[BL] The Epic of Aerax 18+

The faint light from the dying torches still flickered on the stone walls, dimly illuminating the intricate carvings that covered the ceiling and walls of the maze. Aerax walked cautiously, each step echoing in the cold space like the sound of his heart pounding in his chest. The air felt thick, not just with age and dust, but with something older—something sacred and vengeful.

Under the flickering light, the reliefs depicted countless strange fruits, their forms curved and surreal, as though they had never existed in the real world. Each was meticulously carved—every petal, every thorn, every shimmering dewdrop sculpted with reverence. The stone seemed to glisten faintly as if it held the memory of sunlight. Aerax could almost feel the phantom breeze from a garden long lost to time, could almost hear the whispers of forgotten gods murmuring through the vines.

The scent that rose from the carvings was delicate yet intoxicating—a sweetness that clung to the senses, like the memory of a dream one can't quite name. It made him hesitate. For a brief second, Aerax felt peace, a warmth that seeped into his muscles and quieted the ever-present alertness in his blood.

But then, reality snapped back like a whip.

A chill swept through the corridor, sudden and biting, cutting through his thin fur like a blade of ice. The peace shattered, and with it came the gnawing dread that something else was here—watching. A warning, not from the air, but from the labyrinth itself.

He sensed that something was waiting at the end of the corridor. An invisible pressure, like a heavy curtain woven from shadows, settled around his thoughts and lungs. The darkness ahead was not merely a lack of light—it pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of something ancient. There was intent in that blackness. Hunger.

Then, from that shadowed depth, a giant figure emerged.

A white bull—his fur pale as winter milk, two great horns curved high like sickles against the ceiling. His cold eyes burned with hatred, or perhaps purpose. His body was vast, sculpted muscle and sheer weight, moving with the grounded grace of a creature forged for war. Each step he took cracked the stone beneath him like ice under pressure.

Minoros.

The name hit Aerax like a cold wave. The master of the maze. The guardian of the tomb. The executioner of all who dared disturb the sacred dead.

In one enormous hand, Minoros held a long, brutal staff tipped with a glinting axe blade. It gleamed under the torchlight like a star fallen from heaven to punish the unworthy. With every step, the walls seemed to draw inward, the corridor narrowing, turning from path to trap.

And then, without warning, Minoros charged.

He moved far faster than his size should allow, his hooves slamming the ground with the weight of an earthquake. The wind from his motion shrieked around the walls like a banshee. The axe came down in a deadly arc toward Aerax's throat.

Aerax dove to the side, the blade missing him by inches. The air was sliced open with a whistle, and the force of the blow sent shards of stone flying. He rolled, came up crouching, heart pounding. The scent of sweat and blood was heavy now, no longer just his own.

"No one leaves this maze," Minoros growled. His voice was deep, gravelly—like the earth itself had spoken.

Each swing of Minoros's axe was devastating, a storm in physical form. Walls cracked. Dust poured from the ceiling. The floor beneath them trembled. The sheer force behind each strike left no doubt—this was a creature born not of flesh, but of legend and punishment.

Aerax had no chance in brute strength. He danced around the blows, weaving and dodging, using every corner, every loose stone to stay alive. He kicked a pebble into the shadows, forcing Minoros to glance aside—a single heartbeat of distraction.

But it wasn't enough. Minoros didn't tire. He pressed on, axe flashing again and again, relentless as time.

Aerax's breath burned in his throat. His body, already wounded from previous battles, screamed with every movement. Old cuts reopened. His limbs felt heavier with each dodge. But still—he refused to stop. He couldn't.

"I cannot die here," he muttered, eyes flicking to the glint of steel in Minoros's hand.

He searched for an opening, but Minoros read every move like a seasoned predator. Dust filled the air. Sparks flew from every impact. The maze shook around them, as if bearing witness to a duel too ancient for memory.

A glancing blow caught Aerax on the knee. Pain shot up his leg like fire. Blood soaked into his boot. He nearly fell—but his will held. He clenched his jaw, forcing the pain down. His eyes remained locked on Minoros, more defiant than afraid.

Was this all a trial? A punishment? Or a rite?

The battle dragged on, brutal and merciless. Time slowed into something unreal. There was only the rhythm of movement, the percussion of steel and stone, the rising fog of blood and sweat.

Aerax knew one thing: he could not strike yet. He was the prey in this hunt, dodging the predator's jaws by instinct and calculation. Every motion was life or death. One mistake would mean silence. One misstep—oblivion.

He twisted, ducked, avoided being pinned against the cold stone. There was no room to breathe, no time to plan. He moved like a shadow, eyes calculating, muscles taut.

Then—finally—Minoros faltered.

It was slight, just a pause in his breath, a fraction of a second of stillness. But it was enough. The axe lowered by a hand's width. His chest heaved. Sweat ran like dew down his flanks.

Aerax didn't move. He simply watched, eyes unblinking.

No words were spoken. No killing blow followed.

Just stillness.

Not an end—no. A pause. A breath between battles.

"He must have some weakness…" Aerax whispered, voice low as dust. His hands clenched. His mind sharpened.

This was not over.It had only just begun.