To be torn apart... To be split...
To be cut...
One.
One.
Ah...
Repeated dreams that seem to have no end.
Painful.
Excruciatingly painful...
The young man opened his eyes. As always, he saw that he was in the same place. This was not the first time. This place was far too familiar to him. That gloomy castle, always appearing the same way, ruled by silence. A corridor stretching endlessly, always dark, always cold. The walls were covered with gray mist. Even the light seemed hesitant to enter.
"Here again," he said to himself. His eyes wandered around. There were long, ornate windows, but the moonlight was pale. It wasn't enough to illuminate the room; it only deepened the shadows. Then he lowered his head and looked at his hands, wiggling his fingers. He examined them carefully, as if he wanted to see beneath his skin.
Seeing your body being torn apart piece by piece in every dream is, I am sure, quite terrifying and painful. Blood flows, falls to the ground, then spreads everywhere. Every drop causes a ringing in your ears.
Pat!
Pat!
At first, everything is clear. You can watch how your body is falling apart. But as the dream progresses, the images distort, darkness spreads.
You want to scream from inside, but not a single sound comes from your lips. A pressure forms in your chest... as if someone is slowly choking you. And this feeling continues until you wake up.
First, you witness your fingers being cut one by one, then gradually, from your feet to your head, you start to be torn and split. Unfortunately, it is difficult to see your final form once your body has been torn and split, but imagining it is possible.
This is all I can say.
You can feel the pain down to your bones.
If it remains, of course.
The young man slightly shook his head from side to side. The expression on his face reflected a mix of fatigue and dissatisfaction. He let out a deep sigh, then began walking quietly. There was no hesitation in his steps, but his gaze was attentive. As if he were seeing his surroundings for the first time. Perhaps there was a detail he had not noticed this time...
The walls were cold as always, the corridors dark as always. The floor was stone, damp. But this was not what caught his attention. On the ground, there were blood traces spreading irregularly, without a clear direction. He did not know when they had formed. Nor to whom they belonged. He could not tell if they were his own or part of this place.
Of course, this isn't the first time I've seen blood; I'm used to it. I can say I see it almost every day.
But I can't understand one thing.
Why am I having these dreams? Could it be because of my injuries? Should I call it a wound or a cut? I don't know either.
The young man, Mahira, was just an ordinary person who wanted to be free.
As Mahira walked, he began to move his fingers along the damp and cold stone walls. "To achieve something in this life, you have to make some sacrifices. And I realized that I had to make some sacrifices to get rid of these wounds. I realized we must leave behind important or unimportant people.
To survive.
To attain eternal freedom," he said in a low and tired voice.
His fingers slowly started to break into small pieces. Blood spurted and fell to the ground, but Mahira ignored it and continued moving his severed fingers along the wall.
Every broken piece fell to the ground.
Tak!
Tak!
Tak!
He was practically painting the wall with blood.
"Let me briefly describe the dream I saw, because I won't be the one to tell it later. Usually, I find myself in a dark, airless castle or an endless labyrinth inside a never-ending chateau. Wherever I step, it is always the same path, always the same end."
Mahira reached the hall at the end of the corridor with heavy steps. In front of him stood a large, ornate, and elaborately decorated door. He reached out and pressed it lightly; the door creaked open. When he stepped inside, he was greeted by a vast hall bathed in dim light. It was not very bright; shadows silently moved along the base of the walls.
Elegant carvings twisted and extended across the walls all around the room, giving the impression that they had been patiently etched into the stone. The wallpaper hanging on them waved in pale yellow tones; it was clear at first glance that it was made of expensive material.
The coldness had seeped from the stone walls into the air; it seemed determined to chill everything that breathed. The stairs branched off to both sides. As he glanced at the path to his right, he noticed another door quietly waiting, likely leading somewhere completely different.
As he moved his steps down the stairs, his eyes fell on a long dining table stretching across the center of the room. When he approached the table, it was adorned with candlesticks, polished plates, carefully arranged cutlery sets, and an excessive number of decorative items. He placed his hand on the back of a chair and surveyed the table with an indifferent gaze.
Each plate was meticulously arranged. Yet, there was no food in them.
Inside each of them were human fingers.
All of them were different.
Some were bony, some without nails... Some were skinless, with veins protruding. Others still looked warm. As Mahira's eyes scanned over the severed fingers, no emotion appeared on his face. He remained calm. He no longer even remembered how many times he had witnessed this scene.
Every dismembered body filled this table. It had taken him a while to realize this because while recovering from the shock of falling here, his body was already being dismembered.
He understood.
This place had a specific time.
