'How beautiful…'
Thus thought a certain young man as he gazed upon the vista that sprawled before him. It was a sight utterly foreign to his memory, indeed, to his entire narrative. A rupture in the tapestry of his history.
And yet, it was simultaneously unfamiliar to another, though in that very unfamiliarity, it resonated with a deep, intrinsic recognition for her.
It was a world she had been born into. A realm of pervasive light, filled with a harmonious symphony of existence. Here, boundless oceans met limitless heavens, and flowers, vibrant with color, bloomed in the pervasive radiance.
She was but a child at the time. A nascent spirit, just coalescing into being. Impossibly wise, yet undeniably naive. A being simultaneously revolting in its unformed purity, and yet profoundly captivating in its innate charm.
She yearned for every experience the world offered. And in turn, so did he. They were starkly different existences, yet in this ephemeral moment, their shared yearning rendered them nearly identical.
They were both Spirits, though their essences were perhaps diametrically opposed.
They were both Spirits, adrift and disoriented within a harrowing dream…
Neither possessed a clear recollection of their present location. Neither could fully grasp the fragments of their own identities. Yet they existed.
They thought, therefore they were. If the capacity for thought existed, did that not affirm their being?
Why must they all perish? Why does death represent the ultimate cessation of all things? Why, why must she be consumed by death?
No… she was…Who was she the progeny of? Who was her progenitor? What was her source?
Yet the question persisted for the Spirit of Rest. The very same inquiry she directed toward the Spirit of Death.
"Why are we destined for death, oh kindred?"
Kindred, because they shared a… forgotten lineage? The Spirit of Rest could not be certain, and yet, an intuition whispered of a deep, familial connection with the Spirit of Death.
The Spirit of Death turned, observing her with an unsettling calmness. His voice, agreeable yet tinged with a subtle bewilderment, broke the silence.
"In the culmination, all is destined for death, for nothing should persist to eternity. Was it not your declaration that the end illuminates the path for new beginnings?"
The Spirit of Rest furrowed her brow. A delicate crease of uncertainty.
"I… said that? To whom?"
The Spirit of Death regarded her for a prolonged moment, his gaze perusing her form. Her hair, a cascade of fiery red, cascaded down her form, long and vibrant. Her face, exquisitely beautiful yet tinged with an ethereal pale hue, possessed eyes in which the full expanse of light and darkness seemed to coalesce, as described in visions: sometimes the warm azure of summer skies, other times the stark, cold blue of winter ice. She was unadulterated beauty, profoundly free, yet inherently youthful.
But the Spirit of Death could not shake the sense of disquiet. A fundamental wrongness permeated his being. Just… what was he doing here, engaged in discourse with the Spirit of Rest?
He scratched his head, a gesture of disorientation, then directed his gaze toward the boundless heavens before speaking.
"I… perhaps, you uttered it to Death itself. I hold no answer to your question, for I know not the purpose of my presence here. How did our paths become intertwined…?"
Suddenly, both the Spirit of Rest and the Spirit of Death recoiled, clutching their heads in unison. A searing pain.
At once, their thoughts began to merge, intertwining. An unnatural, profoundly unwelcome development.
They were… perceiving something.
Something was calling out to them?
They had different souls and bodies, different foundations of existence. And yet, they could hear each other.
The sound of gears grinding.
The sound of something inside their bodies breaking, tearing, and snapping violently.
["Wak… u…p!"]
The Spirit of Death screamed as he looked and heard the Spirit of Death wale in agony. Just what was happening?
The Spirit of Death screamed, his gaze falling upon the Spirit of Rest who wailed in echoing agony. Just what was happening?
Every attempt by the beleaguered Spirits to recall the origin of their meeting resulted in a further distortion of memory. What were these unbearable sounds?
The Spirit of Death thought: 'The sound, the sound, my body, I can't mo- Ah, it's me…?'
The Spirit of Rest thought: 'The sound, within me. My spine. It's hot. It hurts! It's cold.'
The world surrounding them dissolved into flux, unraveling and reconstituting itself anew.
The world itself, cycling through slumber and awakening, rejuvenated.
Rest and rejuvenation…
Rest and rejuvenation…
Cycles, ever recurring cycles…
Dreams and waking states.
At the very instant one succumbs within a Dream, the consciousness of all participants enters a state of flux. Conventionally, a Dream was allocated to a singular host.
Such was the immutable nature of Dreams.
However, through the nature of [Dreamwalker], an additional host could intrude, thereby reshaping the Dream according to their own subjective volition.
…Yet what, precisely, created [Dreamwalker]?
The Spirit of Death could not recall, even as he savagely delved into the recesses of his own mind.
'HowdidIgethere?HowdidIgethere?HowdidIgethere?HowdidIgethere?'
Fragmented thoughts, some alien, assaulted him. A deluge of unanswered questions.
["…!"]
What was this Dream? Was it his? No, it couldn't be…
The Spirit of Death turned to Rest, observing her as she navigated the same labyrinthine questions.
However, in the next fleeting moment, he blinked, only to realize he was no longer confined to the same physical locality. Instead, an omnipresent void had usurped the boundless heavens, and he no longer stood upon a black, shimmering lake.
Everything was consumed by profound darkness, obscured, distant.
He began to perceive myriad letters, adrift and unmoored.
'L-l-l-letters? Letters? Whose…?'
The Spirit of Death felt a terrible bewilderment, his agitation mounting. He found himself increasingly unable to dislodge the pervasive yearning for repose, for unconsciousness followed by replenishment.
'I can't see anything. Who where? Where?'
His thoughts were a chaotic tempest, formless and disoriented.
He was drowning. He found himself drowning within…
["Fables…"]
The floating letters coalesced into fables. They formed a Story, a narrative he found himself compelled to read.
Within the form of a young boy, with skin like porcelain and hair like polished obsidian, he waved his doll-like hands through the drifting letters. Even as he succumbed to this inundation, a terrible sadness welled within him as he absorbed their content.
Why? What was this sensation? Were Spirits not inherently devoid of such feeling?
No, that was a misconception. Perhaps the six Spirits born from the Oldest Dream, perhaps. But he was…
He was once human. Was he human? When?
His thoughts accelerated, a rapid fire of internal inquiry.
'Just whose voice am I hearing?'
["…"]
Finally, after an arduous, protracted struggle, the Spirit of Death, immersed in a dream of deep, yearning pathos, found himself capable of comprehending the voice.
["…Oh? You're co..nscio..us of me? Took y..ou long en…oug..h."]
What…?
The Spirit of Death attempted to verbalize, but found himself momentarily bereft of the ability.
Yet, he would not be denied. He would speak.
He willed himself to speak.
"You address me, yet I do not recognize your voice. Who are you?"
["Ar…e yo..u se…rio…us?"] A distinct tone of exasperation.
["Li..ttle… Sha..dow.., do you truly ..poss..ess the luxury of indulgi..ng in self-intro…spection? Have you bec…o..me obli…vious to yo…ur curre..nt predica…ment?"]
"Where I am?" He was lost, adrift.
'This voice poses a valid question… but… who is 'little shadow'?'
The Spirit of Death remained uncertain of his presence in this realm. Furthermore, he possessed no inkling regarding the identity of the Spirit of Rest. Ah… that beautiful yet harrowing woman.
["…wak..!"] A fragmented syllable, calling out urgently.
'Please, be silent. Your clamor is far too noisy.'
["…"]
["I..t seems I… ha..ve no… choice."]
[The 'Demon of Hope' has…!]
Suddenly, the Spirit of Death perceived a hand, pulling at him from below. Arms enveloped him, two of them, accompanied by feathers that felt strangely familiar.
No, they were wings. It was an uncanny sensation, for as they embraced him, every passion, every desire, every buried emotion within his heart surged forth, igniting out of control.
His eyes widened, his two young arms instinctively clasping the form that cradled him. He felt himself held, like an infant in the tender arms of a mother.
In the very next moment, he bit down fiercely on his own lip. A sharp, stinging pain, an anchor to reality.
