Even after leaving Master Zephyr Kaine's valley of mirrors, my thoughts often drifted between worlds—between what was imagined and what was real. Some nights, when I closed my eyes, I felt as if the island itself whispered stories in my sleep.
Strange dreams came to me—stars falling into oceans, faces of my masters speaking without moving their lips, and sometimes distant voices calling my name.
When I told Elder Aarion about it, he smiled knowingly. "It seems Aarvak has decided you are ready. The dreaming and waking worlds are not separate for those who will shape destiny."
He pointed toward the horizon, where clouds rolled like soft waves. "In the Valley of Silence sleeps your nineteenth master—one who walks the world that exists behind closed eyes."
After a long journey through dense fog, I reached a valley blanketed with endless mist. The air there was thick but alive, humming softly with voices only half-heard.
At the valley's centre stood a circular platform surrounded by floating crystals that glowed faintly blue, like frozen thoughts. On the platform lay a man in deep meditation. He had no visible age—his face was smooth, his hair was black streaked with silver, and his white robes shimmered like light caught in water. His eyes were closed, but I could feel him watching even so.
"You came," he said slowly, without opening his eyes. "Good. I was beginning to wonder when your waking mind would catch up."
I bowed deeply. "Are you my next teacher?"
He smiled faintly. "Teacher, dream, fragment—it's all the same. I am Master Lucan Dreos, the Dreamwalker."
Elder Aarion's voice echoed gently behind me. "Lucan Dreos walks through dream and consciousness alike. Once, he was known as the Keeper of Slumber, healer of minds, weaver of visions. He helped kings face fears they had never spoken and cured despair that no medicine could reach. His mind bridges what men call illusion and what gods call truth."
Lucan slowly opened his eyes—and they were unlike any I'd seen. His pupils glowed faint silver, like mirrors filled with living clouds. "Dreams, he said softly, "are not lies. They're the world's way of thinking."
And thus began my training under the Master of Dreams.
His home was a place that didn't stay still. One morning, I'd wake up under golden skies with singing rivers beside me; by afternoon, they would vanish, replaced by endless night and floating moons. "This, he said, "is the world you carry inside. The landscape changes with your thoughts."
He began by teaching me the ancient art of Somni Essence—a discipline practised by sages who believed dreams connected mortals to the divine. "Close your eyes," he said one morning. "What you see beyond darkness is not emptiness—it's creation waiting for command."
He taught me how to guide my thoughts inside the dream world. Once, I dreamed of fire burning through clouds. He told me, "Shape it." When I focused, the flames curved and turned into golden wings. I realised I could mould dreams as easily as clay.
"Good," Lucan said. "The mind is not a cage—it's a forge."
Then came his modern teachings. He led me to an underground chamber filled with strange crystalline machines. Screens floated midair, each showing symbols that shifted as I breathed. "This is the interface of the unseen," he explained. "Modern neurotechnology allows one to map thought patterns as sound and light. It is a new form of dream language."
He called it Neuro-vision Alignment, and it combined ancient meditation with modern science. By connecting subtle energy waves from the mind to these crystals, one could translate emotion into form. "Your people call it lucid dreaming," he said. "But true lucid awareness goes beyond sleep—it means controlling thought while awake."
Every night, I entered dreams crafted by Lucan himself—dreams of places from my past and futures I couldn't recognise. There, I faced reflections of my fears and fragments of memory: my mother's voice, my brother's stern gaze, and the explosion in the Chinese conference hall. I woke trembling more than once.
Lucan never comforted me. He only said, "You can't conquer nightmares by escaping them. Walk into them, and you'll find they're only shadows waiting for light."
He taught me techniques to control dream energy, to transform emotion into strength. "Fear sharpens awareness," he said, "while hope guides direction. Both are needed to navigate the unseen realm."
Once, he took me into a shared dream—a practice he called 'Spirit Resonance'. We walked across fields of stars that pulsed like living hearts. " This, he said, "is the deepest layer—where dreams of the living and the sleeping meet. From here, you can influence thoughts, heal minds, or plant seeds of courage."
I asked him if that wasn't a form of control.
He smiled sadly. "To touch another's mind is the greatest power—and the greatest sin. That's why I'm here. I used dreams to change people's thoughts, to force peace upon nations. And though it worked, none of it was real. Peace must be chosen, not crafted."
Throughout his teachings, I discovered how powerful yet gentle the mind truly was. He made me observe how everything—imagination, faith, and even invention—was born from dreams. "Every master you met," he said one day, "first dreamed of being who they are. You are no different."
When my training neared its end, he created one last dream for me. I found myself standing in my home back in Delhi, surrounded by my family. Their smiles were warm, their voices real. But something felt off—they didn't cast shadows. Slowly, realisation dawned that they were illusions. I turned to Lucan, who stood nearby, watching quietly.
He said softly, "You see, Mukul—you can awaken even inside the sweetest dream. Always remember that strength."
When I stepped out of that dream, he gave me a small crystal orb glowing faintly blue. "This holds your mind's reflection," he explained. "If the world around you ever feels false, look within it—you'll know which part of you still sleeps."
I bowed deeply. "Thank you, Master."
He smiled in his calm, tired way. "No thanks are needed. I only showed you where you already were."
As I left his valley, I noticed the fog forming shapes—faces, stories, hands waving goodbye. Yet this time, I didn't doubt them. I simply smiled back.
And that was how I met Lucan Dreos—The Dreamwalker, the master who taught me that dreams aren't escapes—they're maps to understanding oneself, and that the boundary between what is real and imagined exists only until the heart learns to see both as one.