Forman had planned to travel to an island about a hundred kilometers northeast of Reykjavik. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't have been the most rational decision for him. But he had to do it—both to showcase the potential of his ship and attract investment to save his fortune, and also because, if he could somehow claim and parcel the island, he might seize the rumored underground wealth it was said to harbor. Normally, such a journey would be seen as madness. Few had ever made it back from the island, and those who did returned with tales that defied reason—each more inconsistent and incoherent than the last. Rumors spread among sailors and common folk alike: the island drove people mad.
In short, anyone planning to go there was immediately thought to have lost their mind. Even though his fortune had slipped away, Forman still had his reputation. He had a lot to lose. If he failed, it wouldn't just be his fortune that vanished—his name would be dragged down with it. But he had made up his mind. A decision from which turning back would be nearly impossible.
He threw away everything he had left. Spent the last of his savings, barely scraping together the means to build the ship. Then, he gathered the most deranged crew he could find from nearby ports. Some were hulking ex-convicts, others pathetic gamblers on the run. Some were just bored men chasing adventure. A few believed this journey to be their destiny. And some... were just penniless.
They battled waves for days. Lost men by the day. Faced death more than once. It was an excruciating journey. In the end, only eight of the forty-man crew survived to reach the island alive. They had staked their lives—and barely made it.
But nothing awaited them on the island...
They had set out lured by tales of El Dorado, of diamonds and gold rising from the ground, of striking it rich. What they found was merely an ancient settlement—abandoned ruins reminiscent of Northern European architecture. A ghost town left behind centuries ago. Nomadic Norse homes, an old mine, and a temple. No one knew when or why it had ever been inhabited. And then there was the mine, looming ahead.
Forman weighed his options. If he returned to Britain, the only thing left for him would be labor in a shipyard. With his fortune and name gone, that would be his fate. Or... just maybe, he could explore the island, find something—anything—worth selling, and recover some of his investment.
He made his choice. He would enter the mine.
With torches in hand, they moved slowly inside. At the entrance, scrawled in English, were the words: "TURN BACK." That alone was enough to send chills down their spines. But Forman pushed them forward, partly by sheer force of will. Runic inscriptions were carved into the mine walls. With every step, the runes grew denser—and a sickly stench filled their noses, like rot they had never smelled before.
The remaining crew seemed to be losing their sanity with every step. As if something was tampering with their minds. They began to bicker, mumble nonsense—disjointed and eerie utterances. Finally, they stumbled into a chamber.
There stood a small idol—hand-carved. A female figure. That was it. Forman couldn't make sense of it. He swore under his breath… and then something completely unexpected happened.
He began to hear voices in his head.
At first, he thought he'd lost his mind. That he had gone completely mad. The idol seemed to be speaking to him, giving commands, making promises—cities of gold, empires of emerald. The voices invaded every corner of his thoughts. No matter how hard he resisted, he eventually succumbed. His gaze locked on the idol. One name was carved into it in runes: Kurl. The Ash-Haired Witch.
He pledged himself to her unconditionally. He was now her servant. And the first task she gave him: eliminate all the witnesses.
He remained on the island for a few more days. Then, by sheer luck, found a vessel and sailed back to England—taking the idol with him. He was a broke man now, but still had the ship's plans. In a short time, he had recovered financially. And after that... we don't know what happened. He vanished. Now we mostly hear tales about his descendants. Descendants who also worship Kurl.
But anyway—back to the point
Forman had never believed in anything. His family and village were devout churchgoers, but he never followed. In fact, he believed there was nothing worth believing in. Only contradictions. He might have become a solipsist if pushed. The idol preached one thing to him:
The world was twisted.
He perceived Kurl as a pagan entity. Somehow, he began to believe he was receiving direct orders from her. With every passing day, his sanity deteriorated. A voice inside his head issued constant directives.
He believed Kurl would bring order to this broken world.
In his mind, humans had tried to suppress their primal urges in the name of civilization and reach a level they didn't deserve. The very act of trying to live a "structured life" was, to him, blasphemy. Modern man (and by "modern," Maximilian meant civilized) was committing the greatest sin by doing so. Humans, he believed, should live like animals—commit open adultery with women, indulge in substances he believed were gifts from Kurl, erase all notions of responsibility, and, in short, live like beasts under a leader who gave them these things while surrendering their consciousness.
There was likely a drug inside the idol too. A type of hallucinogen. They call it Lead. You've probably heard the name. It's currently quite popular among junkies. Likely more potent.
I felt sick to my stomach. this blasphemy was enough to make me sick.It was disturbing—a terrible one.
It didn't seem plausible that he could have made up something so bizarre. Yes, the story wasn't exactly logical—or realistic—but it wasn't incoherent either. Clearly, some parts were filled in by imagination, but they couldn't have been more than a sliver. I could have believed he was insane. Not full-blown psychosis, but certainly... questionable.
I turned to Hasan, who stood beside me. He looked younger than his 23 years. The yellow August light washed over his soft, beardless face.
"How can I believe you?" I asked.
"That's the heart of it," he said, straightening his back. He pulled out Remzi's notebook from the motorcycle's saddlebag. Opened it. Showed me a few pages.
"Some of the events I've told you—though perhaps not in full detail—are written in here. But even showing you this won't change much. You could still think I forged the book. Or believe that Kiph was just a hallucination. After all, even the ancient city you saw was only partially real…"
"What—?"
"I'll explain. But not now. For now, this is all I can show you. You have two choices. You can forget everything and crawl back into your warm bed. Or come with me—and help clean up the mess. The decision is yours. How you respond to a force threatening the world... is up to you."
Maybe I could have believed it was all a game. That everything could end here. I could run. Sweep it all under the rug. Maybe I'd live a normal life. Collect my paycheck. Drift into obscurity. Hell, maybe I'd even try to flirt with one of the consulate secretaries. I could've pushed it all aside.
But could I really just abandon it?
I wasn't a hero. I never claimed to be. I didn't care about looking cool. But I wasn't so cowardly or amoral as to simply run away either. My motivation here—at its core—was morality. A threat loomed that could cost not only my life, but many others'. A threat that had perhaps been weaving its plans for years. I couldn't run. Not without looking back.
Hasan reached out his hand. Smiling faintly, like someone ready to seal a deal. Like he wanted to bring closure to it all.
And I slowly shook his hand.
"Deal is deal, mate."