Chapter Fifty-Two: A Sense of Terror

Madness, bloodlust, frenzy, unease—a torrent of negative emotions seemed to surge from the bizarre magical fluctuations, pouring into Weir’s senses. Instinctively, a chill of horror crept over him, making his scalp prickle. An icy breath swept through every corner of his body, and his chest felt as if a thousand-pound boulder were pressing down on it, leaving him gasping for air.

Abruptly, Weir jerked his hand away from the wall, stumbling back several paces. He gulped for breath, eyes wide with shock as he stared at that strange, uncanny wall. Only after a long moment did he gradually recover his composure, a chilling sensation crawling from his spine all the way to the nape of his neck. Uncontrollably, he shivered, and as he shook himself, he realized his clothes had somehow become soaked with cold sweat.

“What on earth is going on?” he muttered inwardly. Cautiously, he stepped forward again, reaching out to experience once more that maddening, terrifying sensation. But just as his hand was about to touch the wall, he hesitated, pausing for a moment’s thought before deciding to retrace his steps. He returned to the headless mechanical armor he had seen earlier, and after programming a series of actions into its magical runes, that dreadful, chilling feeling flickered back through his mind. As an extra precaution, he added another layer of “insurance” to the armor’s magic.

...

Bang! Bang! Bang!

When the mechanical armor reached the wall, it came to an automatic halt. Its massive metal arms, positioned as Weir had instructed, stood ready to confront any sudden threat. With this armored “guardian” at his side, Weir felt a measure of reassurance. He returned to his original spot, pressed his hand to the wall, closed his eyes, and slowly began channeling his magic into the runes etched upon the surface.

At once, that overwhelming, nerve-shredding terror surged back. Yet, armed with his prior experience, Weir found himself somewhat desensitized to it. He forced his mind to focus, using his magic to probe the array, painstakingly rearranging the tangled, chaotic magical elements within.

Crack!

The magic circle activated, and the stone door split open with a sudden fissure, from which wisps of icy white mist began to pour.

Crack! Crack! Boom!

The stone door swung wide, and in that instant, a nearly unimaginable, bone-deep cold swept through Weir’s entire body. Waves of white, frigid vapor kept gushing out, making him shudder uncontrollably.

The dense mist blocked Weir’s vision. Standing in the doorway, he could see only the swirling white fog inside the room. For reasons unknown, the light within held a strange, bluish-green hue. Combined with the biting cold, Weir felt as if something were pressing against his chest, making it impossible to catch his breath even before he stepped inside.

He ordered the mechanical armor to take the lead, and only then cautiously entered. No matter what method he tried, the sight-blocking mist refused to disperse. Frustrated, Weir abandoned the effort and instead extended his senses, alertly scanning every corner of the chamber.

“This damned place!”

He had no idea how long he wandered in that chilling gloom. The temperature dropped ever lower, until at last he conjured a flame simply to keep warm. Even so, the cold only intensified. Then, without warning, the heavy footsteps of the mechanical armor ceased abruptly, making Weir’s heart seize with alarm. The environment fell into a silence so deep it was unnerving, a stillness that might have delighted a wizard under other circumstances; yet to Weir, it was so unnatural it set his nerves on edge.

It was just like that earlier magical disturbance: anxiety, unease, frenzy, madness, bloodlust, terror...

According to his programming, the armor should not have stopped at this point. In an instant, a nameless sense of danger filled the entire space. Weir drew his wand, moving forward step by cautious step toward the halted armor.

He had not gone far when a two-meter-tall metallic shape loomed out of the mist. Weir edged around behind the armor, probing to ensure it was indeed inert before creeping forward to investigate. But the moment he stepped in front of it, his gaze was seized by the sight of a cylindrical, transparent crystal tube.

This crystal tube was not especially large—just over a meter high and half a meter wide. The crystal was of extraordinary quality and clearly exorbitant in price. Yet what truly drew Weir’s attention was not the tube itself, but what lay inside.

An eye.

Sealed within the transparent crystal tube was a human eye.

Though the liquid inside preserved it remarkably well, the many years had taken their toll; the eye was decayed, its shape warped from a sphere into a bizarre, angular oval. Wisps of spiderweb-like, gray-green filaments clung to the ruined orb, giving it a grotesque, nauseating appearance. Yet it was precisely this ghastly eye that filled Weir with a profound sense of unease—it was staring at him.

Yes, it was watching him!

Nervously, Weir licked his dry lips and swallowed hard. It was unmistakable: this eye, whose pupil had long since rotted away, whose details were almost indistinguishable, still seemed to possess a life of its own, fixing him with a deathly, unblinking gaze. The bizarre illusion, coupled with the eerie environment, sent a shiver of fear through his heart.

He shuddered involuntarily and wrenched his gaze away, hoping that looking elsewhere would dispel his nameless dread. But the moment his eyes left the crystal tube, it felt as though an unseen hand clenched his heart, nearly cutting off his breath.

Because right next to the tube containing the eye, there were other crystal tubes, each holding something as well. These were even larger—at least twice the height and width of the first.