Before sitting in the chair, he looked up. He noticed the ceiling decorations. There were thin patterns, as if carved from glass, like colored glass mosaics. Most importantly, there were images of people spinning in circles, but their positions and faces were erased.
He held his gaze there for a moment, then looked down. He pulled up the sleeve of his garment. His red eyes focused on his wounds. The wounds were on both of his wrists and his feet. Like large cuts.
"I can't go outside. When I look out the window, I see that I'm quite high up. When I look at my wounds, I notice they aren't bleeding; I can't say they're fully healed. But it's as if... someone stitched them. They opened the wounds, tore them apart, and tried to press the skin together and sew it.
The person who did this must really be incompetent. There's no way I could have done it myself — if I had, I probably would never have endured the pain...
Yet I can confirm that the bleeding has completely stopped. I see it in my dream; maybe I tried to cover my wounds with my own imagination, and this is what resulted: a failed stitch.
Then... does this disgusting creation belong to me...?" He sighed with exhaustion.
He decided against sitting in the chair. Without stepping back, he turned toward the stairs. He went up and stepped into the long, dark corridor on the left. The moment he moved, a sharp pang hit the tip of his nose. Then a thin drop of blood began to trickle down. It flowed slowly, reaching the corner of his lip. He did not raise his hand. Wiping it would be pointless; he knew it would continue.
A headache began to throb, and the space between his eyebrows tightened. Mahira shook his head and smiled bitterly. "Well, let's forget I said that. Let's continue from where we left off. The inside of the castle is extremely dark, but in some places, thanks to candles hung on the walls, it's possible to see the surroundings."
When Mahira reached the spot he wanted, he stopped. But he needed a bit of light to see better. He needed his fingers to move the candles on the wall — and they were still bleeding. Even if he managed to hold on, the blood would make him slip and fall to the floor. He looked around. Nearby, he spotted a small drawer with a candle on it. The only solution was to push it.
He turned his steps toward it and slowly tried to move the small drawer. He nudged it with his feet, careful not to extinguish the candle. Even if there were windows, they wouldn't open on their own unless someone opened them. No matter how strong the wind was. After all, this is a dream realm, isn't it?
Creak~
After placing it where he wanted, he looked at the wall. "And before I forget, let me say the most important thing.
Something is written on the wall in a language I cannot read. In the areas we've been staying, we usually speak Lerihen. But the writing on the wall looks as if someone tried to write something using their fingers dipped in ink."
He touched the writing with his severed fingers, letting them glide over it. "Then does this mean someone was here before me? But if I think logically, that's impossible, because I'm dreaming. Unless someone enters my dream, it's impossible for anyone else to have come here.
The written language seems more like a symbolic one. It's clearly an ancient language. But I have no idea which one it is, because this World has countless languages of ancient origin."
He walked a little, heading toward the door on the left side of the corridor. Luckily, the door was open; otherwise, he would have needed his fingers. This was a bedroom. Pale light from the White Moon filtered through the long, narrow windows. Directly in front of the room, placed by the window, was a simple but sturdy wooden desk. The moonlight struck the desk's surface, casting faint shadows.
It was a quiet place, but old. Every corner from floor to ceiling was covered with insects. Nearly every type of insect imaginable could be seen.
Spiderwebs draped the edges of the walls like thick curtains. Breathing through the dust-laden air was almost impossible; it was suffocating. His headache worsened, becoming unbearable. His vision blurred, shifting back and forth. Carefully maintaining his balance, he moved toward the desk.
On the desk stood an elegant silver mirror. Its edges were finely carved, adorned with old but striking patterns. Immediately to the right of the mirror were stacks of books. In his previous dreams, he had tried to open and read them. But the pages were filled with a language he didn't know. However, it wasn't written in an ancient tongue. It belonged to a different land.
Suddenly, he lost his balance and slammed into the chair. The pain in his hip revealed the force of the fall. Taking heavy breaths, he tried to compose himself. Every inhale felt as if his ribs were being broken.
There was something strange about his skin. It seemed to be melting, shifting shape, turning into something unfamiliar. Then he began coughing up blood, endlessly coughing. He leaned his head back, never taking his eyes off the mirror. His chest rose and fell.
"When I stand in front of mirrors, or pass by them, I am invisible. My long gray hair, my red eyes, the mole under my left eye, the long dark robe I wear..."
In agony, he lifted his hands. "I can see my hands and my body, but I can't touch them. My hands pass through my own body... That is, as far as I understand, I cannot do anything for myself.
I've tried every way to get out of here. I tried to break the door, but in my dream I cannot control my strength. I tried to jump from the window, but it was too high; I went down the stairs, but I still always end up on the upper floor.
