The eastern border of the Dream Kingdom once touched the blue sea.
Now it is a forest, dark and endless, formed when the Dream Kingdom unsealed.
The walls here were always weak, and that weakness gave birth to rebellion.
With the rebellion crushed, fortifications rise stone by stone, soldier by soldier.
But from the forest, beasts still come, tearing through villages, leaving corpses behind.
Tonight the fortress stands silent, silver under the moon.
Two men keep watch on the eastern wall, eyes fixed on the treeline.
"The beasts never attack at night," one says softly.
The other nods.
"Then we speak. The rebel leaders, I hear, live on, studied by the new Ministry of Technology."
"The Totem is merciful. Otherwise, they would all be ash."
"Yes. The Totem is benevolent, so my faith does not waver."
"And now that the Dream Kingdom can be felt again, I may return to the knight's way."
Silence settles.
The ground shudders.
At first faint, then heavy.
A rhythm of thousands of hooves.
Both men freeze.
"Beasts?"
The sound grows clearer, sharper, too measured for beasts.
One man tears the alarm rope.
The bell tolls, thunder over stone.
The fortress wakes in seconds.
Torches flare, bows string, soldiers rush to the wall.
Their faces harden as they stare east.
From the forest, shadows emerge.
Not beasts.
Not orcs.
Armoured riders.
They wear black steel from head to toe.
Their steeds breathe mist that spreads darkness across the ground.
A thousand riders gallop, the air shaking with their charge.
The soldiers grip their weapons tighter.
They are facing a new enemy.
The riders lower their lances.
The attack begins.
----
Merin sits alone in the throne room.
The air is quiet, yet the weight of his thoughts presses heavier than stone.
Rank 16.
The power he once longed for now rests in his veins, yet it feels incomplete.
He does not wish to tread the divine way again.
Too much depends on faith—fragile, shifting, easily broken.
Still, he will not abandon it entirely.
The Dream Kingdom itself has become his clone.
It breathes, it pulses, it draws faith from believers.
Let that fragment of him walk the divine path, growing with the devotion of others.
But his true body, his true self, will take another road.
The blood path carried him this far, all the way to Rank 16.
Now it stops, silent as a sealed gate.
His veins thrum, but no further answers come.
He ponders in stillness, searching the unseen horizon of cultivation.
What lies beyond blood?
What foundation can surpass divine and blood alike?
The Dream Kingdom grows brighter in his mind, whispering faith.
But Merin only closes his eyes.
He seeks a way forward that is his alone.
He ponders the path of formations and life-essence, but the road ahead is clear in its failure.
Yes, he can improve, yet every step will demand mountains of resources.
Resources that would bleed the Dream Kingdom dry.
This is no better than the divine way, shackled to faith and offerings.
He will not bind himself again to such chains.
The divine way is abandoned, not in hatred, but in rejection of dependence.
A new way must be born.
Blood cultivation, until now, has been the evolution of the body.
Stronger bones, stronger veins, stronger heart—always the flesh.
But what of the spirit?
The thought strikes him like lightning through the sea of consciousness.
The next realm must not refine the body, but the spirit itself.
Blood Sigil Realm.
The name takes root the moment he conceives it.
How to form the sigil becomes the question.
Inside him lies the formation of thousands of blood runes.
Each one is a mark of his years of cultivation, power, and transformation.
He will refine them with spiritual power.
Each rune will be tested, fused, and consumed.
Until at last, only one remains.
The Blood Sigil.
When it is formed, it will rise beyond the body.
It will illuminate his sea of consciousness like a crimson star.
That is the path forward.
That is the path forward.
Merin rises from his throne, his eyes clear with certainty.
He walks to the great doors of the hall, where the palace guards stand watch.
His voice is calm, yet carries the weight of command.
"Do not disturb me unless the Dream Kingdom itself is on the brink of destruction."
The guards bow deeply, their faces solemn.
He closes the doors with his own hands, sealing himself inside.
The throne room falls into silence, heavy and absolute.
Only the faint glow of the crystal lamps lingers, their light reflecting on the polished floor.
Merin sits cross-legged upon the throne, his breath steady, his presence vast.
The world outside fades, leaving only his body and spirit.
He begins his cultivation.
Merin sinks inward, his spirit diving through the vast sea of his body.
The countless runes etched in his bloodline glow faintly, like stars scattered through a dark sky.
Each rune carries power forged through centuries of struggle—strength, vitality, evolution, endurance.
He calls them forth one by one, weaving his spiritual power into threads that bind them.
The runes resist, for they were born from blood and bone, not spirit.
