The first thing Sunny saw was fire.
Not the clean kind — not the kind that burned with purpose or warmth — but fire that clung and crawled, fire that smeared itself across the world like a disease. It coated the horizon in dull orange and sickly red, painting everything beneath it in the color of ruin.
He stood far away from it all.
Far enough that the heat didn't reach him. Far enough that the screams blended into a single, meaningless sound.
Thousands of people were dying below.
They were being crushed beneath the chitinous bulk of enormous crustaceans, each one the size of a dozen men stacked atop one another. Their shells were ridged and wet-looking, glistening under the inferno-lit sky. Massive claws snapped shut like guillotines, severing bodies with casual indifference. Where they crawled, the ground cracked and collapsed.
Steel-armored spiders scuttled between the wreckage, their legs impossibly long, bending at angles that made no anatomical sense. Their bodies were plated in dark metal. They climbed over corpses, over each other — descending on pockets of survivors with mechanical precision.
There were other things, too. Things without names. Things that looked half-finished, like the world had given up halfway through creating them.
Sunny watched it all with empty eyes.
A crown rested on his head.
It was heavy.
Not physically — no, it didn't strain his neck or bow his spine. Its weight was conceptual. Absolute. The kind of weight that pressed down on thoughts instead of bone.
He smiled.
Someone stood beside him.
He didn't look.
"The fault is yours alone."
His voice echoed, layered and distant, as if spoken by several mouths at once.
The other presence did not respond.
The world burned on as the Crimson Spire pierced the heavens.
***
Suddenly, Sunny was lying on a bed.
White sheets. Soft fabric. The air smelled faintly of something clean — soap, maybe. The ceiling above him was indistinct, blurring at the edges like wet paint.
Someone lay beside him.
He could feel their presence — warmth, a subtle shift in the mattress when they breathed — but their form refused to come into focus. Every time he tried to look at them directly, his vision slid away, as though the dream itself were gently but firmly guiding his gaze elsewhere.
He turned his head slightly.
His expression was sorrowful.
"The truth is, people can talk about how important another is to them all they want."
The indistinct figure did not move.
Sunny continued:
"In the end, everybody is their own world. They just wish they were another's as well."
The words lingered between them, heavy with something unspoken.
For a moment, it felt like the figure beside him might say something.
Then the bed dissolved.
***
Sunny stood again.
This time, the ground beneath his feet was slick with blood.
A single figure knelt before him, their abdomen split open in a grotesque, uneven wound. Blood poured freely between their fingers as they clutched at it, trying — and failing — to keep themselves together.
In their other hand was a baseball bat.
It was stained dark red, the steel chipped and cracked from repeated impacts. Their grip was tight, knuckles white despite the blood.
Sunny stepped closer.
Gently, he wrapped his fingers around the bat and pried it from their hand. The figure resisted weakly at first, then let go.
Sunny smiled.
His face was bloodied. His teeth shone white against the red.
"What's it called again? A home-run?"
He raised it slightly, resting it against his shoulder.
"Just watch… I'll beat that snicker right out of orbit!"
In his other hand, he held up the pale, golden orb to his face, opening his mouth…
***
Sunny jolted awake.
He inhaled sharply, chest rising and falling once, twice, before his breathing evened out.
Darkness filled the room.
Just the quiet hum of Starskiff Haven at night.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, blinking slowly.
"…Huh."
He was aware, immediately, that he had been dreaming.
That alone was strange enough to register.
But what unsettled him more was the absence.
There were no lingering images. No emotional residue. No sense of loss or dread or triumph.
This was his first time dreaming in years chronologically, and according to his existing memories, over a year ago. But he was sure that dreams were usually lingered more.
It was like waking up after reading a book and forgetting the entire plot — knowing only that it had existed.
Sunny exhaled softly and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
For some reason, his chest felt… tight. Not painfully so. Just enough to be noticeable. A quiet pressure, like something had brushed past him and left an impression.
He stood and crossed the room, pausing briefly before the window.
After a moment's consideration, he opened it.
Cool air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of incense and distant ozone. The artificial night sky stretched overhead, stars suspended in carefully curated patterns.
Sunny climbed out without hesitation.
He landed lightly on the rooftop below, shadows cushioning the impact to lessen the noise. From there, he moved fluidly, leaping across rooftops and narrow bridges with practiced ease. He covered his body with a cloth-like sheet of shadows, no longer looking like a madman who didn't wear shoes when going outside.
Eventually, he slipped into a narrow alley, tucked away between storage buildings and maintenance corridors. Satisfied that no one was watching, he stepped into the shadows and let them swallow him whole.
A heartbeat later, he emerged onto a quiet ledge at the edge of Starskiff Haven.
Sunny sat down and let his legs dangle over the side.
Below him, clouds drifted lazily, glowing faintly with reflected light. Starskiffs glided through them in smooth arcs, their hulls cutting through mist like ships through water. Engines hummed softly, distant and rhythmic.
The Xianzhou Luofu stretched out around him — not as a single mass, but as a collection of floating artificial islands, suspended within the vast hull of the ship itself. Bridges of steel and decorative stone connected them, while cargo lanes and transit routes threaded through the air like veins.
It didn't feel like a ship.
It felt like a world.
Sunny watched silently, mind wandering.
He thought about the Second Nightmare.
About Noctis.
About Elyas.
They hadn't been real. Not in the conventional sense. Illusions. Constructs. Echoes of the past, shaped by the Spell.
And yet…
They were some of the few people he could say he'd genuinely liked.
Sunny still shivered when he recalled how Noctis was aware of his own non-existence, something that should have never happened in a Nightmare. Hope seemed to be in on it too, to some degree.
Were they controlled by the Spell to do those things, or were the two of them completely accurate to their real counterparts?
Sunny clenched his fingers slightly, then relaxed them.
A part of him wondered if caring about them made him foolish.
Another part didn't care.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Sunny didn't turn around.
Someone sat down beside him, close enough that their presence pressed gently against his awareness. They crossed their legs with practiced ease.
The man's presence was… deep.
Not overwhelming. Not oppressive.
Just vast.
Sunny recognized it instantly.
A Saint.
He sighed.
"…Figures."
The man's voice was calm, warm in an oddly distant way.
"Would it be rude to inquire your thoughts?"
Sunny didn't bother thinking before answering.
"Yes, but I'll tell you anyways."
The Saint chuckled softly.
Sunny kept his gaze on the starskiffs below.
"Basically, my two imaginary friends died. One of them knew he was imaginary."
He paused, then added:
"I also know they're imaginary. But I still care more about them than you — a real, non-imaginary stranger. No offense."
The mysterious Saint hummed thoughtfully.
"I see."
He leaned back slightly, resting his hands behind him.
"I have encountered a similar scenario myself. Back when I was much younger."
Sunny finally glanced at him.
The Saint's appearance was unassuming in an almost deliberate way — white hair falling loosely around sharp, composed features. His eyes were calm, ancient without being cold. He wore layered garments that blended tradition with subtle utility, as though fashion had bowed to function long ago.
The Saint sighed.
"In an unfortunate series of events. I ended up losing those who I called my companions."
He smiled faintly.
"One ended up as a fugitive, hated by the world."
Sunny blinked.
"Another ended up regressing into a child."
Sunny blinked twice.
"The third is… well, I'm not sure. She's certainly doing her own thing, I suppose. She does seem to have some interest my apprentice, which does bring up some concerns."
Sunny blinked thrice.
"And the fourth was… a lunatic."
The Saint paused for a moment.
"Not anymore, however. He got better."