Chapter 37: Statues That Breathe

Thoren walked deeper into the ancient city, his footsteps echoing faintly along the deserted street.

The eerie silence crept up his spine like cold fingers, tightening with every step he took.

Still, he maintained his composure.

His movements were measured, deliberate, and filled with vigilance.

Each step was placed with care, every breath controlled. His undead minions moved around him in a loose but deliberate formation, their presence forming a living—no, unliving—fortress.

He was not ready to take any chances.

He had already learned that this ancient city did not follow any common sense.

He was prepared for whatever the mysterious ruins were going to throw at him.

The wide ancient street stretched ahead, long and empty.

Too empty.

Too quiet.

The only sound he could hear was the dull tap of his boots striking the hardened stone beneath his feet.

That sound alone reassured him that the ground was solid, that he was still moving forward in the physical world and not slipping into some unseen illusion.

Yet even that reassurance was fragile.

The feeling of being watched grew stronger with every passing second, like unseen eyes drilling into his back.

He had attempted, repeatedly, to locate the source of that sensation.

He expanded his perception, sharpened his awareness, and even used subtle detection techniques.

Every attempt failed.

That alone tightened his nerves.

As he moved deeper into the ancient city, something finally changed.

In front of each building lining the street stood rows of human stone statues.

They were arranged neatly, as though placed with intention.

Each statue was unnervingly lifelike. Some depicted civilians clutching everyday objects, staff, baskets, books, while others wore armor and carried weapons, their expressions frozen mid-motion.

The craftsmanship was beyond exquisite. Every crease of clothing, every strand of hair, every line of fear or resolve on their faces had been carved with terrifying precision.

For a moment, Thoren halted.

His gaze fixed on the nearest statue, a civilian holding a wooden staff, his face twisted in what looked like panic.

Thoren stepped closer, studying it carefully. He circled the statue once, then twice.

“How could there be such a lifelike statue?” he thought, his brow furrowing.

Slowly, he reached out and placed his hand against the statue’s arm.

It was warm.

His pupils shrank.

“How could this be?” he whispered, his breath hitching.

That should have been impossible.

A statue should be cold.

Solid.

Lifeless.

Like stone.

Yet…

He touched it again.

Warm.

His breath caught in his throat.

“This—!”

He gasped and withdrew his hand as if burned, stumbling back several steps.

His undead minions reacted instantly, shifting their formation defensively.

The statue was cold now.

Stone-cold.

Thoren stared at it, his face marred by a storm of emotions.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Confusion.

And finally—wariness.

“There’s something wrong with this place,” he muttered under his breath.

He forced himself to turn away.

He was not ready to uncover the secret behind the statues, not yet.

Whatever lurked beneath this mystery was far more dangerous than he had anticipated.

Even so, retreat was not an option.

He had already ventured too deep.

There was no turning back.

As he continued onward, the number of stone statues increased dramatically.

Tens turned into twenties. Twenties into entire formations. They no longer resembled civilians.

They looked like soldiers.

Ranks.

Formations.

Battle-ready.

His heart pounded heavily against his chest. He tightened his grip around his weapon, drawing a sliver of reassurance from the familiar weight.

The buildings slowly faded into the background, replaced by endless rows of stone warriors.

“Were these real humans… before they were turned into statues?” Thoren muttered, his eyes sweeping left and right.

Still, he pressed forward.

Giving up had never been his way.

And he would not abandon this exploration now.

Thud.

Thud.

The sound reached his ears suddenly.

Footsteps.

Behind him.

Instantly, his body went rigid. Every hair on his body stood on end.

A chill surged up his spine.

He held his breath.

Waited.

Patiently.

His eyes stared straight ahead, his senses stretched to their limits, but nothing appeared.

Even the wind was absent.

Everything was silent.

As if he were completely alone.

Yet the sensation of being watched intensified.

It felt closer.

Closer than before.

As though something was breathing just behind his ear.

His heart slammed violently against his ribcage. Sweat gathered along his temples, sliding down his cheek.

“Damn it,” he cursed inwardly. “This is killing me.”

His palms were slick with perspiration.

He forced himself to inhale slowly, then exhale, fighting to regain control of his erratic breathing.

“Don’t think you can scare me into retreat,” he sneered quietly.

Straightening his back, he took one final glance behind him, then turned forward and continued walking.

Thud. Thud.

The sound came again.

This time, it was unmistakably close.

Right behind him.

His scalp prickled violently.

His breath hitched.

Now he was certain.

Something was there.

Something unseen.

He steadied his shaking hands, suppressing the urge to spin around immediately.

If he was going to die here, he wanted to know what was strong enough to approach him undetected.

With iron resolve, he turned slowly.

Prepared for the worst.

And yet…

Nothing.

The street was empty.

For a brief moment, his thoughts froze entirely, as though his mind had short-circuited.

He was certain.

Something had been following him.

But now.

Gone.

The street lay silent and desolate. His gaze swept across the statues, the buildings, the shadows between them.

Nothing moved.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“I see how it is.”

Letting his expression relax, Thoren deliberately turned and began walking back the way he came, his steps slow and casual.

“If you want to play games,” he thought, “then I’ll play along.”

Nothing happened.

No footsteps.

No cold breath.

No pressure.

Everything felt normal.

Too normal.

He stopped.

Waited.

Still nothing.

A cold smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“So that’s how you want it,” he muttered, turning forward once more.

The moment he resumed walking.

The footsteps returned.

Heavier.

Deeper.

Like the pounding hooves of countless horses.

The cold breath brushed his ear again, thick and suffocating.

But this time.

He did not look back.

He forced his nerves to relax.

Calm.

Focused.

Alert.

The tension thickened, pressing down on him like a physical weight. The silence became oppressive, suffocating.

Still, Thoren walked forward.

Unyielding.

And had he turned around.

He would have seen hundreds of shadows trailing him silently, their shapes twisted and indistinct, moving in perfect synchronization.

Watching.

Waiting.

*****

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