Malik stood frozen in the center of the kill zone, his mind unable to process the sheer density of the chaos unfolding around him.
The air didn't just smell of war; it tasted of it. Copper blood, ozone, and the dry grit of stirred earth coated his tongue. Soldiers crashed into one another, a cacophony of ringing steel and splintering shields. War cries tore throats raw, competing with the thunder of stampeding horses.
But the horses were the least of it.
Something massive roared—a sound so deep it vibrated in Malik's chest cavity. He flinched as a shadow swept over him, blotting out the bruised sky. He looked up, squinting through the choking dust, and saw them.
Behemoths.
Creatures the size of siege towers charged through the lines. They resembled elephants, but twisted, armored in natural plating, with tusks that jutted from their maws like jagged spears. They didn't just walk; they crushed. Men disappeared under their pillar-like legs, and armored flanks shattered formations with a single swing.
Malik couldn't make out the details. The dust kicked up by the melee reduced the world to gray silhouettes and flashes of violence. He nearly collapsed, his legs threatening to give way under the weight of the impossible.
"Where am I?" he hissed, his voice lost in the din. "Where is the palace? Did someone slip a hallucinogen into my drink?"
Reason tried to claw its way back. I'm going to wake up in an interrogation chair, he thought frantically. My brother is probably laughing right now, watching me twitch while he celebrates his victory. He must have discovered the plot. But... hallucinations aren't this consistent. They don't have this kind of texture, this granular detail.
A shadow fell over him.
A giant of a man stepped through the haze. He held two massive silver axes, the metal scarred from use. His beard was a thicket of brown hair that merged with a heavy mustache, framing a face carved from granite. His hair hung long and wild, a lion's mane reaching his shoulders.
The giant stopped, staring at Malik with genuine confusion.
"Why have you halted now?" the man bellowed over the noise. "We must push! This is the battle the world has held its breath for. We either win here, or existence becomes a nightmare for every living soul."
The warrior stepped closer, his eyes shining with terrifying devotion. "This is your war, Blessed Lord Nebras. The Awaited One. The nations have united against you because they fear what you represent. They know you will tear down their rotting systems and build a new world upon the ashes. Never has the world united against a single man, but the prophecies stand with us. Victory is ours today."
Malik's hand trembled on the hilt of the sword he didn't remember drawing. He fought to steady it.
Blessed Lord Nebras? Malik thought, panic rising like bile. This is a heavy dose. I'm going to cut off the hand of the bastard who drugged me. Unless... unless it's too late.
"I need to wake up," he muttered. "This is a dream. Just a lucid dream. I've always fantasized about leading armies, about absolute control. That's why I seized the kingdom's military. My mind has simply constructed the ultimate scenario."
The giant slammed a hand onto Malik's shoulder. The impact nearly dislocated his arm.
"Move, my Lord! What afflicts you?"
Malik swallowed hard. The pain was sharp, immediate, and entirely too real. He straightened his spine, forcing a mask of arrogant confidence onto his face to hide the tension.
"I am assessing the field," Malik lied, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "Go. Lead your men. Do not wait for me. A skilled commander studies the board before making his move. I cannot advance blindly into this dust without a precise plan."
The axeman's expression cleared. He nodded solemnly, then threw his head back and let out a roar that seemed to split the air. He raised his axes high.
"Advance!" he screamed to his troops. "Fear nothing! The Blessed Nebras stands with us!"
The giant charged into the gray haze, spinning his heavy axes as if they weighed no more than kitchen knives. Soldiers streamed past Malik, shouting his new name—Nebras—with religious fervor. They wore white armor, a stark contrast to the grit, though Malik couldn't make out the material through the shifting dust.
Thump. Thump.
Malik looked up. Red projectiles streaked across the sky, leaving trails of smoke before slamming into the ranks of the white-armored soldiers. Catapults? he wondered.
He took a cautious step forward, trying to get a better vantage point. Suddenly, the ground ahead erupted. Pillars of fire, unnatural and roaring, shot up from the earth, incinerating a squad of his "loyal" soldiers instantly.
