The prisoner took a deep breath, shaking off the somber thoughts about the petrified guardians. He turned his attention back to the interior of the hut, eager to explore its many mysteries. Aside from its surprising size, he noticed that the space was filled with various amenities—shelves brimming with dusty tomes, tables cluttered with strange artifacts, and even a small hearth that looked like it hadn’t been used in ages.

  As he wandered further into the room, he spotted a set of stairs leading down into darkness. “I’ll check that out ter,” he decided, noting the potential for even more secrets below. For now, he wanted to explore the amenities on the floor he was currently in.

  He moved toward a rge wooden table in the center of the room, its surface covered with an assortment of items: vials filled with colorful liquids, a few unlit candles, and a collection of odd trinkets that seemed to hum with tent energy. He picked up a vial filled with a shimmering blue liquid, inspecting it closely. “Could be useful, never know when you need to make a potion or two,” he mused, then grinned. “Maybe even a bomb or four.”

  Next, he approached a shelf lined with ancient tomes. The spines were cracked and faded, but he could make out titles that hinted at powerful spells and forgotten lore. “A travesty this, knowledge from old left to collect dust,” he thought, pulling one of the books from the shelf and flipping through its pages.

  The prisoner pulled the ancient tome closer, squinting at the faded text. To his surprise, he began to recognize the nguage—an old dialect of arcane script he had studied during his travels. Memories flooded back of long nights spent poring over dusty scrolls and deciphering forgotten spells.

  “I remember this,” he murmured, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his voice. The knowledge felt familiar, like an old friend. He recalled the thrill of uncovering secrets and the power that came with understanding the arcane.

  But as quickly as the memories surfaced, he shook his head, reminding himself of the task at hand. “As much as I’d love to reminisce, I’ve got booty to loot and a hut to explore,” he thought, setting the book aside for now.

  As the prisoner continued his exploration of the hut, he stumbled upon a small infirmary tucked away in a corner. The room was dimly lit, filled with shelves of medical supplies, herbs, and various potions. However, his attention was immediately drawn to another petrified statue, eerily simir to the guardians outside. This figure, too, had blood seeping from its orifices, a haunting reminder of the fate that had befallen them.

  He approached the statue cautiously, feeling a sense of dread wash over him. With a flick of his wrist, he cast “Tanaw buhay!” once more, hoping to detect any signs of life. But, like the others, this statue revealed no flicker of consciousness.

  As he examined the figure more closely, he noticed that it was clutching something tightly in its hands. He carefully pried the object free and discovered it was a journal, its cover worn and tattered.

  Flipping it open, he scanned the pages, his heart racing. The writing was frantic and disjointed, but one message stood out clearly: “If you see this, we were able to seal the lower levels, but we are lost up top.”

  A chill ran down his spine as he processed the words. They were a warning, a testament to the dangers that y below. The realization that others had faced the same fate as the petrified guardians weighed heavily on him.

  “So, they managed to seal off the lower levels,” he thought, contempting the implications. “But what happened to them?”

  As the prisoner continued to read through the journal, he discovered that the authors were part of an expeditionary force sent by the Gold Pentagate. Their mission was to determine how to access the second trial of Maker's Labyrinth. The entries detailed their journey, chronicling injuries sustained, losses endured, and insights gained along the way.

  The journal recounted harrowing encounters with the byrinth's guardians, the challenges they faced, and the strategies they employed to survive. It painted a vivid picture of their determination and resilience, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

  He scanned the remaining entries, hoping to find clues about the torn pages. Some passages hinted at a growing sense of dread among the team, mentioning strange occurrences and whispers in the dark. Others spoke of a powerful artifact they believed could aid them in their quest, but the details were frustratingly vague.

  As the prisoner reached the st page of the journal, he noticed an inscription scrawled in a hurried hand. The letters were jagged and uneven, as if written in a moment of panic. He leaned closer, squinting to make sense of the words.

  “Unity = Death,” he read aloud, the phrase sending a chill down his spine.

