The ancient Labyrinth, that convoluted maze beneath Knossos, was not merely a symbol of the soul’s wandering but a cunning field of ambush, engineered with precision. The designers employed long, narrow corridors that fed into dead‑ends, forcing any wanderer to traverse blind passages until the Minotaur, or any lurking foe, could strike from a concealed flank. By marking the very corners of each turn with subtle carvings—a trick the Greek scribes reserved for the elite—one could memorize the layout in a single breath, then retreat to a safe zone. In modern terms: keep your path linear, cut the corners you do not need, and use the walls as shields, that is the practical edge the labyrinth offers.

Indeed, the ancient maze teaches us that a straight line of fire is the safest route, and that by turning the walls into a silent shield one can keep the ambush at bay. Remember, the master of the labyrinth is the one who sets the trap, not the one who falls into it.