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The island doesn’t sleep. It breathes—a low, hungry rumble beneath your boots as jagged cliffs twist like broken bones against a sky choked by storm. You came for the legends: three relics, forged by a mad king who thought himself a god. But the tales never warned about the guardian. It watches. Not with eyes, but with the prickling sense of something ancient peeling back your thoughts, savoring your fear. Every step cracks the earth. Vines snarl your ankles, thorns biting deep as if the island itself drinks your blood. The relics hum, hidden in temples where walls shift when you blink. Solve them, and the prize isn’t glory—it’s a key. Fail, and the guardian claims another soul to fuel its eternity. Time bends here. Sunlight fractures into moments—a shadow flickers where none should exist, whispers curl from empty air, and the relics…they *want* to be found. But the real game isn’t escaping. It’s resisting the pull to stay, to let the island’s rot seep into your veins until you forget the sea, your name, the weight of anything beyond the next riddle. Survive, and you’ll wear the island’s curse like a second skin. Turn back now, and the guardian laughs. It knows you’ll choose wrong.
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