At first, they thought they'd escaped the warped field. But the silence of the edge zone only scattered their thoughts further. After the dizziness faded, what remained wasn't fear, but doubt, as if the world had subtly changed hue, and they hadn't yet understood why.
The air here had softened. The heat no longer pressed into their lungs. The pulses on Mike's device stopped flashing red, shifted instead to a steady, but still strange, pattern. The energy field hadn't vanished. Not entirely.
"The sensor's still trembling," Mike murmured, eyes fixed on the screen.
"But not like before?" Kuro asked, scanning the low grass.
Mike nodded. "No. But it's still there. Hhh…"
He panted. Nausea welled in his stomach, but he kept it down.
Kuro lay flat on the ground, eyes closed, his mind begging for less air, less weight.
The sky stayed gray. No rain. No sunlight. Time felt stretched, suspended.
"You notice there's nothing here? No warning signs?" Kuro asked quietly.
Mike looked up, scanning the area. "Yeah. Feels off. The government should've locked this place down."
A breeze swept through, carrying the scent of damp earth, and a faint tang of ash, like something long scorched had once filled this air.
Mike popped an energy tablet into water and handed it over. "Stay conscious. If you pass out, I'm not dragging you back."
Kuro gave a hoarse laugh but didn't take the drink yet. He whispered, almost to himself:
"If something's waiting for us in there... it isn't a trap. Feels more like a test."
Mike froze. "A test?"
"I don't know. But it doesn't warn us like a danger zone. It... watches."
A low beep from the device broke the silence.
Mike checked. "Repeating pulse. Every 5.3 seconds. Faint, but consistent. Like, "
"A heartbeat," Kuro said.
Mike looked at him. The fear in his eyes shifted, muted into something like quiet assent. He sat beside Kuro, said nothing.
...
Eventually, they rose.
Then they saw them, stones.
Moss-covered. Uneven. Each one distinct. First a chipped cube, then narrow pillars chest-high, worn with faint markings.
They didn't realize the alignment until they stood inside a shallow arc, stones arranged in a perfect crescent, all facing one point.
The hollow.
Kuro stopped. His hand touched a slab, cold, dry, timeless. Etched into it: a human figure. Upright. Arms spread. Head tilted toward the sky. Palms open, welcoming something from above.
"Do you see this?" Kuro whispered.
Mike came closer, UV light in hand. The engravings lit up. Fine lines like threads stretched from the figure's hands to a tiny circle above, maybe a sun. Maybe not.
"We should document this. I don't think anyone's been here. How is this place unlisted?" Kuro said softly.
Mike didn't reply. He raised the camera, but his hands began to tremble.
The ground shifted again. Slight, but definite.
Kuro scanned the area. All the stones leaned the same way, like a wind had bent the fabric of time.
"Where are we?" Mike asked. "This isn't on any map."
"What?" Kuro turned. "You're sure?"
Mike held up the digital display. "It's blank around here. Just forest. No sign of these structures."
Then he stumbled. His balance gave out, like standing on sand that suddenly slipped.
"Kuro," he gasped. "I don't think... I'm touching the ground."
He gripped a stone. It was ice-cold. Not grounding enough.
Kuro staggered too. The world squeezed inward. The sky twisted, gray bleeding into pale violet. Not color, but compression, like space being pressed between glass.
The trees in the distance stretched, warped, like a torque had twisted reality behind their necks.
"I can't see straight..." Mike murmured.
"Deep breaths," Kuro said, though his voice was shaking. They clung to the stones, the last solid shapes in a world unraveling.
"We need to get out," Kuro said, barely holding down panic.
Then he saw it. A handprint, not carved, but pressed into the stone.
Five fingers. Sharp. Human.
He placed his hand into it. A perfect fit.
Cold surged through his arm. Not cold, information.
A voice, not spoken, slid across his thoughts. A compressed idea:
"Not all who enter retain their form."
Kuro ripped his hand back. Sweat ran down his back.
Mike stared. "What was that?"
"There's... something here," Kuro stammered. "It said, retain form..."
Mike frowned. Before he could reply, the wind changed.
A crosswind, but the dry leaves didn't drift.
They stood upright. Drawn straight up.
Kuro locked eyes with Mike.
Neither moved.
Then, their feet began to slide.
Not from motion. From loss of grip.
"I'm not walking," Mike whispered, "but I'm moving."
"Move!" Kuro barked. "Now!"
They tried to pull back, but it felt like wading through jelly. Every motion lagged. Heads tipped forward, feet dragged behind. Wind hissed, close and thin.
The world began to ripple.
The sky undulated in waves. Stones blurred into vibrating outlines.
"Head up, Mike! Look at me!"
Mike gasped.
Kuro turned. His vision spiraled. The sky above bled, oil in water.
No form. No light.
Just a white film.
Thin.
Blank.
They clung to each other. No destination.
Only the need to escape.
Mike stumbled once, glanced back at the hollow.
Kuro's thoughts barely held.
The last thing he saw was the sky melting.
White.
And weightless.
…