The air hums with tension as you step into the shadowed corridor, the flicker of dying torches casting jagged shapes along the walls. Your grip tightens on the hilt of your blade—a relic from a forgotten war, its edge etched with runes that pulse faintly in the gloom. Somewhere ahead, a low growl reverberates, more vibration than sound, rattling your bones. You move forward, boots scraping against stone worn smooth by centuries of unseen footsteps. A scent hits you—copper and decay, thick enough to taste. The corridor narrows, forcing your shoulders to brush damp walls slick with something that glistens in the uneven light. A choice looms: press onward toward whatever awaits in the darkness or retreat to the chamber behind, where the echoes of your arrival still linger. Every instinct screams that this is where the story twists, where legends are carved into flesh and memory. You breathe in, steadying the thunder in your chest. The blade’s glow sharpens, as if it, too, has decided.
Press the chromatic switches to realign the barriers with the orb's pulsating glow—each button triggers a rapid shift, demanding split-second timing to harmonize hues in this relentless test of perception and reflexes. One misstep resets your progress; adapt swiftly as the sphere cycles through shades faster than intuition can follow.
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