It's very hard to tell where the castle is, because I don't know either. When I looked out the window, I told myself maybe this isn't a dream at all, that it's all real. But it was completely endless, perched on a mountain. Surrounded by forests, the air always night and misty.
Now I understand... I cannot escape from here."
His pain worsened, yet he struggled to rise from the chair. His skin gradually vanished, revealing veins and bones beneath. Just as he reached the door... his feet disintegrated. His body collapsed to the ground.
"I want it to end... I want to wake up," he said, dragging himself down the long corridor. As if leaving his own trail, he stained the stone floor with his body's blood!
He didn't know why, or where he was going. He only wanted to escape the same ending. Even knowing how much of this was a dream, he felt the pain — truly felt it — and it was unbearable.
His arms shattered.
His teeth fell out. His eyes and veins burst.
His head was severed.
Bam!
...
When he opened his eyes, he realized he was drenched in sweat. It could have been the summer heat! His chest rose and fell, his heart pounding as if it might burst through his ribcage. He leaned forward and looked at his hands.
Everything was intact. His fingers, his skin, his head, and the rest of his body were all as they should be.
Then, as he gradually came to himself, he realized it had been a dream. He took a calm breath and tried to steady himself.
He brought his hand to his face and slightly lowered his head. "It was a nightmare. The same dream again," he murmured to himself.His mouth was dry. He got out of bed and walked to the wooden desk in the corner of the room. He picked up a glass and drank the water in one gulp. The cold liquid ran down his throat, and he felt somewhat more grounded.
He had the same dream every time, and one could almost say he had grown accustomed to it. Yet, this dream was far from normal. There had to be a reason for such a nightmare to repeat itself. He hadn't considered sharing it with anyone, and he still didn't. To try and explain something even he couldn't comprehend would have seemed pointless and meaningless — even to important people.
He moved in front of the mirror. He wanted to tie up his long hair, but paused for a few seconds first. He looked at himself in the mirror, examining his face as if searching for some change. He could see himself clearly. He shook his head slightly. "It was just a dream," he said, then began brushing his hair. Once done, he tied it tightly into a high ponytail.
Three different possibilities kept turning over in his mind.
First, the dreams could be caused by the wounds on his body. Yet he had no memory of when or how he had acquired them. He didn't even remember his childhood. He didn't even know his real name.
The second possibility was more complicated. The dream could somehow be connected to someone else. Perhaps a subconscious link, or the influence of another being. There was no hint of a castle or mansion, so it couldn't have come from memories of some magical place. Maybe an evil spirit had attached itself to him... Or perhaps someone was trying to reach him.
He wouldn't be able to discover the reason unless he were a prophet.
The third — and least likely — possibility was forbidden magic. The dark knowledge so rarely spoken of, always met with silence when mentioned... The number of people who had spoken of forbidden magic could be counted on one hand. It was nearly impossible to say anything with certainty.
As Mahira drifted in thought, a sound from outside startled him. It was a familiar voice. His eyes widened. "Right... Agel was supposed to come today," he murmured to himself. He took a deep breath. He had completely forgotten about his master's arrival; the weight of the dream had cast a shadow over his entire morning.
He headed to the door. He took hold of the wooden doorknob and slowly pushed it open.
The first thing that struck him was the sunlight. The place where he lived was far from the Emeyra Kingdom, nestled in the midst of a forest, like a secluded refuge. His master visited him only once a month, and today was that day.
Though the dream had felt long, it was actually brief. Mahira woke up very early because of it and couldn't fall back asleep. As you can imagine, it was the early hours of the morning, and the chirping of birds filled the air.
Before leaving the house, he took the sword leaning against the doorframe, just in case. He set foot on the ground and stepped out from in front of the house. Walking through the trees, the cool morning breeze lightly tousled his hair. The path wasn't long; in a clearing not far from his home, his master was waiting.
Someone leaning in the shade of a tree in the field caught his attention.
Agel stood tall as always. His long crimson hair was tied back, and despite his age, he exuded a striking energy. His golden eyes focused on Mahira. The moment he saw him, he crossed his arms and gave a familiar smile.
"Get ready, young man. The 'final' training is about to begin," he said, his voice both serious and confident.
Hearing those words, a strange feeling stirred within Mahira. Could it really be the last one? His eyes narrowed slightly, and he took a small step back.
He had brought his sword, but he didn't need it. He had something better than a sword. The ever-flowing blood had already begun to run!
His eyes locked onto his master. The tension in his body shifted into a stance of readiness.
Now, he truly felt prepared!
...