He…
He was…
He needed…
He finally perceived it. The Spell's Voice, and a voice that resonated like the rustle of myriad leaves, like the murmur of countless prayers, like the very wind that traversed between the stars.
[The 'Demon of Hope' is urging you to wake up!]
["LOST FROM LIGHT, PLEASE, YOU NEED TO WAKE UP!"]
In that singular moment, the Spirit of Death finally beheld Hope. It was she who held him, turning his head abruptly to scream in his face with an expression he had never witnessed from her.
An expression of desperate, profound worry.
Yet, she vanished in the subsequent instant, for the Spell uttered another, dire pronouncement.
[The 'Demon of Repose' has…!]
Just as swiftly as she had appeared, Hope disappeared. But it was far too late.
For now, the Spirit of Death had finally remembered his true identity. His form rapidly shifted, no longer that of the child.
He was Lost from Light. He was the one who dared to challenge this harrowing Nightmare.
He was the Demon of Possibility.
And he needed to escape this place.
And thus, grasping the countless Fables that permeated this void, he swiftly sifted through them and seized upon a singular sentence.
It read…
[Hail Rime, The Demon of Repose!]
And in the following moment, he plunged his hand into it, and utterly vanished from the void.
He was trapped no longer.
—
In conclusion, the "Spirit of Rest" was a being as profound and foreign as could be.
"She" was purportedly summoned to this false Dream as a mere Servant to the genuine Demon of Repose. The very existence of "Spirit of Death" served as irrefutable validation that this Dream was a fabrication; a testament that there existed nothing less deserving of the appellation "Spirit of Rest" than the subject of this nascent meeting.
Only in nomenclature was "she" a Spirit of Rest, and "he" was by no means a true Spirit of Death. Then, an imposter? Having usurped the Role of a Supreme, then achieving Apotheosis and ascending to god-hood, a Spirit?
An Incarnation, perhaps? Nay. Neither term suffices to fully encapsulate "him". In certain passages of his Grand-Fable, "he" was depicted as a "Challenger from the Forgotten Shores", whilst in other, divergent accounts, "he" was lauded as the "Demon of Possibility, an Outer-God".
Within this spurious Dream of Repose, countless fables are meticulously selected from the vast expanse of both past and future — culled from every discernible epoch of history.
The Fables themselves, into which the hosts of this ephemeral realm transcend time. A human from antiquity, known solely through the echoes of their fable, was summoned to this peculiar present, just as a human from the distant future, not yet conceived into material existence, might also appear.
From that expansive perspective—"he" had endured since time immemorial, and "he" would, in all likelihood, continue his enigmatic existence far into the unfolding future. "He" experienced a briefer span of corporeal life than any other, and paradoxically, "he" lived a longer existence than any other.
And so, "he"—a being possessing a tangible, physical presence, yet fundamentally distinct from a Spirit—even in this very instant—there remains no vestige of doubt that "he" persists in claiming the lives of those who inhabit this Nightmare.
Indeed, it is plausible that "he" orchestrates this constant divestment of life, so that "he" may, by his own design, provide sustenance for life to begin anew in its perpetual cycle.
These were the profound truths that the Spirit of Rest, immersed deep within the essence of Repose, and concurrently drowning in the convolutions of her own Fable, deciphered from the Grand Fable "???" belonging to the Original Sunless of the 0th True Turn.
For indeed, let no error cloud judgment, this Spirit of Rest was Rime, the Demon of Repose personified. However, due to the constraints imposed by the Nightmare Spell, her true consciousness had been severely… suppressed.
As arguably the most unique Daemon among the storied Six, this singular Daemon alone possessed the inherent ability to alter her own narrative, to rewrite the very tenets of her story.
To restrict a Story, or conversely, to unleash its boundless potential…
She was also the Daemon of Rest and Rejuvenation. Thus, all beings ensnared within the Nightmare Spell existed in a state of suspended animation and ultimate death. Could she not, by some manipulation, influence this condition?
Indeed, Rime, the Demon of Repose, may have been languishing in a state of death and slumber, akin to her slumbering siblings. Yet, make no mistake.
