The transition was not gentle. It was a violent wrenching, a sensation of being torn from his body and flung into an icy void. Blackness pressed in, suffocating and absolute, filled with the cacophony of the Spell's whispers. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it ended.
Lucian gasped, his lungs burning as they drew in a ragged breath. The air was frigid and thin, carrying the metallic scent of old blood and damp earth. He was lying on his side, his cheek pressed against cold, cracked stone. A dull ache throbbed through his entire body, and a heavy weight chafed his wrists.
He forced his eyes open.
He was in a world of grey and crimson. Above him, a bruised, sunless sky churned with sickly purple and charcoal clouds. No sun, no moon, just a diffuse, oppressive twilight that seemed to bleed from the very air. He pushed himself into a sitting position, his movements sluggish and weak. The heavy weight was a pair of rusted iron shackles, binding his hands together. Similar bonds were clasped around his ankles.
He was dressed in rags that offered little protection from the biting wind. Looking around, he saw that he was in the middle of a vast, desolate field littered with the debris of a forgotten war. Broken siege engines, like the skeletal remains of colossal beasts, lay half-buried in the mud. Countless weapons—shattered spears, notched swords, and splintered shields—were strewn across the landscape.
And bones. Everywhere, there were bones. Humanoid skeletons, many still clad in decaying armor, lay where they had fallen, locked in eternal, silent combat. This was a graveyard, an ancient battlefield where an army had been annihilated.
A chillingly familiar prompt appeared in his vision, a translucent screen of ethereal light.
[Welcome, Sleeper.]
[Your First Nightmare has begun.]
[Trial Objective: Survive.]
Lucian's heart hammered against his ribs, but his expression remained a mask of cold composure. He dismissed the interface and took stock of his situation. His body was weak, frail. This wasn't his own physical form but a vessel provided by the Spell.
He wasn't alone. Or rather, he was in the company of ghosts.
Scattered nearby were four other figures, all similarly shackled and clad in rags, slowly stirring to consciousness. Lucian's knowledge from his past life flared in his mind. These weren't other Sleepers. They couldn't be. They were illusions, echoes of the people who had actually died here, long ago. They were constructs of the Spell, programmed to play out their final, fatal moments as part of his trial.
They were part of the script.
The first to speak was a large, burly man with a thick beard, playing his role perfectly as the "foolhardy soldier." He rattled his chains, his voice a furious roar. "What is this? Where the hell are we? Is this some kind of sick joke?"
A young woman with wide, terrified eyes—the "innocent victim"—began to sob quietly, curling into a ball. "I want to go home… please, I want to go home."
The third was an older man, gaunt and wiry, with shrewd, calculating eyes. The "grizzled veteran." He remained silent, his gaze sweeping across the desolate landscape. The final member of their doomed party was a man of average build who was simply staring at his hands in numb disbelief—the "shell-shocked survivor."
Lucian watched them, his mind cold and analytical. They were not allies; they were clues. Their actions, their words, their inevitable deaths would guide him through the narrative of this Nightmare. He had to observe, anticipate, and use their programming to his advantage.
The burly man stomped over to the veteran. "Hey! Old man, you know anything about this?"
The old man played his part. "I know that shouting will only attract unwanted attention. We are in a place where survival is the only law. I suggest we keep quiet and find shelter."
Sensible words, but Lucian knew the foolhardy soldier wouldn't listen. As expected, the man scoffed and began smashing his shackles against a large rock, the clang of metal echoing unnervingly in the silence. Lucian didn't waste his breath. You couldn't reason with a program.
He turned his attention to the horizon. In the distance, silhouetted against the bruised sky, was the crumbling ruin of a watchtower. A landmark. A destination. The next scene of the play. He had to move the script forward.
"We should head for that tower," Lucian said, his voice quiet but clear.
The illusions turned to look at him, their programmed eyes showing surprise that the quiet boy had spoken.
The burly man paused his futile assault on his chains. "And who are you to give orders, kid?"
"The wind is picking up," Lucian stated flatly, pointing with his chin towards the churning clouds. "That sky doesn't look friendly. Being caught in the open when a storm hits is suicide. The cold will kill us even if the monsters don't."
He was feeding them a logical cue, one that their programming should respond to. It worked. The veteran nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on Lucian. "The boy is right. We need to move."
The veteran started shuffling towards the tower, and the other illusions, including the grumbling burly man, followed suit. Lucian fell in at the rear, a silent shepherd guiding his doomed flock toward the next plot point.
They were about halfway to the tower when the inevitable happened. A trigger for the next event. The sobbing woman stumbled, letting out a sharp cry. She had tripped over a half-buried helmet, and a jagged piece of rusted metal had sliced a deep gash in her leg. Blood, dark and crimson, welled up immediately.
The burly man grunted in annoyance. "Get up! We don't have time for this."
The smell of fresh blood hung heavy in the air. Lucian's eyes narrowed. There it is. The cue.
The veteran knelt beside her. "We have to stop the bleeding."
But it was too late. The script was already in motion. Lucian's gaze lifted to the sky, searching. He saw it almost immediately. A dark speck, circling high above. It grew larger, descending with unnatural speed. A Carrion Vulture.
It had smelled the blood. The bait had been taken.
"Something's coming," Lucian said, his voice a low, calm warning. He wasn't scared; he was prepared. This was the first real test.
The illusions looked up, their faces filling with programmed terror. "What is that thing?!" the burly man yelled, his bravado finally shattering.
The Carrion Vulture let out a piercing shriek. It wasn't aiming for the whole group. It was aiming for the weakest link. The injured prey.
It dove, its talons, long and sharp as daggers, extended towards the crying woman on the ground.