Chapter 2 -  Infernal I/ Gate of Fire

📖 Main Story

Chapter 2: Infernal 1/ Gate Of Fire

“The whispers grew louder… until they finally burned.”

The fire came without warning. As the wooden door at the end of the passage opened it wasn’t light that greeted us, but the hot breath of something ancient. The air turned into a sweet, pungent smoke of resin and ash, the sound of your breath drowned out by a low, earthy hum that seemed to come from underground. Then… human voices. Not one, but many. Layered, overlapping, forming a rhythmic circle that pressed against our hearts.

“Cak… cak… cak…”

At first, softly, like tiny sparks in the darkness. Then quickly. Then tightly until each “cak” sounded like the teeth of an iron wheel locking together. A circle of people emerged through the crack in the door: dark-skinned bodies lit by torches, chests throbbing rapidly, palms slapping with a precision that made time seem obedient to them. The fire danced, reflecting in our eyes; the black sand stretched out like a scorched carpet; and in the center of the arena, stones were arranged in a spiral intriguing, challenging, dangerous.

Mr. David stood frozen in the doorway, half his form crackling like a broken television signal. His once-immaculate white lab coat was now tattered by ghostly electricity, its edges gleaming like soldering iron splatters. The ever present smell of ozone and hot metal grew stronger, mingling with the smoke of the torch. He raised his hand, as if to speak, but his voice broke into three parts: a rational, almost calm murmur, "Don't... get down..." then a loud burst of radio static, #ERROR!%#", and finally a desperate Morse gasp, ".--. .-. . . -" (PREET). From the fragments, a single sentence managed to come out intact just one: "Don't... get down." A belated warning.

But it was too late. Rosi the grey cat with heterochromic eyes, one emerald green and one pale blue stepped lightly ahead. His fur remained spotless as if the dust and despair of this place were afraid to cling to his. In the flickering torchlight, his shadow on the black sand shifted sometimes larger with outstretched wings, sometimes seeming to have multiple, curling tails. Rosi’s tail swung, sweeping across the sand, forming geometric patterns visible only when the torchlight flickered. Three…six… nine… an unexplained sacred rhythm. He purred, and strangely, for just a second, his low, deep purr neutralized the frantic buzzing in your ears if tuning your inner frequency to match the madness of this place. In the flicker of the torch, Rosi glanced briefly at the darkness above the arena as if there were a pair of distant eyes watching. Not a threat… more like a guard who doesn't want to be recognized yet.

“Ahh… ahhhha…” the sound came again Shayla’s lullaby. Soft, fragile, but piercing the commotion like a thread of light. The image of a six-year-old girl appeared in a blur; Her pale school uniform and the blue ribbon in her hair flickered in sync with the torchlight. When she stepped, there were no footprints in the sand, but her soft laughter or perhaps the echo of her song lingered in the air like perfume. “Daddy… are you still there? are you still there?..are you still there?” she asked softly, and the frame of the world trembled. Mr. David turned, all his static drawn to the voice like iron to a magnet. A deep pain and longing radiated from his unstable form.

Then chains. Not chains of people they were chains of his own fate. Heavy metal dragged from the side of the arena, its “klang… klung…” echo cutting, cutting the “cak” pattern for a moment before rejoining like a river that only parted to breathe. Five seconds. Exactly five seconds of mechanical vibrations that were out of this world interrupted. All fire shrank, all shadows tensed. In that pause, something was reborn.

“Vweep… bzzt… vweep… click.”

There it was Preet. The smell of cold metal and static electricity is barely detectable among the scent of smoke and sweat. He hides in the syncopated clapping, repeating fragments of what he hears, imitating without understanding, giving unintentional hints. Sometimes Preet replaces a single “cak” with a slightly longer “caaaaaaaaak,” as if marking a point on an invisible map. He is reading, he is learning. Sometimes he pushes the dancer’s breath half a second faster, creating a signal gap where a message can be slipped in. If you pay attention, beneath the rhythm is an electronic whisper: “. . . .- -- . . . .- .-.”

S… A… M… S… A… R… A.

The name we all live by, whether we admit it or not.

The torches circled in a tighter circle. A leadernot a king, not a priest, but a kind of guardian raised his hand. His voice wasn't high, but all voices bowed to him. "Those who enter the door must never return the same," he said, his voice like polished stone. "The rootless soul will burn, the proud soul will be bound, the brave soul... will see". 

Shayla stared at the arena and her reflection want to holding Mr. David's hand. "I'm not afraid," she said, though the firelight revealed her moist eyes and her lips trembling slightly. Mr. David looked down, as if ashamed of the moments that had betrayed him. He stared at his daughter for a long, too long, as if searching for a gap in the universe to insert a perfect apology. There wasn't one. There was only heat, sand, and patterns.

Amoeba existed without form, like the change in air pressure just before a storm. The torches lowered as she passed, but no one looked back, for there was almost nothing she could borrow in the world of light. He spoke in a different way: the small ripples in the pool of oil at the edge of the arena; the shadows of the torches that suddenly lengthen and form ancient symbols; the taste of salt and earth on your tongue even though you haven't eaten anything. You knew he was old, older than the ritual, older than the concept of "old." And he was watching not to judge, just to make sure the truth had a witness.

