The fog thinned, peeling back like a curtain. The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, still frozen before the glass.
Beyond it, the Maze revealed its heart.
At the centre stood the Stair of Progression — a spiralling monument of black iron and polished stone, rising into clouds that refused to part. It wasn’t built; it was forged, every step etched with symbols that pulsed faintly, like veins carrying the Maze’s lifeblood upward.
Around it, five chambers formed a perfect circle, connected by bridges that never quite met. Each chamber mirrored theirs — same walls, same lights, same terrified faces staring back through identical panes of glass.
Between the chambers and the stair, two enormous iron doors towered over the space, sealing each team inside their starting room. They were engraved with reliefs — intricate, brutal, beautiful.
Scenes of struggle and death sprawled across them:
Knights devoured by gears, scholars drowning in their own ink, gods torn apart by their creations.
The artistry was immaculate. The message unmistakable.
Progress requires sacrifice.
Bert swallowed hard. “Those… doors open to the maze?”
Leo nodded slowly. “Where the run ends.”
Harlada leaned closer to the glass, eyes narrowing at the distant carvings. “It’s almost like it wants us to admire it first.”
Leo glanced at her. “Or remember it.”
The Maze pulsed once — faint but certain. The torches flickered, their flames bending toward the sealed doors like worshippers bowing to a god.
Maze Run #477983 commencing in 3 minutes.
***
Something shifted.
Not the fog, not the doors — something else.
A movement that snatched their attention like a hand around the throat.
Across the great stair, behind the window of the chamber opposite theirs,
three shapes pressed up against the glass.
At first glance, they were simply another team.
Then the details came into focus.
Slow-moving.
Drooling.
Eyes unfocused, rolling like loose marbles in skulls that seemed… incomplete.
One was missing an arm.
One had no lower jaw.
The last dragged one leg behind her in a soft wet scrape.
And all three of the creatures looked exactly like them.
Leo took an instinctive step back.
Harlada’s hand went to her blade, knuckles white.
Bert stared a moment longer, baffled.
“How—” He pointed vaguely at the mangled figures. “How did they make it through the tutorial?”
Leo didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Harlada swallowed hard.
“It… makes no sense,” she whispered. “A version of us that broken shouldn’t be here.”
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“That’s the point,” Bert said quietly, a rare tremor in his voice. “We’re not the only ones who feel out of place. Maybe we’re the mistake.”
Leo felt something cold coil in his stomach.
For the first time, he wondered if they were the originals.
Or just one more doomed iteration, staring at a previous failure that somehow crawled its way this far.
Across the stair, the ruined trio lifted their heads in perfect unison — their dead eyes fixing on Leo, Harlada, and Bert.
***
The fog thinned again, this time not peeling away but withdrawing, like the Maze itself wanted them to see.
More windows lit up.
More versions of them stepped into view.
To the left of the zombie trio stood another team —
three albino versions of themselves.
Skin white as bone, hair colourless and floating as if underwater.
Their eyes were a bright, burning red.
Each one stood perfectly still, hands folded neatly behind their backs, posture immaculate.
No expression.
No emotion.
Just silent, patient watching.
On the opposite side, another window brightened.
Here the three were cloaked in heavy hooded robes, draped in shadow.
Only slivers of their faces showed — glints of familiar cheekbones, glimpses of their own mouths moving, murmuring quietly to one another.
Their movements were deliberate, ritualistic.
Even their silhouettes felt wrong.
Then a fourth window flickered to life.
Harlada let out a sharp breath.
These three were… them.
Same height, same clothes, same stance, same everything —
except for one thing.
None of them had mouths.
Smooth skin from nose to chin.
Featureless, silent.
They simply stared.
Five chambers.
Five teams.
Five sets of Leo, Harlada, and Bert.
Leo felt the realization drop into place like a stone falling through water.
“It’s all us,” he whispered. “All five teams. Every opponent. Every competitor. They’re all dimensional shifts of the same three people.”
Harlada tore her eyes from the mouthless trio.
“But… why?” Her voice was thin, almost pleading. “Why would the Maze design it like this? What’s the point of fighting versions of ourselves?”
Bert raised a hand. “I mean, okay, but hold on—real question: how do the mouthless ones talk to each other? Telepathy? Interpretive dance?”
Harlada glared at him.
“And the zombies? Do they communicate with… gurgling? Or falling apart very loudly?”
“I don’t know!” Bert protested. “But I feel like everyone’s ignoring the practical difficulties here!”
Leo didn’t answer.
He was staring at all four other versions — the broken, the pale, the hooded, the mute.
Watching them stare back.
Something in the Maze hummed, a deep vibration that made the stone under their feet tremble.
Dimensional roster finalized.
Competition parameters locked.
Clarity unnecessary.
The fog curled upward again, dimming the windows one by one.
But the images — and the questions — stayed burned behind their eyes.
The Maze pulsed — excited, almost eager.
Maze Run #477983 commencing in 1 minute.
“Well, we better get ready,” Harlada muttered, checking the strap of her gauntlet with quick, sharp movements.
“Is there a plan?” Bert asked.
Leo inhaled slowly, eyes flicking from the fading windows to the iron doors that would soon open.
“Yes,” he said finally.
Both of them turned to him.
“We don’t die.”
Bert frowned. “That’s not a plan, that’s a wish.”
“It’s a start,” Leo said. “And it’s all we get.”
The Maze pulsed again — a low, hungry heartbeat.
Commencement imminent.
The last of the fog slid away.
