Chapter 6: Hell It Starts Here...
The world around Wan fractured into jagged shards of noise and shadow. One moment he was falling asleep in his room, the next he was plunged headfirst into a world of impossible horrors.
He woke with a violent jolt.
The first thing he noticed was the cold—a bone-deep chill that settled into his skin and refused to leave. He lay on a cracked, uneven surface, his body heavy and sluggish, as if the air itself weighed him down. His lungs burned with every shallow breath, each one filled with the sharp scent of ash and copper.
Wan blinked slowly, trying to force his mind to make sense of his surroundings. The sky overhead was a blackened expanse, swirling with dark clouds that moved unnaturally, like a living thing. There were no stars, no sun—just endless darkness that stretched far beyond the horizon. The only light came from distant fires flickering along the edges of the landscape, casting jagged shadows that shifted and danced in unsettling ways.
He sat up slowly, his joints stiff and aching. Beneath him was a landscape of cracked stone, smeared with strange stains—like blood dried centuries ago. The terrain stretched endlessly in every direction, a bleak wasteland littered with broken fragments: scattered toys, shattered picture frames, and torn notebooks—objects that seemed strangely familiar but warped beyond recognition, as if they belonged to some half-forgotten dream.
Wan shivered. This place was not a dream.
It was hell. And he knew, with a sick certainty deep in his gut, that there would be no waking until it was over.
Wan stood on trembling legs, scanning the desolate horizon. The silence was oppressive, pressing down on him like a physical force. But the longer he stared into the dark expanse, the more he felt it—a presence lurking just beyond the edges of his vision. It slithered in the cracks between the stones, watching, waiting.
He wasn't alone here.
Far ahead, the faint outline of a school playground emerged from the haze—familiar but wrong. The swings dangled lifelessly from their chains, creaking softly in the still air. The merry-go-round lay half-buried in the cracked ground, its bright paint peeled away to reveal rusted metal underneath.
Wan's heart skipped a beat. This was his school. Or at least, a version of it—a twisted, decayed memory pulled from the recesses of his mind. He took a step forward, and the playground seemed to shift in response, as if welcoming him deeper into the nightmare.
A voice—soft and distant—echoed from the playground.
"Wan... Wan..."
He froze. His blood ran cold. He recognized that voice. It was Ryan, one of the boys who used to torment him in elementary school. The voice came again, this time accompanied by mocking laughter—laughter that he had long tried to forget but could never escape.
Wan's breathing quickened. "No... it's not real." He whispered the words like a mantra, trying to convince himself, but the playground seemed to ripple with each step he took, the laughter growing louder, more relentless.
He forced himself to move forward, feet dragging across the broken ground. The playground loomed closer, and as he approached, the shapes around him began to shift—twisted figures emerging from the darkness, their faces half-formed and flickering like static on an old TV.
They were the bullies from his childhood, each of them warped into grotesque versions of themselves. Their faces stretched into wide, unnatural grins; their eyes bulged, empty and soulless. They surrounded him, circling slowly, their laughter growing louder, more vicious.
"Freak..." one of them hissed, its voice dripping with malice.
"Monster..." another whispered, its grin stretching too wide.
"The kitten killer!"
Wan clenched his fists, every insult slicing through him like a blade. His breath came in sharp, panicked gasps, his heart racing as the figures pressed closer. He tried to step back, but the ground beneath him shifted, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. The playground warped around him, the air thick with taunts and jeers that echoed endlessly.
He clamped his hands over his ears. "It's not real—it's not real—it's not real!"
But the voices wouldn't stop. The figures leaned closer, their distorted faces inches from his own, their eyes wide with cruel delight.
"You deserve this," one of them whispered, its breath cold and rotten.
"This is what you get."
Wan squeezed his eyes shut, willing the nightmare to end, but the ground beneath him cracked open with a deafening roar, and he fell—plunging into darkness.
He landed hard on a jagged surface, his limbs aching from the impact. When he opened his eyes again, the figures were gone, but their laughter still echoed faintly in the distance. The playground was a distant memory now, replaced by an endless expanse of twisting corridors, their walls lined with fragmented mirrors.
Wan groaned, pushing himself to his feet. His reflection stared back at him from the shattered glass—distorted and broken, just like everything else in this place.
And then, from somewhere deep within the maze, a voice echoed—the Architect.
"There are no shortcuts here."
The voice was soft, almost amused, but it carried the weight of absolute authority.
"You will pass through every trial. You will confront everything you buried. And if you fail... you will start again."
Wan's pulse raced. Start again?
He took a shaky step forward, and the mirrors rippled with his movement. Reflections of himself multiplied, each one wearing a different expression—fear, anger, regret, sorrow. Some looked like the boy he once was. Others looked like monsters, their faces twisted with rage and despair.
A cold realization sank into his chest. This level wasn't about escaping. It was about endurance. There was no end to the maze—just an endless loop of memories, regrets, and monsters waiting to devour him if he faltered.
The Architect's voice returned, low and deliberate. "The only way out is through."
Wan clenched his fists. He had no choice.
He took another step into the maze, the mirrors warping with his reflection. Behind him, the sound of laughter stirred again—faint at first, but growing louder with each passing second.
He ran.