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When the unthinkable strikes, humans falter panicked, exposed, trapped in chaos. Setsuna's calm stems solely from one belief: this is a dream. In dreams, anything goes. Any end, however grim, fades upon waking. Nightmares sink into memory's depths, forgotten in daily life.
That's why he can coolly observe the creatures encircling them.
In some worlds, they're commonplace. In the fantasy Setsuna knows, they're foes—attacking, killing humans.
In short:
"Monsters!"
Beneath the canopy of woven branches, heavy darkness reigns. Countless red glints pierce the gloom the eyes of beasts, their gazes sharp as blades, stabbing Setsuna's mind. Never has he felt such raw malice. Pain grips him, unprovoked.
Gasping for breath, his consciousness blurs. Their killing intent is a naked sword, slicing at mere touch.
Even with the dream's shield, his calm frays. No panic, no chaos, but his thoughts twist, unraveling.
(A dream?)
Doubt creeps in. Can a nightmare feel this real? Sweat beads on his palm. Fear, undeniable.
"They're called Ouma Imperial Demons," Azmaria's voice cuts through.
Her words seem to dull the monsters' malice or is it his imagination? Air seeps into his lungs, cold and warped, but a lifeline. His composure inches back.
"Long ago, a man unified this continent with unmatched might, proclaiming himself Holy Emperor. Miendia Reignus=Wagrain. His rule brought no peace, only chaos. He summoned gods from another world."
Setsuna eyes the creatures. Monstrous fits them perfectly. Quadrupedal, yet not beasts. Sleek, streamlined heads with four glowing eyeholes no mouth, nose, or ears. Blue skin encases them, with machete-like claws and spiraling tails. Paired protrusions jut from their backs. Unfamiliar, unsettling, unlike anything from anime or his own imagination.
Dozens fifty at least surround them, their red eyes flickering in the dark.
"No one knows what he sought with those gods' power," Azmaria continues. "But one truth remains: their summoning dragged otherworldly demons to this land. Those are the Ouma."
A shrill, metallic screech shatters the air as she finishes, a discordant wave crashing into Setsuna's mind. No time to cover his ears. The noise would pierce any gap, rattling his brain.
"!?"
The world warps. Vision distorts, fractures. His hands go numb first, then his legs. His body sways, unable to stand.
(What…!?)
Unfathomable, he collapses forward, screaming inwardly as the ground rushes up. His arms won't move to shield his face. The impact sears, pain exploding. Dreams can hurt, he tells himself, but this skull-rattling agony feels too real. Tears well. No alarm clock sounds only Azmaria's voice.
"So, what now?"
Her question baffles him.
Anger flares. Why so detached? If she's unharmed, why not help? Dream or not, a hand would be nice. Sprawled on the ground, it's all he can think. The noise has faded.
"Wait to be slaughtered by the Ouma, or grab a weapon and fight? Of course, there's fleeing but no, that's impossible."
Her indifferent tone snaps him.
"Shut up!" he roars, wrenching his face from the dirt. Sensation returns, unbidden. His vision clears, revealing several Ouma closing in, slithering low, their speed alarming.
"Guh!?"
A guttural cry escapes as one looms before him, four red eyes locked on. Their glow is murder incarnate.
Their gaze sends shivers through him. His body freezes. He knows he must flee or die, but his limbs betray him, bound as if by paralysis.
The Ouma is half a step away. Its claw gleams—a reaper's scythe. Too late to call it a dream. The face-smashing pain grounded it all. The monsters, the forest, Azmaria all real now.
This isn't a dream.
Death, inches away, is real.
(Move, damn it!)
His desperate cry echoes in his chest. His body, shackled by fear, awaits doom. Footsteps of ruin draw near.
Then, Azmaria's voice: "Want to fight? Try shouting 'Weapon Summon.'"
Angel or devil's whisper?
"Weapon Summon!"
Reflexively, he bellows, no hesitation, no restraint. A soul-deep roar, his body boiling with defiance. He won't die.
"Good," Azmaria says.
Light streaks across his exposed skin not his black-and-white uniform but his hands, his face forming intricate, geometric patterns. A blinding flash erupts, banishing the forest's darkness, perhaps dazzling the Ouma's eyes.
In that liberating glow, a voice noble, beautiful seems to speak. No hallucination, but its words slip away. That's fine. He knows it is.
Eyes open, hands raised. He must. A heavy weight forms in his grip.
Clutching it, he swings down. The Ouma, frozen mid-strike, splits in two effortlessly, like slicing tofu. Monster or blade which is softer? He's stunned.
Black blood and ichor spray, but none touch him. He's airborne, gripping a black spear, longer than his height, its tip gleaming. A gem at its base shimmers transparently. The light from his body fades, the forest dark again. No silence now—Ouma wails echo, mourning or raging.
Among the canopy, he tracks their glowing eyes. Fifty or so, searching for him. Their red glares betray them in the dark. Some spot him, their malice sharp but no longer crushing.
(That's it?)
Descending, he pities their fragility. One swing ends them. Fear gone, excitement absent. He processes coldly: trees' positions, Ouma movements, Azmaria's gaze. No chaos, despite knowing this isn't a dream.
Landing, he leaps forward, low. An Ouma at a tree's base, searching, dies to a single thrust. No guilt. They're monsters. No mercy needed. They struck first self-defense.
(Overkill?)
He shakes his head. Kill or be killed. This is real. No reason to die.
"Hmph."
Sensing malice behind, he spins, slashing five charging Ouma. His storm-like strike tears them apart.