Malik stumbled back, terror seizing his heart. This wasn't a coup. This wasn't a simple execution. Even his plot against his brother hadn't induced this level of primal fear.
It's real, he realized, the thought cold and heavy. It's horrifyingly real.
Fine, he told himself. If I die here, I wake up. That's the rule of dreams.
He decided to regain his composure. He would advance and treat this like a video game. He lifted the sword. The blade was a deep azure, etched with intricate runes that pulsed with a soft, golden light. It was a weapon of kings.
He let out a laugh—a sharp, manic sound—and began to walk. The adrenaline was intoxicating. Palace life, with its boring intrigues and poisons, was dull compared to this. Men were created for battle, for this visceral reality.
Seeing him move, the soldiers around him rallied, cutting a path through the enemy with renewed vigor.
"The Awaited Nebras! The Awaited Nebras!" they chanted.
Malik smirked. "Yes," he whispered to himself. "That is what I like to hear, you fools."
A figure appeared at his flank, keeping pace with an easy, loping run. It was an archer with sleek black hair, a pointed beard, and a nasty scar running vertically down his face. He held a bow made of a dark, matte wood, already nocking an arrow.
"The right flank advances," the archer reported, his eyes scanning the chaos. "But the left is stalling. Arma's army has deployed the Flame Mages. They are burning our men alive."
Flame Mages. Malik recalled the pillars of fire. So, magic, he thought. My hallucination has crossed all boundaries.
"And the solution?" Malik asked, keeping his tone bored to mask his confusion.
The archer stopped abruptly. He drew the bowstring. The wood didn't creak; it hummed. A crimson light, streaked with veins of black, coalesced around the arrow. He loosed.
The projectile didn't fly; it screamed through the air, leaving a trail of sparks like a firework. It struck a target hidden in the dust. A moment later, a distinct explosion blossomed, blowing a hole in the enemy lines.
Malik's jaw dropped. An arrow harnessing unknown energy? This was undoubtedly a fantasy world.
I should have listened to my mother, Malik thought bitterly. She always told me to stop reading those fantasy novels so voraciously. Now my mind is using them against me.
The archer stepped closer, scratching his scarred chin. "We must neutralize the mages quickly, or the left flank collapses. I will take the Ascetics unit. We are the best mage-hunters you have."
"Go then," Malik said with feigned confidence. "We have no time to waste."
The archer smiled, nodded, and bowed low. "Lend me your strength, Blessed One. I will slaughter your enemies in your name. Death holds no fear for us."
Malik fought the urge to smile mockingly. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder, closing his eyes in a mock blessing.
I am blessed? Malik thought, the irony thick in his mind. Life is mocking me. I am nothing but a cruel monster, polished by the harshness of existence. If they knew the truth of my nature, they would laugh at their own folly. Idiots. If I had the choice, I'd lead the enemy army and crush them all, along with their foolish battle for 'justice.' I would rub their hero's face in the dirt just to instill humiliation in them. There is nothing better than seeing the faces of your enemies broken and humiliated, their endeavors failed.
The archer, energized by the touch, sprinted toward the left flank, firing glowing arrows in every direction, dropping enemies with supernatural precision.
Malik sighed. He decided to keep moving, to enjoy his time until he exited this illusion.
Suddenly, a prickle of danger crawled up his spine.
He reacted on instinct. He looked up just as a shadow detached itself from the smoke above. He raised his sword with both hands, bracing his feet.
CLANG.
Metal met metal. The impact was like a falling building.
The ground beneath Malik's boots shattered, spiderweb cracks racing outward from the pressure. A terrifying, immense energy surged from the attacker, threatening to crush Malik into the dirt. He gritted his teeth, forcing every ounce of strength into his arms, and shoved the attacker back.
The enemy flipped backward, landing lightly. He spun his sword in a complex flourish.
"Found you," the man sneered. "Cut off the snake's head, and the body dies. The Awaited Nebras... Hah! Let's see who is waiting for you in hell."
Malik looked up, and for the first time since arriving, terror truly gripped him at what he saw.