Cold. The stone's chill seeped into his back, slowly stealing his body heat. Rio opened his eyes. Gray stone walls filled his vision. Ceiling, floor — all the same color. Musty air flooded his lungs. Damp, with a faintly sweet rot mixed in. "[whispers]Where... is this?" His voice was hoarse. His throat was painfully dry. He tried to rise. His arms wouldn't obey. His whole body felt impossibly heavy. A lethargy, like being ripped from a long slumber, had soaked into his very bones. He forced his upper body up. His head spun. His vision warped slightly. He focused on his hands. On his left wrist, an old scar. A number. "...27?" 27. Why he had such a scar — he couldn't remember at all. No. It wasn't just that. Who he was. Why he was here. What he ate yesterday. Who he spoke to. What he thought about — everything had been cleanly scooped out. Only one thing remained at the bottom of his heart. His name. Rio. That was all. "[cold]I see. No memories, then." Saying it aloud calmed him, strangely. The fear was there, of course. A cold, tightening sensation deep in his chest. But the need to do something about this situation won out. Rio looked around again. Gray stone walls stretched endlessly. The corridor was lit at regular intervals by something like faintly glowing blue moss. The light was weak. The passage ahead sank into darkness, invisible. He looked up. The ceiling was hidden in shadow. Looking closer, he saw countless scars carved into the walls. Not natural cracks or chips. Clearly, marks left by someone with a sword or something similar. Rio approached the wall. Arrows were carved there. Several of them. Arrows pointing right, signaling to go straight. Next to them, an X mark. And ancient letters. "Trap... caution." He could read them. These should be ancient characters, yet their meaning entered his head effortlessly. As if his body remembered. Rio reached out and gently touched the cold stone wall. The scars were deep and old. Weathered slowly over a long, long time. —These weren't made recently. A chill ran down his spine. Who made these, and why? No answer came. But someone other than himself had been in this labyrinth-like place. That was certain. Perhaps that someone was already— Rio stopped thinking. Standing still here would accomplish nothing. The passage was a single path. He had no choice but to move forward. His footsteps were swallowed by the cold stone floor. Only his own steps echoed, unnaturally loud. The soles of his boots were worn, making walking slightly awkward. The black tunic he wore was frayed and tattered everywhere. Like something worn for years. After walking for a while, the passage opened into a slightly wider space. The ceiling rose higher. The air moved just a little. And part of the wall glowed with a hazy, pale blue light. "[scared]This is..." He stopped involuntarily. Ancient letters floated on the wall. The characters themselves emitted a faint light, flickering as if alive. *Whose dream do you see?* As Rio drew closer, the letters' glow intensified sharply. His heart gave a single, heavy throb. —I know this. That couldn't be. He had no memories. And yet, the moment he saw these glowing letters, an indescribable sense of déjà vu welled up from deep in his chest. It closely resembled fear, but was also somehow nostalgic — a complex emotion. The letters slowly shifted their light deeper into the passage, as if guiding him. A guidepost. Rio hesitated briefly, then decided to follow the light. He had no other clues. The passage twisted and turned. Occasionally, stairs leading up or down appeared. Each time, scars on the floor and walls — arrows, X marks, warnings — surfaced. Rio followed them, stepping carefully. Old bloodstains, too, stained the floor black here and there. —Someone died here. That fact pressed in on him, acutely. How long had he walked? Suddenly, all sound vanished from Rio's ears. His footsteps, his breathing, the rustle of his clothes — everything was absorbed into a perfect silence. Rio stood in a small, circular chamber. The ceiling was domed. The atmosphere was clearly different from the labyrinth before. Here, there was no sweet rot, no mustiness. Only quiet, clear air. "[whispers]Is this place... safe?" His instincts told him this spot alone was special. A sanctuary that repelled external threats. In the center of the room sat a solitary pedestal. He approached. On the pedestal rested a single book. A leather-bound, old journal. Rio stared at it for a long moment. He was afraid to pick it up. A premonition that opening it would reveal something irreversible. But if he didn't look, nothing would begin. With trembling hands, Rio took the journal. The leather was terribly cold, clinging to his skin. He opened the first page. There, in meticulous handwriting, it said: *The one reading this journal is probably me. You should have no memories right now. So first, I'll tell you the truth.* Rio's hands stopped. *In this labyrinth — Volturra — even if you die, you revive at the entrance. However, as the price of resurrection, most of your memories are lost. The reason you remember nothing now is because of that.* Volturra. This labyrinth's name was Volturra. *I challenged this labyrinth and died many times. And each time I revived, I challenged it again. Before you, twenty-six versions of me existed, and they continued dying over a hundred times.* "[scared]Twenty-six..." His voice trembled. *And you are the 27th Rio.* His hands wouldn't stop turning pages. There, meticulously recorded, were trap locations, enemy behavior patterns, safe zone positions, effective weapons — strategy information earned by previous generations at the cost of their lives. The handwriting changed many times along the way. The writing of twenty-six people. On one page, in shaky letters, it said: *I'm tired. I've died so many times. There's no exit anywhere. God, someone—* The writing cut off there, turning into a black stain. Blood. Rio closed the page. His breathing grew ragged. His heart pounded a frantic beat. His fingertips were cold. —I'm the 27th. —All the previous ones died. —They kept dying, over a hundred times. A nauseating despair threatened to crush Rio. But when he opened the last page, his hands stopped. *Someone, go further.* A single, hastily scrawled line. Likely the last words left by the 26th Rio. The handwriting was disordered. He could tell it was written by mustering the last of one's strength. Rio gently traced the letters with his finger. "[serious]...You guys are amazing." The tenacity of twenty-six people. In a labyrinth with no exit, they never gave up, continuing to die, standing a new self upon their own corpses. That regret. That heavy burden. It now weighed upon him, the 27th. Terrifying. It was terrifying. But still, the previous ones moved forward. Then he would too. "[serious]The Gate of Truth, huh." Those words were on another page of the journal. A legendary place said to be in the deepest part. The labyrinth's endpoint that none of the previous Rios had ever reached. —If I go there, will I understand something? —Why does this labyrinth exist? —Why did the first Rio challenge it? —Why am I here? Rio raised his face. In that instant, the pale blue glowing letters on the wall shone with intense brilliance. *Whose dream do you see?* The letters pulsed, as if responding to Rio's resolve. And then, the entire labyrinth let out a low groan. *Rumble...* A tremor. A small shaking continued for a while, then eventually subsided. What was that? Rio looked around. The silence of the sanctuary remained unchanged. But he felt something had decisively shifted. —The labyrinth knew my resolve? That was absurd. But Rio felt it. This labyrinth was alive. Something like a will existed here, watching him. "[serious]I have no choice but to go." Clutching the journal to his chest, Rio began retracing his path. The First Stratum. In the gray corridors, there were corpse fiends — *shiki*, the journal called them. Aberrant beings. Clawed corpse fiends. Originally, the end result of explorers who died in this labyrinth. The old scar on his right cheek ached, just slightly. No, it wasn't his imagination. His body remembered. The pain of that corpse fiend's claws. Engraved memory. The journal described it — combat experience soaked into the flesh alone through twenty-six cycles of death and rebirth. Even without memories, the body remembered. "[cold]Let's test it." From deep in the passage, something stirred. A scratching sound, like claws on stone. Rio clenched his fists. What began now was the 27th's death-return strategy.