Searching For Andromeda 51 Solving The Riddle

الجواب يكمن في تنين وحيد.

The inscriptions.

Ephraim was able to dodge the fire just barely. Left, right, left, right, jump, roll, and suffer the burns. Everything was fuzzy, and only he was able to know he was alive when he stumbled upon another podium. It was a dragon made with gold that appeared atop the podium's cryptex; a portable vault used to hide secret messages. And in this case, Arabic inscriptions!

Ephraim's eyes widened, and at the same time, his heart was filled with momentary ease. Now, this is something he is able to translate! The inscriptions were in a jumble, forming sentences that made no sense. The cryptex had symbols that one could align with. The fragments on the cryptex include: Wahid's, dragon, in, answer, lies, and the. Through his trembling hands, Ephraim started to reshuffle the inscriptions with the podium's cryptex.

He remembered doing these things back when he was an archaeology student. Cryptex was a device that conveyed secret messages. It was similar to the hieroglyphics in Egyptian tombs—guised to help the Pharaoh's journey to the afterlife. His professors told him that some of the texts were to aid the prisoners out of the tombs.

And by far, all of the countries Ephraim had an archaeological trip with, had one thing in common.

All of them revolved around codes.

Whether it was complex symbols or undecipherable riddles, every country had its own set of codes. It was a pattern human history was prevalent with. One of the things he discovered in Archaeology was that the past seemed to revolve around complex and systematic patterns. And many forms of arts manifested with the same formula—movies, books, games—and almost anything under the sun.

Ephraim continued to shuffle the cryptex; he had formed several combinations of sentences such as—Wahid's lies the dragon in answer—which absolutely made no sense.

And then it clicked.

الجواب يكمن في تنين وحيد.

"Aljawab yakmun fi tanayn Wahidin . . ." Ephraim reads, reshuffling the cryptex's rings as it aligns with a certain sentence that conveyed something that looked right to him.

"The answer lies in Wahid's dragon." Ephraim murmurs. Wahid? Wahid's dragon? Before Ephraim could even continue questioning and scrutinizing this odd message, an inscription written in Arabic continued to appear on the podium itself—it was being marked by fire; the symbols being written with a blistering spark.

"Now speak thy word," Ephraim reads the marks from the podium and then began to twist a certain key with the shape of the sun appearing to the podium. "I come to retrieve Wahid's treasure . . . ?"

It was hard to translate the words quickly, but the pressure of the scorching fire nearing to burn him to ashes made Ephraim able to decode as soon as he could. The fires from the pits were flaming upwards, getting stronger and stronger. Ephraim glanced around nervously, looking around for a certain switch or lever that could perhaps stop the fire traps. He thought the cryptex would solve the problem, but it turns out it made the flames burn stronger.

He pressed the sun with finality. He doesn't have a choice, after all.

And to Ephraim's variegated astonishment and mixed fascination—the dragon made of gold started to move—its tails started to sway as its metallic scales come to glisten as it moves. It crawled to the sun and merged with it, forming a certain emblem as it twists in systematic patterns. The dragon opened his mouth and unleashed a key.

Ephraim slowly reached for the key, twisting it right and left—but it seemed like it wasn't the key's purpose to be twisted, given the fact that twisting it didn't do a thing. Ephraim tried pulling it away—and as the young archaeologist did so, he was rewarded with a key upholding the designs of a dragon insignia and intricate cryptograms and markings.

And then, after Ephraim had the key in his hand, the cryptex abruptly changed the alignment of words like that of a device going awry. From the sentence "The answer lies in Wahid's dragon," it changed to—

The dragon lies in Wahid's answer.

The burning fire soon caught up nearer and nearer to Ephraim's place, scorching whatever was left of the whole enchilada; the dragon podium drew back, with the walls opening for the podium to merge with it until there was nothing but Ephraim and the fire traps.

And before Ephraim could run, the floor corroded like sand dispersing—and once again, he fell down to his doom.

**

"Vashti . . ."

Arletha trembled as she sees the face of Vashti sewn in the necromorph she shot several times. Vashti's eyes weren't there, but her lips, nose, and her hair were joined to the necromorph. Arletha felt her knees as it wobbles, her throat slowly going parched. She still couldn't avert her gaze to the spectacle before them.

Vashti—the necromorph with Vashti's face—slowly crawled to the floor until it slowly rose into a towering lean figure glowering down to the two of them.

"V-vashti . . . is this some kind of a joke . . ." Arletha murmurs. "If this is a joke, I won't forgive you . . ."

"w h y?"

Samuel's eyes widened—the necromorph—it spoke. It spoke with Vashti's voice!

"Vashti . . ." Arletha says nervously, "s-so it's you! What are you doing, making illusions like th-that?"

"w h y?"

"What do you mean why?" Even Arletha's voice sounded strained. Samuel's eyes widened as he sees Vashti's—no, the necromorph's claws impending to strike. Without hesitation, he pulled Arletha back, which then made the claws landed on the clock tower's floorboards.

"What are you doing!" Arletha says.

"We have to go," Samuel exclaims. "Now!"

Samuel once more dragged Arletha away from the place as the necromorph continued to strike its claws to them.

"w h y?"

"Let go of me, Youngling, I'll be talking to Vashti—"

"It's not Vashti!" Samuel exclaims. "Can't you see? Are you crazy?"

"I'm not crazy!" Arletha pulled away from Samuel as she sauntered towards the necromorph.

Samuel once more pulled Arletha by her wrist. He glances at the necromorph, who was readying to attack them. It was slower than the one from before because it had arrows struck in its back.

From the far distance, Samuel could hear the other monster growls. The faint scratches on the wall suggest they were trying to climb the building. It wouldn't be too far from possible given the circ.u.mstance that one already made it here.

"w h y?" the necromorph mutters, its voice sounding like that of Vashti's.

"Why are you . . . aiming for . . . Wahid's Vessel?" the necromorph asks; its voice sounding artificial and overwrought. "what . . . is it . . . that makes you . . . worthy?"