Doom Verse

In the cold, dim corridors of Doom Castle, the sound of Hanz's footsteps echoed endlessly. The faint clink of his boots on the stone floors mixed with the whistling draft of the castle, sending a shiver through him. His pace was slow but steady, every step taking him closer to his destination. The heavy silence pressed down on him, as if the very castle itself was watching, waiting.

Finally, Hanz arrived at the end of the corridor, stopping in front of a massive, weathered door. The door was ancient, made of dark wood that seemed to drink in the surrounding light. Carved into its surface were strange runes, their intricate patterns glowing faintly, pulsating with some kind of forgotten power. Hanz squinted, trying to decipher the meaning of the symbols, but the markings remained a mystery, taunting him. He took a deep breath, lifting his hand to knock, but before his knuckles touched the wood, a voice, rough and gravelly, called out from within.

"Stop examining the door like a fool and come in already!" the voice snapped impatiently.

The door groaned as it swung open on its own, revealing a grand chamber within. Hanz hesitated for a moment, taking in the sight before him. The room was vast, lined with towering bookshelves overflowing with ancient tomes, scrolls, and maps. The air smelled of dust and old parchment. Many of the books were strewn haphazardly across the floor, their pages fluttering slightly as if caught in a breeze that wasn't there. Telescopes of all sizes pointed out through the high windows, while various globes—some of worlds Hanz had never seen before—dotted the room. At the center of the space stood a large round table, illuminated by a beam of light that streamed in from an opening in the ceiling.

The Historian sat at the table, hunched over a pile of scrolls, his back to Hanz. He was an old man, dressed in a tattered robe that seemed to blend into the shadows. Without turning around, he spoke, his voice laced with an unusual cheerfulness.

"Hah! Finally, you've arrived. Took you long enough. I was starting to think you'd lost your way," the Historian said, his tone surprisingly casual. "I know you have questions. So go on, ask them. I will answer all of them."

Hanz blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected the Historian to be so... talkative. His fist clenched by his side, an emotion bubbling up inside him that he hadn't felt in a long time. He took a few steps forward, his boots crunching on the parchment-covered floor.

Without warning, Hanz swung his fist, striking the Historian square in the face. The old man was knocked backward, collapsing onto the floor with a startled grunt. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft shuffle of scrolls falling from the table. Slowly, the Historian got to his feet, wiping a thin trickle of blood from his lip. His eyes, however, showed no anger.

"Well," the Historian muttered, dusting off his robe. "That was rude. You shouldn't hit an old man like that."

Before Hanz could respond, the Historian lifted his cane and struck it hard against the stone floor. Instantly, an invisible force slammed into Hanz, driving him to his knees. He gasped, struggling to move, but it felt as though a great weight was pressing down on him from all sides.

"Don't think for a moment that you can act however you please in my domain," the Historian growled. "You want answers, and you will ask for them in the manner I see fit. Understood?"

Hanz gritted his teeth, his muscles straining against the weight holding him down. "Fine," he spat. "If I have to kneel, then so be it. But answer me this—what have you done to the Doom Master?"

The room fell silent again, the weight of the question hanging in the air. The Historian sighed heavily and released his hold on Hanz, allowing him to rise. The old man limped over to a nearby chair and sank into it, rubbing his temples as though weary.

"Ah, yes," the Historian murmured. "That question again. You always come to this, don't you? Every time."

Hanz stood, confused. "What are you talking about? This is the first time I've asked you—what do you mean, 'every time'?"

The Historian chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "Is it now? Well, you don't remember, I suppose. You never do." He gestured to the broken table Hanz had struck earlier. "And you should really control your temper. That table was a personal favorite of mine."

"Stop dodging my question!" Hanz shouted, slamming his fist down again, though this time he restrained himself from destroying anything else. "What have you done to the Doom Master? Why he is acting weirdly!?"

The Historian rose to his feet and hobbled toward the door at the far end of the room. "Follow me," he said simply. "I'll show you something."

Confused but desperate for answers, Hanz followed. The Historian led him down another series of cold corridors until they reached a room bathed in a sickly green light. As the door opened, Hanz's eyes widened in shock.

In the center of the room stood a massive orb, pulsating with a strange energy. Thousands of cables connected to the orb snaked across the floor, while ghostly, anguished faces seemed to writhe within the sphere, as though trying to break free. The sight sent a chill down Hanz's spine.

"What... what is this?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Why are there... souls trapped in there?"

The Historian placed a hand on the orb, his expression unreadable. "Ah, you always think it's just a game, don't you?" he said softly. "That we are merely characters in some grand simulation. But no, Hanz, the truth is far more horrific. Doom Castle is not a game. The man you know as the Doom Master—his real name was Moros. He created this place to protect someone he loved. But as you can see, he failed."

The Historian sighed deeply, as if weighed down by centuries of sorrow. "To keep this world intact, Doom Castle must consume souls. Every day, it feeds, or else the entire place would collapse. Moros—he was once a great man, but he paid the ultimate price to maintain this place."

Hanz stood frozen, trying to process what he was hearing. "That's monstrous," he whispered. "And you've been doing this... all this time?"

The Historian nodded gravely. "Yes. And every time you discover the truth, you rage against it. You always demand that we stop—that we let the world fall rather than sacrifice innocent lives. But you're one of the few left, Hanz. You, me, and the Doom Master."

The Historian looked at the orb, his eyes faraway. "I had to seal Moros' true self away. The Doom Master and Moros... they are two sides of the same coin. But to keep this place alive, I had to suppress Moros. But sometimes Moros is trying to break out, and I have to seal him once more."

Hanz shook his head, overwhelmed. "What have you done to him? What have you done to all of us?"

The Historian stepped closer to Hanz and touched his forehead. "I'll show you."

Before Hanz could protest, his mind was flooded with memories that weren't his own. Memories of another time—of Moros, sitting beneath a tree, watching the sunrise. The start of it all.