Welcome, brave treasure hunter! Blackwood Manor has stood for centuries, hiding legendary relics. The family vanished long ago, but whispers say the manor itself is alive, watching for someone worthy. Today, that someone might be you.

You push open the heavy doors and step inside. BOOM! They slam shut behind you. Dust swirls in dim light. On the floor, glowing in ash, a riddle appears:

You step into the alchemist's domain. Heat from bubbling flasks washes over you—power thrums in the air. Ancient tomes line the walls, promising secrets. Your eyes catch a warning scrawled in red: "The direct path holds danger. The patient path holds wisdom."

Which will you choose? A riddle waits:

You enter the Great Hall, and immediately feel the weight of history. The massive chandelier hangs overhead, crystal glinting in firelight. Long tables stretch across the room, and a grand staircase rises in the distance. You're drawn to the hearth, where embers still glow. Your heart pounds. This feels important. Carved into the wooden mantle, a riddle waits:

You chose patience over power, and the manor has led you here. Stone walls rise around you, ancient and cold. Glowing pumpkins cast flickering orange light across the shadows. Skeletons hang from the ceiling, spiders cling to webs in every corner. But you waited, you listened—and now you understand. This room holds secrets. Carved into the stone wall, a riddle:

You step into the stone chamber, your candle casting long shadows. Glowing pumpkins light your way with eerie orange faces. Skeletons watch from above, spiders weave between them. The air is thick with mystery. A whisper fills the room—not threatening, but testing. On the wall, a riddle:

The manor itself has guided you back to where you began. But you're not the same person who first walked through these doors. The whispers are clearer now—you understand their language. Before the grand mirror, frost spreads across the glass like reaching fingers, forming words. A riddle appears:

Your courage has brought you to the Blackwood family graveyard. Ancient tombstones lean at odd angles, names worn smooth by time and weather. The air is still—too still. You came here willingly. Brave or foolish? Perhaps both. On the largest monument, weathered but readable, a riddle is carved:

You walk among tombstones under a moonless sky. Your light flickers in the darkness. A riddle is carved on the Blackwood family crypt:

You descend into the servants' quarters, following your shadow. Dishes clatter though no one is here. On a dusty table, a riddle:

You return to the lab, drawn by spirits and mystery. Ancient formulas line the walls. A final riddle waits: