The world snapped into focus with the violent finality of a slamming door. One moment, Adam was drowning in the silent, star-dusted white of the cosmic appraisal, the weight of three Divine Aspects and two True Names settling into his soul like collapsing stars. The next, he was staring at the cold, reinforced ferrocrete ceiling of the PSO vault, its harsh, utilitarian lines a stark contrast to the infinite geometries he had just witnessed.
He was back. Truly back. The air smelled of ozone, antiseptic, and the faint, metallic tang of fear. It was real. It was solid. And it was blessedly, wonderfully free of the cloying rot and psychic malice of the nightmare jungle.
A deep, shuddering breath filled his lungs, and the sensation was so profoundly ordinary it brought a prickling to his eyes. There was no pain. The chronic, gnawing hunger that had been his lifelong companion was gone. His body felt… new. Forged. The aches of a thousand deaths, the phantom pains of dismemberment and dissolution, had been scoured away. He was whole.
I survived. I actually survived.
The thought was a quiet, disbelieving anthem in his mind. A mind that was, for the first time he could remember, utterly silent. The chorus of whispers, the frayed maternal voice, the arrogant commentators—all were gone. Crushed into the foundation of his new existence. The silence was a physical presence, a vast, empty hall in the cathedral of his skull. It was terrifying. It was peace.
"Finally decided to join us, did you?"
The voice was a dry, husky contralto, laced with a boredom that felt as solid as the walls. Adam's head turned, the movement smooth and effortless, his senses already sharpened to a preternatural degree. His new eyes, a deep, burnished amber, took in the woman sitting beside his medical bed.
She was, without exaggeration, the most striking person he had ever seen. Raven-black hair cut short and practical, framing a face of sharp, elegant angles and skin as pale as his own, though on her it looked like polished marble, not the sickly pallor of the slums. Her eyes were the color of glacial ice, and they assessed him with a cool, professional detachment. She wore the dark blue and silver of the Public Safety Office, but her uniform jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a simple black tank top beneath. The casual disregard for protocol was at odds with the three silver stars on her sleeve—the mark of an Ascended, a Master.
An actual Master, sitting three feet from him. A being who could, with a thought, turn him into a fine red mist or that is what he had heard anyway.
And his first thought, crystal clear in the new silence of his mind, was: Her jacket is unbuttoned. The asymmetry is visually discordant. The lack of a coherent pattern is… irritating.
It wasn't a loud thought, but it was persistent, a low-level hum of dissatisfaction in the back of his skull. His Flaw, he realized. Perfectionism. It wasn't just going to be about grand things in life. but was going to going to encompass buttons?
"What are you looking at?" she asked, her tone flat.
Adam's mouth opened. He had a dozen glib, deflecting answers prepared, honed by a lifetime of survival in the ossuary. What came out was the unvarnished, unfiltered truth.
"Your jacket is unbuttoned," he said, his voice raspy from disuse but clearer and stronger than he remembered. "It looks… unsightly. There's no coherent pattern. It's just… messymit makes you look un cultured which is a shame seeing your figure and looks."
He froze, his blood running cold. Gods, she's going to kill me.
The Master—Jet, according to her name tape—stared at him. Her icy eyes narrowed slightly. Then, a slow, dangerous smile touched her lips. It did not reach her eyes.
"Unsightly," she repeated, the word a soft exhale. "Messy."
In a movement too fast for his eyes to properly track, her hand flickered out. There was no wind-up, no telegraphing. A sharp, stinging pain exploded across his cheek, snapping his head to the side. The force was incredible, yet perfectly controlled. It was a reprimand, not a killing blow. Stars danced in his vision.
"Let's try this again, you pervert" Jet said, her voice still calm. "Are you awake now?"
Adam gingerly touched his throbbing cheek, feeling the perfect, sharp outline of her fingers already beginning to form a bruise. The Sovereign in him noted the precise angle of impact, the efficient transfer of kinetic energy. The ossuary rat in him was screaming in terror.
He swallowed, choosing his next words with the care of a man defusing a bomb. The compulsion to point out another flaw—a loose thread on her epaulet, the slight scuff on her left boot—was a physical pressure behind his teeth. He fought it down.
"Yes," he managed, his voice tight. "I'm awake. Thank you for the… clarification."
Jet's smile widened a fraction, becoming almost genuine. "Good. You learn fast. For a kid who just chewed his way out of his first nightmare, you've got some spine. Or a death wish. It's a fine line. I'm Ascended Jet. You can call me Master Jet. I've been babysitting your comatose ass for the past five days."
"five days?" Adam blinked. Only that long It had felt like lifetimes. Because it had been.
"Time flies when you're having fun in the Spell," she said drily. "Congratulations on not dying, Sleeper Adam. Welcome to the club."
Sleeper Adam. The title felt alien, but it also felt like a suit of armor. An identity. He was no longer just 'that crazy ossuary rat.' He was a Sleeper. He had a designation.
"Thank you, Master Jet," he said, the title feeling strange on his tongue. He focused on the gratitude, hoping to keep the Flaw at bay. "For standing watch."
She shrugged, a fluid, economical motion. "Part of the job. The least glamorous part, but someone's got to do it. Most of the local Awakened are busy dealing with the fallout from the last few Gate breaches. The ones who aren't are busy getting rich and famous. Which leaves government grunts like me to handle the paperwork and the newbies." She began undoing the heavy restraints on his wrists and ankles with practiced efficiency. "Now, you stink of nightmare and cheap disinfectant. There's a shower down the hall. Go clean up. Then we'll talk about what happens next."
Freedom. The restraints fell away. Adam sat up, his body moving with a fluid strength that was entirely new. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold floor. He felt… powerful. Like a coiled spring. The memory of his malnourished weakness was a ghost, a faded photograph from someone else's life.
He stood, and for a moment, just the simple act of standing tall, of feeling the solid floor beneath him, was a victory greater than felling any Terror.
The shower was a revelation. The hot water was a miracle he would never take for granted again. It sluiced over him, washing away the psychic grime of the nightmare, the memory of mud and blood. He let it run over his face, his closed eyes, savoring the sheer, mundane pleasure of it.
After several minutes, he turned off the tap and reached for a towel. His eyes caught his reflection in the steam-fogged mirror. He paused, wiping a clear patch with his hand.
The boy staring back was a stranger.
He was still lean, built of whipcord muscle and sharp angles, but the desperate, starved look was gone. His frame had filled out, his shoulders were broader, his chest more defined. He looked less like a victim of neglect and more like a honed instrument. His skin, once sallow and sickly, now had a healthy, resilient pallor. But the most dramatic change was his hair and eyes.
His hair, which had been a dull, dirty blond and stands of impure white, was now a striking mix of sun-bleached blond and stark white, as if someone had dipped the tips in moonlight. It was chaotic, unruly, and somehow… perfect. His eyes, once a common, fearful brown, now shone with a deep, luminous amber, like pools of ancient honey. They held a new intensity, a sharp, knowing clarity that made him look older than his sixteen years. He was, undeniably, handsome. It was a disconcerting realization.
"Well, look at you," he muttered to his reflection, a wry, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "The ossuary's first pretty boy. Who'd have thought?" The smile felt strange on his face. How long had it been since he'd genuinely smiled? "Bet the butcher would charge me double for gristly off-cuts now those greedy Basterds."
His gaze drifted downward, to his arms. The memory of his right arm being unmade by the Terror's death-throes was a cold knot in his stomach. It was whole now. Seamless. But he had to know. He had to test.
He found a small, discarded cleaning blade, its edge dull but serviceable, left near a drain. He picked it up, the weight insignificant in his hand. The Sovereign in him approved of the test. The boy was terrified of it.
Taking a deep breath, he drew the blade quickly across the palm of his left hand. A line of bright red welled up, beading along the cut. The pain was sharp and clean.
Now. Biomass Control.
He focused inward, on the new, vast presence in his soul. It felt like grasping a star. A strange, thrumming energy responded, flowing down his arm. Crimson light, subtle and organic, flickered around the wound. He watched, fascinated and horrified, as fine, almost invisible crimson filaments—like threads of living blood—emerged from the edges of the cut. They writhed, stitching the flesh together with impossible, microscopic precision. In seconds, the bleeding stopped. In less than a minute, only a thin, pink line remained, which itself faded until his palm was once again unblemished.
The cost was immediate. A wave of profound weariness washed over him, a sudden, draining sensation as if he'd just run a marathon. He felt a distinct, hollow ache in his right arm—the one that had been sacrificed in that other life. It was as if the biomass to fuel the healing had been drawn from there, cannibalizing his own body to mend the wound.
