We entered the Tomb of Horrors twice, though only one passage was real. The first time was by magic alone—a deliberate vision, thin and cold, meant to teach rather than to save. There were only four of us then: Bojing’s steadiness, Bang-Qiu’s brilliance, Lao-ren’s quiet vigilance, and my own careful reach into things better left untouched. We did not know where the tomb wished to be entered, only that planes mattered, that Acererak could not be fought from just anywhere. The tomb was bright—offensively so—full of color and beauty that begged to be trusted. We learned quickly not to.
When the arch stripped us of clothing, weapons, and certainty, I feared the vision would end almost before it began, fruitless and humiliating. Instead, it sharpened us. The tomb did not watch. It did not gloat. It simply functioned. We learned what worked. The shatter spell broke what arrogance could not. Planes were doors and knives both. We learned the cost of standing too long in the Astral, where devils arrived like clockwork to bleed time and strength. I remember wondering if we would all “die” and still be forced to learn.
When we returned for the true descent, we carried knowledge like a fragile flame. We moved only between the planes we needed. We chose spells with intent—fewer tricks, more teeth. When we found the crown and scepter, gold and silver ends waiting for error, memory saved us. Rules remembered became survival earned. Acererak’s appearance felt exactly as expected. That was the greatest gift. I shattered him again, precisely and without drama. And then it was done. Not just the tomb, but the curse that had haunted us—the captain and crew bound to undeath by bodies buried under Acererak’s shadow. They were laid to rest at last. Everyone walked out alive. That mattered more than victory.
I closed my spellbook afterward with relief—not triumph. Some horrors are meant to be finished, recorded, and never repeated.
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