Torren was tired.
Not the normal kind — not the "slept four hours and regret everything" tired. This was four days without sleep, and beneath the physical exhaustion lurked something far more sinister: the Spell.
The unnatural drowsiness had hit like a truck four days ago, and with it came the truth he'd hoped to avoid. He was a carrier of a nightmare seed. The start of ascension — that was the good part. The nearly nonstop battle with nightmare creatures? The very bad part.
But that moment wasn't when Torren first entered this world. And no, it wasn't seventeen years ago either.It was four months ago.
He remembered his first coherent thought:nononononono—NONONO—NO.
Of all places he could've gone after dying, it had to be Shadow Slave? He'd even considered just jumping off a building then and there — a cleaner death compared to what nightmare creatures offered: stabbing, mind-breaking, freezing, burning, starvation, soul damage. Really a buffet of terrible options.
Unfortunately, the tallest building around was only three stories. And he had another problem: he wasn't ready to die. Some combination of fear, stubbornness, and the faintest spark of hope chained him in place.
It's not all bad, he'd told himself. I can think of at least two other fictional worlds worse than this… probably. Besides, if you ignore the nightmare creatures, the Spell turning people insane, the imminent destruction of the waking world, and the godlike humans at war— Okay, you know what? Stop. Just stop thinking.
He'd forced himself to focus on the positives.
Dead parents? Sad, sure, but fewer attachments for the Spell to tear away. And he'd inherited a nice house. His mother had been a military awakened with a decent fortune — most of it lost with her memories, but what remained plus the military death gratuity was enough for him to live comfortably for a while.
Once he gathered information about where — and what — he was, he started to plan. He'd obsessed over Shadow Slave for years back on Earth, so knowledge-wise, he wasn't starting blind.
Okay. I'm sixteen. Well within the infection range. Worst case: I get the Spell today. Best case: two years. Second worst: I never get it at all.Assets: one house, a good amount of money — pocket change compared to real legacies — and knowledge of the world and its mechanics.
More importantly:In ancient times, before the Spell, ascension still existed. Aspects and flaws were always part of the process. If Sunny could learn it, so can I.
The Spell was a cheat. Risky, terrifying, but still a cheat. And Torren intended to use every advantage he could get.
That first night, he meditated. When he'd woken up in this world, he'd felt something — a faint shift, an energized hum at the back of his mind. Most people couldn't sense soul essence until much later in life, if ever, but maybe his transmigration had nudged something loose.
Torren wasn't superhuman, but when he cared about something, he could focus with terrifying intensity. And survival was a pretty decent motivator.
He meditated through the night.And the next.And the next.
A week later, he could sense essence on command. With enough strain, he could even nudge it through his body.
Not much, but it was a start.
He rewarded himself with real breakfast — actual eggs instead of the nutrient paste he'd choked down all week.
Then came the hard part: preparing for a life-or-death future.
Okay. From least to most important: survival skills, combat, first aid, navigation, nightmare creature behavior, dream realm lore.
He needed a martial art. A teacher. Real combat experience. Dreamscape was too expensive — a non-awakened would need soul shards and the pod rental. No chance.
So he searched for a dojo. In a world shaped by the Spell, there were many. But he eventually chose one: a place run by an older awakened named James Striker. Experienced. Sharp-eyed. Skilled with multiple weapons but focused on the sword. Exactly what Torren needed.
And then the grind began.
Early mornings were for sword strikes until his arms gave out. Late mornings were for theory. Afternoons for lessons with Striker. Evenings for survival and medical practice. Nights were for moving essence through his body until his mind felt scraped raw.
He did it again the next day.And the next.And the next.
Months passed. Grueling, painful, productive.
And all of it led to today.
Torren walked up to the officer, heart pounding but eyes steady.
"As demanded by the Third Special Directive," he said, "I am here to surrender myself as a carrier of the Nightmare Spell."
He ignored the horrified look on the man's face. Ignored the questions. Ignored the fear.
Then Torren finally, finally let himself sleep.
The deepest sleep of his life.
And in the darkness, something ancient stirred.