For three years, I trained in solitude—not in martial arts or sorcery, but within the quietest chambers of the mind. I avoided distractions, abandoned idle pleasures, and embraced the discipline of pure mental focus. At first, my efforts were laughable—five minutes of silence felt like torture, and intrusive thoughts crashed through every attempt at peace. But over time, the chaos quieted. Thoughts slowed. The noise of the world dulled. And eventually, the door opened.
The moment it happened, I was sitting in the corner of my room, spine straight, eyes shut, no expectation in mind. Then, I simply felt it—a shift, like the hinges of an invisible gate creaking open inside my skull. I wasn't dreaming, but I also wasn't awake in the traditional sense. I had stepped into a space that felt both real and imagined, like lucid dreaming sharpened to a blade's edge.
There was nothing at first. Just a black canvas stretching infinitely in every direction. No ground, no sky—just potential. And then, instinctively, I reached out with my thoughts and shaped it. The void obeyed. I imagined a forest, and trees erupted around me, bursting from the groundless space like they'd been waiting all along. I pictured a breeze, and air stirred, cool and soft, rustling unseen leaves.
Time behaved strangely here. Ten minutes in this realm passed in only ten seconds in the real world. I timed it. I experimented. I wrote notes, entered the space, then returned to confirm. The dilation was real, and it intensified the more I used it. Days could pass in here, while outside, only minutes ticked by.
This mental realm was not just a dream. It was more vivid than waking life. I could control everything—landscapes, objects, even temperature. I sculpted entire cities from memory. I built a library with every book I'd ever read, and some I hadn't. I could conjure up fire and snow, flood the sky with auroras, or silence it in still twilight.
At first, it was just a place of curiosity and creativity. I played with it like a child with a new toy. But then I realized something else—when I spent time in this space and returned, my body felt rested in a way sleep never gave me. My headaches disappeared. Minor injuries faded faster. My thoughts became clearer. It was as though every hour spent inside the realm gave my body outside a full day of healing. I was evolving, both mentally and physically.
I started using it practically. If I encountered a difficult problem in school—a math equation, a historical date—I would close my eyes and enter the mental space. I would summon a blackboard or a textbook and walk myself through the answer. It was cheating, in a way, but it still demanded knowledge and clarity. No one knew I could disappear for ten minutes in the span of a single breath.
Of course, I told no one. Not at first. It was too powerful, too fragile a secret. I feared the world would either dismiss it or try to take it from me. This was mine—something I had earned with sweat, silence, and relentless focus.
But something else lingered, even in those early days. As I built and reshaped this space, I sensed its potential stretching far beyond what I could imagine. There were doors I hadn't yet opened. Powers I hadn't yet reached. And somewhere deep in the folds of this realm, I felt the echo of something ancient watching me—not hostile, not welcoming either, just… present.
I wasn't afraid. I was intrigued.
So, I stayed. Night after night. Day after day. Expanding the world inside my mind, training myself to wield it, shape it, and eventually, bend it to my will.
What I didn't yet know was that this place—the sanctuary I had forged—would not stay a sanctuary forever.
It would become a battlefield.
A birthplace of gods.
And a prison for monsters.
But that story hadn't begun just yet.
First, I had to walk deeper through the door I had opened.
And never look back.