  The meaning of the inscription weighed heavily on him. It seemed to suggest that coming together—perhaps as a group—had led to their downfall. The thought echoed ominously in his mind, especially considering the fate of the petrified guardians and the expeditionary force.

  As the prisoner was about to tuck the journal into his satchel, he felt it—a presence unmistakably aiming something at him from behind. His heart raced, and his first thought was, “How in Maker's world did something get past my perception?”

  He had no time to cast “Kasag,” the protective spell that could shield him from harm; he sensed that whatever was behind him would outpace his incantation. Instead, he relied on his physique, a martial school technique that allowed him to use his body as a conduit for mana.

  As the prisoner spun to face his assaint, he felt the familiar rush of power coursing through him, but he was also acutely aware of the downside of the Crystal Ebony physique. While it allowed him to absorb mana and kinetic energy, it came at a cost: he would feel every ounce of pain from the blow directed at him.

  The moment he redirected the energy, he braced himself for the impact. His muscles tensed, and he steeled his mind, knowing that the pain would be intense, but he had trained for this. The thrill of combat surged through him, mingling with the anticipation of the impending strike.

  As the unseen force struck, he felt a jolt of pain radiate through his body, sharp and unyielding. It was as if a heavy weight had smmed into him, but he channeled that pain into focus, using it to fuel his next move. The energy he had absorbed transformed into a burst of speed, propelling him forward.

  As he lunged through the air, the prisoner empowered his arms with crackling lightning, feeling the energy surge through him. He also channeled the wind, enhancing his velocity and creating a whirlwind effect around his body. The combination of elements made him a force to be reckoned with, and he aimed to stun whatever he was about to hit.

  With a powerful thrust, he pinned the assaint to the ground, the impact reverberating through his body. He immediately began to electrify the automaton, the lightning coursing through its frame. But as he looked down, a wave of confusion washed over him.

  The creature beneath him was not just any automaton; it was a grotesque amalgamation of metal and flesh. One of its eyes was a cold, unfeeling mechanical orb, while the other was a disturbingly organic eye that seemed to flicker with a sembnce of life. Its mouth was a jarring mix of teeth—some bone, some metal—creating a nightmarish visage that sent a shiver down his spine.

  “What in the Supremes are you?!” he excimed, momentarily taken aback. The unsettling combination of organic and mechanical elements suggested a deeper, more sinister purpose. This was no ordinary guardian; it was a creation that blurred the lines between life and machinery, and it felt wrong.

  Despite the shock, he maintained his grip, ready to react to any sudden movements. The automaton's body twitched beneath him, and he could sense a flicker of energy within it, as if it were struggling against his control. He needed to understand what he was dealing with—was it a guardian gone rogue, or something more?

  The automaton suddenly kicked the prisoner away with surprising force, sending him sprawling across the floor. He quickly regained his footing, but as he prepared to unch another attack, he noticed the creature shuddering beneath him.

  To his astonishment, it seemed to be trying to speak. Its voice was a garbled, mechanical rasp, struggling to form words. “M-m-mo...moo-oth...mmmoootthheeerrrr!!!!” it stammered, the sound echoing eerily in the infirmary. “Mmaaakkkkeee...uuussss...oooonnnnneeeee...mmmmakkkkkeeee...uuusssss...wwwhhhoollleee...”

  The words sent a chill down the prisoner's spine, and he flinched at the realization that this thing was sentient. It had consciousness, or at least a sembnce of it. The plea for a "mother" and the desire to be made "whole" struck a deep chord within him.

  The automaton's fragmented speech hinted at a tragic existence, one that was likely the result of cruel experimentation or a twisted creation process.

  He took a cautious step back, his mind racing. This was no mindless guardian; it was a being that had been shaped by pain and loss. The implications were staggering. If it was capable of thought and emotion, what other horrors y hidden within Maker's Labyrinth?

  Although the automaton had horrified the prisoner before it kicked him away, he had managed to leave a rune inscribed with the word "Giba" on the creature's frame during their brief struggle. As he regained his footing, he quickly activated the rune.

