  “We’re clear,” he announced, though his voice trembled under the strain. “Let’s go.” He led them across the plaza once more, to the next shop—this one barely standing, its doorframe cracked and sagging. Inside was ruin. The floor was carpeted in dust and scattered debris, but unlike the previous buildings, this place was hollowed out. No chairs. No shelves. Only fragmented stone and warped metal, as if something had chewed the insides out and spat them back in a heap.

  John frowned. “This one’s different.”

  “What was this place supposed to be?” Ziraya asked, spinning her blade idly, trying too hard to sound bored. But the erratic flick of her tail said otherwise.

  Sarah stepped over the rubble, recalling the faded sign above the door. “Didn’t get a perfect read, but I think… leatherworking? Some kind of materials shop?”

  John nodded. “Once again, we’ll go shop by shop. Five-minute intervals. That’s the pattern. If we’re lucky, we’ll stay one step ahead of it.”

  Neither of them argued. Ziraya gave a short nod, jaw set. Sarah clutched her notes tighter, knuckles pale. No one wanted to be out in the open again.

  They braced themselves, each heartbeat like a drumbeat of tension, echoing in a dome that felt more and more like a tomb.

  And somewhere, just beyond the silence...The skittering echoed.