Erfoud, Morocco – on the edge of the Sahara Desert
The locals call it "Al-Mahw"—a gradual loss of memory after visiting the ruins buried north of Erfoud. No one ever returned with a complete story, only fragments of memory and nightmares about roots and flesh moving in the sand.
I came not out of bravery, but out of duty. A Punic manuscript was found near the site, and the museum in Rabat sent me to verify it. But the content of the manuscript was older than any Punic language—and it mentioned a name that sent a chill through my veins: "Y'bn Shub-Niggurath."
In the nearby village, I met Zakaria, an old man whose eyes always moved, as though he was being watched. He warned me not to tread near the land around the old oasis. "The mother lives there," he said, "the one who gives birth to things that should not be named."
As night fell, I dreamed of a living desert. Sand dunes pulsed like lungs, and from the cracks in the sand, pale-skinned creatures crawled out—no eyes, only mouths that kept calling, "Y'bn... Y'bn..."
Iskander, one of the local guards, vanished at dawn. We found him at the oasis, his legs transformed into roots buried in the sand, his body decaying, but his face was smiling... as if he had returned to his womb.
And in the center of the oasis, I saw a worship stone. The carvings on it matched the symbols from the diver's journal in America, and the symbols Ayaka had drawn in her sleep.
One symbol reappeared: The Open Eye.
And the voice in my head now whispered more clearly:
"When the Open Eye rises at the five corners of the world, It shall awaken…"
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