  The moment the rune was activated, the automaton colpsed to the ground with a sickening crunch, as if it were suddenly under the weight of something extremely heavy. The sound echoed in the infirmary, a haunting reminder of the creature's unnatural form.

  The prisoner watched in a mix of horror and fascination as the automaton writhed on the floor, its mechanical parts grinding against one another. The organic eye flickered, and the creature's body convulsed as if it were caught in a violent struggle against an unseen force.

  As the automaton y there, he could see the faint glow of the rune pulsing against its metallic surface, binding it in pce. The creature's garbled pleas echoed in his mind, and he felt a deep sense of conflict. It was a being that had once sought connection, and now it was rendered helpless.

  He prisoner knelt beside the immobilized automaton, he began to study it intently, his mind racing with questions. The creature's form was a disturbing blend of technology and biology, and he was determined to uncover its secrets.

  He examined the mechanical eye, noting its intricate gears and lenses, which seemed to be designed for enhanced vision. The organic eye, however, was unsettling; it appeared almost alive, flickering with a hint of consciousness. He wondered what kind of magic or technology had been used to create such a hybrid being.

  He noticed a series of runes etched into the metal, simir to the one he had used to bind it. They glowed faintly, pulsating with a rhythm that seemed almost like a heartbeat. “These must be part of its programming,” he mused, trying to decipher their meaning. If he could understand the runes, perhaps he could learn more about the automaton's purpose and capabilities.

  As he continued his examination, he found a compartment hidden within the automaton's chest. With a careful tug, he pried it open, revealing a small, glowing core that pulsed with energy. “This must be its power source,” he realized, feeling a mix of awe and trepidation.

  The core was unlike anything he had seen before, a swirling mass of light and energy that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the byrinth. He could sense that it held immense power, but he also felt a strange connection to it, as if it were somehow tied to the automaton's consciousness.

  As the prisoner continued to study the automaton, a chilling realization washed over him: the creature before him had not originally possessed any organic matter. It had been twisted into this grotesque form by some dark force.

  Was it a spell? He considered the possibility, but in all his years of experience, he couldn’t pinpoint any magic that could achieve such a horrific transformation. “Necromancy?” he mused, but quickly dismissed the thought. Necromancers typically shunned mechanical components when creating their abominations.

  “Alchemy?” he wondered, but the runes he had seen were arranged in a way that didn’t align with any known alchemical practices. The sequences were wrong, chaotic even.

  Then it struck him—“Maybe something eldritch…” The thought sent a shiver down his spine. The byrinth was known for its connection to ancient, unfathomable powers, and this automaton could very well be a product of such dark forces.

  “Let me contain you for now,” he said, steeling his resolve. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, intricately designed bottle, its surface etched with protective runes. He had prepared it for emergencies, and now it was time to put it to use.

  With a swift motion, he activated the runes on the bottle, and as if responding to his command, runic chains sprang forth, wrapping around the twisted automaton. The chains glowed with a bright light, binding the creature tightly and preventing any chance of escape.

  The automaton let out a mechanical whine, its body convulsing as the chains pulled it toward the bottle. With a final surge of energy, the automaton was sucked into the bottle, the lid sealing shut with a satisfying click.

  The prisoner held the bottle in his hands, feeling the weight of the contained entity within. “I’ll figure out what you are ter,” he muttered, his heart still racing from the encounter. For now, he had managed to neutralize a potential threat, but the questions remained.

  As the prisoner secured the bottle containing the twisted automaton, a new thought struck him, igniting a spark of curiosity. “If something could turn that into an organic form, could it also transform organic matter into metal or stone?” The implications of this idea sent a shiver down his spine.

  He recalled the petrified guardians he had encountered earlier, their bodies frozen in stone, and the unsettling blood that had seeped from their orifices. “What if they were once something else entirely?” he pondered. The thought that they might have been transformed by the same dark force that had twisted the automaton was both fascinating and horrifying.

  “Could there be a way to reverse the process?” he wondered, contempting the potential for both creation and destruction. If such a power existed, it could be harnessed for good or ill. The ability to manipute the very essence of life and matter was a dangerous gift, one that could lead to unimaginable consequences.