The grim spectacle struck the remaining mages like a hammer to the chest. Each skeleton bore faint remnants of the enchanted robes worn by the First Team, making their identities unmistakable.
The outcome was clear: the unknown realm within the fissure had claimed them almost immediately.
The Magic Tower put a halt to the expedition, the chilling return of the skeletal remains making it clear that the fissure held dangers far beyond their comprehension.
Security around the fissure was immediately reinforced, barriers strengthened, and vigilance doubled.
Meanwhile, the three bodies were carefully collected, their belongings meticulously analyzed for any clues that could shed light on the fate of the First Team.
The examination of the bodies yielded an unsettling discovery. Each skeleton was pristine, with no signs of physical trauma or struggle.
Not a single bone bore the marks of conflict or injury, suggesting that the mages had met their end without any form of violent resistance.
Further analysis revealed an even stranger truth: the cause of death was attributed to old age.
Somehow, all three mages had died of natural causes, their bodies decomposing to the point that only perfectly intact skeletons remained.
Yet, the decomposition itself was not the most shocking aspect. What truly confounded the researchers was the age of the bones.
Upon closer study of the remains and their garments, the mages were astonished to find that both the bones and clothing displayed signs of being over a millennium old.
The enchanted robes, designed to endure the harshest conditions, provided compelling evidence to support this staggering conclusion.
It was as if the mages' bodies had been preserved for a thousand years within the fissure before being ejected back into the present.
The Tower Master himself was left utterly baffled as he listened to the reports. The revelation of a temporal disparity so vast—where a thousand years had passed within a single day—defied all known principles of dimensional rules.
Such an extreme manipulation of time was unprecedented, even among the most arcane phenomena studied by the Tower.
This was especially confounding, as the mages had meticulously researched the fissure's properties prior to dispatching the expedition team.
Their findings suggested only a minor time disparity—at most, a few days of difference.
But now, the scale of time had shifted to something entirely beyond their comprehension. No longer confined to days, the time within the fissure had warped into years, centuries, a full millennium.
As the Tower Master sat, being debriefed on these shocking developments, another discovery came to light. Among the remains of the First Team, the mages recovered a journal stowed inside one of the storage rings.
It was the only item left, the food supplies completely used up and nothing else remaining.
The presence of the journal sent a ripple of urgency through the room. If anything could shed light on the events inside the fissure and the fate of the lost mages, it would be this.
The journal, thick and spanning over a thousand pages, was a detailed log of the expedition team's time within the fissure. As the Tower Master read through its fragile, weathered pages, the initial entries painted an image of cautious exploration.
The mages had found themselves in a realm that was lush and green, filled with dense foliage and endless landscapes of untouched beauty.
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Yet, as he read further, the Tower Master uncovered an unsettling truth—despite the abundant greenery, there was no trace of life.
No animals, no insects, no signs of sentient beings. The realm behind the fissure was an eerie, empty expanse.
After turning few more pages, it was written that the three mages lost the entry to the fissure and they were trapped.
Turning to the later entries, the Tower Master's unease deepened. The journal recounted how the team had eventually lost their way back to the fissure's entry point.
They were trapped, wandering aimlessly through the endless greenery. Desperation began to seep into their logs as the mages scoured the realm for any sign of an exit. Days turned into weeks—or so it seemed within the realm—but every effort to locate a way out proved fruitless.
As the Tower Master continued turning the journal's pages, a grim picture of the mages' fate began to unfold. The entries spoke of despair and struggle, their fight against both the unchanging landscape and time itself.
After twenty years of wandering the endless greenery, the mages had exhausted all their supplies, yet they continued their search for an escape. No matter how far or tirelessly they traveled, there was no sign of an exit.
Their desperation deepened with each passing year.
With the turn of more pages, the journal revealed that sixty years had passed. By this time, the mages had made a chilling discovery—they were trapped within a loop. The lush, seemingly infinite greenery was not an expansive realm, but rather a cyclical labyrinth designed to reset itself.
At this point the mages, usual ink seemed to be exhausted by then. The remaining entries were scrawled in blood, a testament to the horrifying circumstances they endured.
One message stood out, stark and haunting: "THE REASON WE TOOK SIXTY YEARS TO DISCOVER THE LOOP WAS BECAUSE A SINGLE LOOP WAS OF THIRTY YEARS. WE HAVE ONLY LOOPED TWICE AND YET WE KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THIS PLANE."
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The Tower Master's hands trembled ever so slightly as he turned the pages of the journal, a heavy pit forming in his chest. For the first time in his long, storied life, a palpable sense of fear gripped him.
As he reached the entries marking ninety years since the mages had entered the fissure, a grim reality was laid bare. Of the three mages who had embarked on the expedition, only one remained.
The entry revealed the harrowing decision made by the team on their sixty-fifth year. Two of the mages, defeated by the despair of their eternal entrapment, chose to sacrifice their lives.
Knowing they would never escape, they offered their remaining life force to the sole mage who still clung to hope of escaping.
The lone mage's struggle continued for another twenty-five years, though the journal contained little detail about his journey during this time.
His agonizing thoughts, now etched in crimson, pierced through the Tower Master's soul as he read the words:
"I MISS MY FAMILY." "I MISS MY FRIEND." "PLEASE HELP ME, TOWER MASTER, I AM LONELY."
The Tower Master, his face pale and his hands trembling slightly, took a deep breath before turning to the next section of the journal. By now, one hundred and fifty years had passed within the fissure.
The lone mage, sustained by the life force of his fallen comrades, had long since abandoned any hope of finding an exit.
His earlier desperation had morphed into bitterness, his words dripping with venom and anger. Scrawled in blood, the pages bore his wrath:
"WHERE IS THE SECOND EXPEDITION TEAM?" "TOWER MASTER, YOU LYING BASTARD. YOU JUST WANTED TO USE US AS EXPERIMENTS. I HOPE YOU ARE DEAD."
The Tower Master recoiled slightly, the mage's vengeful words cutting through him like a blade. For the first time, he felt not only fear but the weight of guilt.
This journal wasn't just a record—it was a haunting testament to a soul left forsaken, a mirror reflecting the hubris and risks taken by those in pursuit of knowledge.
With a heavy heart, he turned more pages. By this time, two hundred and ten years had passed. Surprisingly, the tone of the entries shifted drastically. The mage's earlier anger seemed to have given way to something else—hope.
The Tower Master's breath caught as he read the triumphant words scrawled in blood:
"I FINALLY FOUND IT, AFTER OBSERVING THE LOOP FOR SEVEN TIMES. I FINALLY FOUND THE REASON BEHIND THE LOOP. THERE IS SOMETHING MAINTAINING THIS LOOP AND TOMORROW I WILL KILL THAT BEING."
The words carried a sharp and resolute tone, a glimmer of hope amidst centuries of despair. The lone mage, after so many years, had seemingly uncovered the key to their imprisonment and resolved to confront it.
But the Tower Master's apprehension only deepened, sensing the ominous foreboding lingering within the journal's pages. The flickering light around him dimmed, as if echoing the growing tension in his heart.
He turned the page, bracing himself, only to be met with a jarring shift in tone. The mage's determination had given way to a crushing and inescapable despair. The new message scrawled in blood was disjointed, the jagged lettering reflecting the mage's mental state.
The Tower Master froze, his hands gripping the journal tighter as he read the blood-scrawled message:
"WHAT IS THAT THING AND WHY DID IT ONLY LAUGH UPON SEEING ME? WHY AM I IN A DESERT?"