"Slag," he breathed, leaning against the cool tile wall. So that was the price. Rapid healing consumed biomass. His own, if no other source was available. He couldn't just spam it. It was a tool for emergencies, not a convenience. The Perfectionism in him was already calculating ratios, planning for external biomass sources, optimizing the ability. Need a corpse. A fresh one. The bigger, the better.
He shook his head, dismissing the grim thought. He looked at his perfect, unmarked palm. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. It was real. All of it was real.
He finished drying off and pulled on the clean, standard-issue grey tracksuit he found waiting for him. The fabric was cheap and scratchy, but it was clean. It was a start.
Master Jet was waiting for him in the sterile, brightly lit cafeteria, sitting at a table with two trays of beige, lumpy nutrient gruel. It looked remarkably similar to the slop he'd scavenged for in the ossuary, but the smell, for the first time, made his mouth water. His new metabolism was a demanding master.
"Dig in," she said, pushing one tray toward him. "The chef's special."
Adam sat and attacked the food. It was bland, synthetically processed, and utterly delicious. He ate with a single-minded focus, his body demanding fuel.
"So," Jet began, watching him with amusement. "The formalities. As a new Sleeper, you're entitled to psychological counseling. The First Nightmare can… leave marks. You interested?"
Adam shook his head, swallowing a mouthful of gruel. "Talking about it won't change what happened. And I've already had the best therapist imaginable."
"Oh? And who was that?"
"A fallen devil with a psychic screech and a habit of unmaking people's arms," he said flatly.
Jet's eyebrows rose slightly. "A devil ? In a First Nightmare? You're either lying or the unluckiest bastard I've ever met."
"I don't have the energy to lie," Adam replied, which was, not true in the slightest he deliberately lessened his achievement as too not gain to much attention but at the same time gain a high level of recognition. The Flaw remained silent, satisfied with the factual statement.
She studied him for a long moment, her icy gaze seeming to peel back his layers. "I believe you. Which means you're also one of the toughest bastards I've ever met. Outskirt rat?"
"Ossuary district," he confirmed.
A flicker of something—recognition, maybe respect—crossed her face. "Knew it. We're a resilient breed. Not many of us make it, you know. To become Awakened, I mean. Fewer still to become Masters. They don't like it. Upsets the natural order of their comfortable little world."
"We'll see how they like it when I'm done," Adam said, the words coming out with a quiet confidence that surprised even him.
Jet gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. "I like you, kid. You've got fire. And a truly spectacular lack of self-preservation instinct." She leaned forward. "So, the big question. What now? You've got a few months until the winter solstice, until your soul is pulled into the Dream Realm again. You can do whatever you want. Party. meet women or Get yourself killed in a back alley."
"Tempting," Adam deadpanned. "But I think I'll pass on the back alley option. For now."
"Wise. The other option is the Awakened Academy. They'll give you a bunk, three square meals a day of proper meals and much more," she tapped his tray, "and some training. It's not much time, but it's better than nothing. More importantly, you'll meet the other Sleepers from this region. The ones who will be entering the Dream Realm with you. Potential allies. Potential rivals."
Adam didn't need to think about it. The advantages were obvious. Shelter. Food. Information. A controlled environment to test his new abilities and understand the world he'd been thrust into. His Perfectionist mind was already cataloging the opportunity.
"The Academy," he said without hesitation. "I want to go."
Jet nodded, as if she'd expected nothing else. "Good. Finish your… food. I'll get the paperwork sorted. Then I'll give you a lift." She stood up, her movements effortlessly graceful. "Try not to insult any more Ascended on the way. My patience has its limits."
"I'll do my best," Adam said, and meant it.
As she walked away he said one last thing that made her stop for a few moments" decides all that i suffered in the nightmare i am happy as i had gained a grand prize of epic proportion, a true name'' hearing this jet looked at him for a few moments before continue walking saying to him softly ''well talk on the way''
he looked down at his empty tray, then at his own hands. The hands that had held crude spears and stolen swords, that had been severed and unmade, that now held fell so many creatures though even knew one simple fact of those hand they where weak and needed proper guidance.
note: many of you may ask why i am making the mc's true name know and that is simple their is no reason to hide it.