She remained far from inactive. Truly, Lost from Light had made a terrible mistake in attempting to interfere in this Dream.
And yet, she was also succumbing to her own internal inundation. Thus, her consciousness was fractured into multitudinous thoughts, a chaotic chorus of internal voices.
This Spirit of Rest represented the innermost core of Repose. The deepest, most guarded chambers of her Soul, within which she encountered the Spirit of Death and began to assimilate knowledge concerning his enigmatic being…
However…
The Spirit of Rest, wracked with an agonizing struggle as she endeavored to awaken her suppressed self, turned her ethereal gaze towards the boundless heavens…
It was… commencing. Soon, the surface consciousness of Rime, the Demon of Repose, would open her eyes in a state of confusion. Lacking complete dominion over her awakened consciousness, she would soon perceive Lost from Light and mistakenly identify him for something he was not.
Ah… that Spirit. That little Shadow, which wielded Light, Darkness, and even Nothing within his grasp. The sole conclusion that the bewildered Daemon could derive upon beholding that nascent god would be a terrifying abomination. No other existence had ever harmonized so many disparate affinities, and thus the only guess the afflicted Daemon would formulate was that the Young God was, in fact, a Cursed-Titan, or perhaps even a fragmented, aberrant being born of the void itself.
The Spirit of Rest found herself unable to cease her silent, desperate cries. Yet Rime, her surface consciousness, would not register them.
Her eyes, the luminous blue of Arctic ice, filled with an ineffable sorrow as she ascended her gaze and began to perceive…
It was commencing.
Rime, the Demon of Repose, wielded the innate ability to change her own narrative. As the Daemon of Rest and Rejuvenation, somewhere along her long existence, she had acquired the formidable ability to awaken the underlying 'Story'.
And to 'misinterpret' it.
It was an authority verging on the absolute: to impose one's Fable upon existence, thereby twisting the very narrative of the world to conform to one's capricious whims.
But that was not the true peril here.
The paramount danger was…
That the confines, the established constraints imposed by the Nightmare Spell upon the Daemons…
Would prove almost entirely ineffectual against Rime.
The Spirit of Rest could only harbor a desperate hope that Lost from Light would succeed in destroying her creation, the Night Garden, before Rime's surface consciousness managed to aberrantly interpret and reconstitute the Night Garden's Fable, thus manifesting within the Nightmare.
For if she did…
Lost from Light would be confronted by the unmitigated power of an awakened Daemon.
He would have to directly engage the True Demon of Repose.
A being of divine, inscrutable power.
—
"Ah…"
"Ah…"
'I———'
———
"Wuh…"
'I need to…'
'Desire.' The thought was urgent.
[The Attribute 'Blessing of Desire' has activated in full force!]
"A-aaaaah... No... NO…"
Shaking his head, or perhaps more accurately, his spirit, Sunny's eyes snapped open, wide with a sudden, visceral terror. He had finally breached the suffocating depths of Repose's Dream.
Or, not precisely. In mere moments, he was overwhelmed by a chilling dread, cast from the boundless skies of Rime's inner-dream, a realm where she had yearned to explore and claim the heavens and oceans, to gather all flowers and dwell amidst them.
Instead, the scene confronting him was a grotesquely large tree, laden with hanging fruit. These were not ripe or verdant, but innumerable perished fruits, their lives lost, suspended like fallen souls.
Yet, this macabre tableau was not the source of his profound terror.
No, for his very spirit, his ephemeral body, was transfixed by a multitude of ethereal blue swords and spears of light. He was held in a contorted, bent-over posture, his legs sharply curved yet suspended above the ground. His arm, straightened and taut, was impaled by a spear of winter's own making. Every blade and spear that pierced his form inflicted no true wound, but instead held him immovably in place.
His eyes, closed moments prior, now perceived the full onslaught of sensations that 'rest' had brutally held at bay.
The agony was excruciating, a searing torment. Yet, it was also a revelation, a sudden, brutal clarity.