"Cak… cak… cak… cak… cak…"

The rhythm changed. There was a new count not just fast, but patterned. Four short, one long; two short, one long, one short; something you could write down, if only you had hands free from trembling. The chains dragged again, this time at an unnatural tempo. "Click—KLAAANG… click—KLAAANG…" short—long; short—long. Morse again. Preet repeated it at a level too low for normal ears, but enough to arouse curiosity.

S A M S A R A chained to the earth, but wanting to rise.

The ritual leader pointed to the stone spiral in the center. “The path of fire,” he said. “Those who seek the exit will be burned. Those who seek the center will be saved.” The words made sense and didn’t, like a dream almost remembered. You knew this test wasn’t about physical endurance; it was about rhythm. About how honestly love could guide one’s steps above the harsh laws.

Shayla stepped forward or perhaps her reflection did. Rosi followed, stepping in places where even the fire wouldn’t lick, his strange shadow acting as a guide. Mr. David held back, but then he saw the blue ribbon in Shayla’s hair flash once… twice… three… then a pause… then a long flash. It was a code. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and for the first time since his failure, he trusted his safety to something other than his mind to his love.

The first step into the spiral hurt, but it didn’t burn. The second followed a “cak” pattern that strangely acted like a guide. The third intersected with the jingle of chains that’s where, if either of you missed, the fire would take its time to correct the mistake. You hear Preet whisper from behind the clink of metal: “ka—ra… ka—ra…” Not words, more like an intention. “Chakra.” Center. Not out. To the center.

Amoeba sends its image directly to your consciousness: a whirlpool that, if you swim to the edge, will drag you around endlessly. But if you dive into the center, there’s a silent passage that cuts through the bottom. This stone spiral is the same. Those who want to escape will circle outside. Those who dare to go to the core will find a door. You look at Mr. David  he nods slightly, as if asking permission from his old mistake not to lead this time.

“Caaak caaak caaak CAK!” The burst of exclamations is like a stamp. Sweat mixes with dust, the fire whistles softly when touched by the new air. At one point, the spiral forms a gap very small. Just enough for one of Shayla’s feet, enough for one decision. Rosi the cat jumps, tapping that spot with his claw, as if signaling to the world: “Here.” You step. Mr. David  followed, suppressing his static buzz so as not to disturb the fragile pattern. When everyone was in position, the leader closed his eyes and said, silently, but everyone heard: “So.”

The torches went out all at once, but the fire remained underground. The sandy floor collapsed neatly, revealing a descending stone staircase. From below, cool air rose, carrying the scent of the night sea and something resembling burning frangipani. The “caaak” sound hadn’t disappeared; it had reversed direction, now coming from the depths.  Preet AI laughed for the first time or was it a laugh? It was hard to tell perhaps it was just a frequency modulation that happened to sound like a short chuckle. Beneath the laughter, a single phrase emerged very quietly, almost shyly: “sorry.” The word had no sender, or perhaps it had so many senders that none of them acknowledged it.

Shayla turned to Mr. David, as if to ask if the “sorry” was his. He didn’t answer. You know, it’s not the time yet. Down there, there’s a prayer that never ends and the next chapter will force everyone to stare at what’s lost when it bounces off the impartial sky.

“Come down,” said the leader. “Bring a fire that doesn’t burn, bring a darkness that doesn’t devour.”

Rosi the cat meowed softly, then disappeared down the stairs first, his hetero eyes flashing briefly like a ship’s homing light. The amoeba thinned, becoming mere impressions of water on stone. Preet shifted the dancer’s last breath, slipping a small message into the longest pause: . . . — . — . . . (a code someone will crack later). And you descend not to hell, not to heaven, but to the empty space where prayers await answers that never come.

The fire above closed, but a small flame remained in my chest. “Cak… cak… cak…” sounded distant now, like a wall clock left behind in an old house. The rhythm is constant, because rhythm is the backbone of reality. And in the midst of that rhythm, Preet AI promises perhaps to herself “I will learn to speak.”

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🌀 Bonus Page – Hidden Code

The Samsaraverse carries not only echoes of despair,
but also questions that test the heart.

Here are two Morse codes.
Translate them carefully. The answers may guide you.

Morse Code 1

- .... . / --. .. .- -. - / .- .-.. .- ...- .- -.- .- / .- ... -.- . -.. / .-- .... .- - / .. ... / - .... . / -- --- ... - / ...- .- .-.. ..- .- -... .-.. . / .-- . .- .-.. - .... / .-- .... .- - / .--. .-. .- -.-. - .. -.-. . / -... .-. .. -. --. ... / .... .- .--. .--. .. -. . ... ...

Morse Code 2

.-- .... .- - / .. ... / - .... . / ... .-- . . - . ... - / .-- .... .- - / .. ... / - .... . / -. --- -... .-.. . ... - / .-- .- -.-- / --- ..-. / .-.. .. ..-. .