But Merin's will presses down, refining, polishing, forcing them to yield.
One rune shatters, dissolving into essence that flows into his spirit.
Another breaks, merging with the first, creating a brighter, denser light.
The process is agony, his body trembling as blood surges and veins bulge.
His spirit holds steady, suppressing the chaos, guiding the fragments into unity.
Hundreds of runes collapse, melt, and fuse, until their distinctions blur.
A single shape begins to emerge within his sea of consciousness—vague, incomplete, yet undeniable.
It is not flesh, nor blood, nor pure spirit.
It is the first shadow of the Blood Sigil.
The news arrives in the capital like a storm breaking over still waters.
Messengers rush through the palace gates, their faces pale, their armour still coated with the dust of the frontier.
The eastern border has fallen—enemy forces have crossed into Dream Kingdom territory.
Tillie gathers with the generals, priests, and ministers inside the council chamber.
The totem is silent, its divine glow absent, leaving them without guidance.
Without its will, the council falters, voices rising, arguing over defence, retreat, and sacrifice.
Tillie listens in silence, her hands clenched, her eyes fixed on the map spread before them.
At last, she rises, her voice clear, cutting through the chaos.
"If the totem is silent, then I will move in its place. I will lead the army and strike down the invaders."
Her words steady the chamber, the generals bowing, the priests lowering their heads.
Orders spread from the capital like wildfire—troops from every region are to march east.
Within days, trains thunder across the rails, every carriage filled with soldiers in iron and spirit.
The kingdom empties its strength, sending wave after wave toward the eastern front.
The Dream Kingdom has not spread; it remains only around the capital.
So, Tillie cannot call upon Dream Travel beyond those lands, so she too boards the train.
Her knights stand beside her, solemn and armed, her priests chanting blessings as the wheels scream against the rails.
Behind them, the Blood Cultivators remain within the capital, locked in recovery.
Their path is new, unsteady, and they cannot yet leave their cultivation without risking collapse.
So the burden falls on Tillie, the army, and the faith of the Dream Kingdom to withstand the storm.
A few days later, on an unnamed plain, the two armies face each other.
On one side, Tillie commands her host—knights mounted and armoured, priests standing in ranks, soldiers in power armour gripping cold weapons, gunners manning their rifles, and artillery scattered across the fields.
Tillie stands behind them, in front of a glowing screen, the eyes of drones feeding her every movement on the battlefield.
On the other side, a shifting mass of darkness advances, riders cloaked in shadow mounted on black steeds.
A horn blasts, and the riders surge forward in a tide of black mist.
Cannons thunder, rifles spark, artillery shells scream through the sky.
Dark shields flare into existence, blocking most of the fire.
Spells of pure darkness hurl across the field, exploding among the Dream Kingdom's lines.
Knights ride out, weapons blazing with holy light, priests lift their staves, barriers flaring to deflect.
Still, not all is stopped—some spells rip through the lines, tearing men apart.
The armoured soldiers march forward in discipline, halting the charge with cold steel and coordinated fire.
But the riders smash into them, shadows breaking their lines, blood spraying under blackened blades.
The knights surge forward to support them, divine steel clashing against the corrupted armour of the riders.
Priests weave blessings and healing into the chaos, pulling soldiers back from death, pushing the line forward again.
The tide shifts.
The enemy, outnumbered and without variety, begins to falter under sustained fire and steel.
Their commander, a powerful cultivator, charges to turn the battle, his dark aura sweeping aside knights and soldiers.
Tillie herself steps forward, her blade glowing with faith and will.
Their duel shakes the plain, divine light crashing against dark mist.
At last, Tillie pierces his chest, ending him in a burst of shattering darkness.
With their leader slain, the enemy routs, scattering across the plain.
Tillie does not relent, pushing her army forward, reclaiming every stretch of land the invaders had taken.
The Dream Kingdom's banners rise again over the lost towns and forts.
At last, she halts at the eastern border, her army battered but triumphant.
Across the horizon, a vast army looms—this time not just riders.
Foot soldiers march in disciplined ranks, monstrous beasts soar through the skies with riders upon them, their numbers stretching to the horizon.
Tillie narrows her eyes, realising the truth—what they fought before was only an advance force.
This is the true army.
She makes her choice swiftly.
Instead of striking, she orders her troops to withdraw deeper into their reclaimed territory.
Fortifications rise, trenches are dug, and artillery is positioned along the border.
Messengers are dispatched to the capital, carrying urgent pleas for more soldiers, more weapons, more strength.
The war has only begun.