For directly before him, in this infinite field of summer blossoms and boundless sky, Repose stood.
Her presence alone was a dreadful, truly harrowing sensation. Her piercing blue eyes, vast as the sky and dark as the cold embrace of Shadow, glared at him with an expression of unhinged madness, utter oblivion, and a terrible, lost power. Within their depth, the chill of winter ice met the searing heat of summer sun, a swirling vortex of impossible contradiction.
Her gaze held barely a flicker of recognition for aught in this reality. Her attire, a flowing garment that shifted between muted cerulean and ivory linen, draped her form with the elegant simplicity of traditional Phoenician vestments. Yet, it pulsed with an unearthly luminescence that hinted at both the biting chill of deep winter and the suffocating heat of summer. Tiny, verdant shoots seemed to sprout from its folds, only to wither into brittle brown leaves as the light played upon them, a perpetual cycle of bloom and decay woven into her very being.
Six magnificent wings, iridescent and feather-soft, fanned out from her lower back, catching the light like frozen air. Each intricate vane seemed to swirl with visible currents—some crisp and invigorating like a mountain breeze, others heavy and languid like a tropical humidity—a delicate yet beautiful tempest of atmospheric extremes.
Her scarlet hair, long and silken, cascaded like a sanguine river, framing a face of exquisite, deathly pale beauty. Its pallor was a stark counterpoint to the vibrant, dual essence of her eyes, a perpetual canvas where life and cessation danced.
She possessed a beauty that surpassed even Nephis, matching the terrifying grandeur of the Storm God, Nokstella, yet her visage was utterly consumed by lunacy. She was an ethereal presence, a sweet illusion that concealed the very depths of hell, her essence smelling of seawaves and starlight, her piercing blue eyes as vast as the sky, as dark and unfathomable as the cold embrace of Shadow.
If Sunny had to hazard a guess, he was observing Repose, but only her surface consciousness. Just as she was the Demon of Rest, her primary consciousness was not fully awakened within this dream.
It was an anomalous situation, to exist within a Dream yet remain unconscious of its reality. Yet, Rime found herself trapped in precisely such a state.
'Damn… it…'
Sunny needed to break free, but his efforts were futile. He was pouring every iota of the Fragment of Hope's power into merely resisting the overwhelming influence of Rime's domain of rest. He almost wished he could offer thanks. His very mind strained to discern the method by which Hope had breached this Dream and extricated him. Without her intervention, Sunny would have been wholly subjected to Rime's capricious whims, and her current state was far from rational.
His only postulation was that Hope had utilized the Blessing bestowed upon him to forcibly manifest her presence within this Dream. Given that this was a dreamscape, not the material world of the Nightmare, such an intrusion was possible.
''Thank you… Hope…''
He had no time for gratitude. If he delayed, his mind would be subsumed, drowned within the expansive, torrential tide of Rime's Grand-Fable.
Sunny attempted to unleash his Will, to project his conscious intent upon Rime. Even this proved arduous, for Rime's arm was plunged into his chest, her six ethereal wings, now tipped with sharp, crystalline edges, piercing his very essence.
She was consuming him, attempting to define his existence by reading his Fables. While Sunny might normally allow such an act for the Daemon, he would not suffer it when her mind was thus unhinged.
He did not fear death. His true dread lay in being eternally bound within this Dream of Repose, a fate more impossible than any he had yet faced. He couldn't even gauge the duration of his submergence, though he readily perceived the standard temporal axis here was utterly broken.
Rime's arms and wings gripped his every fiber. Not merely his Spirit, Soul, and illusory body within this Dream, but his Grand-Fable itself.
Though the strictures of the Nightmare Spell currently prevented her from "harming" him, even that seemed increasingly tenuous. Sunny suspected Rime was now actively altering her Fable to transcend such limitations.
For to remove and obliterate one's Fable did not register as "Harm" to the Nightmare Spell. This was because this particular Nightmare was itself nearly an invalid construct in the Spell's perception, never having been brought forth by the Spell, but rather by the Original Sunless of the 0th Turn.
"Rime… wak…e… up!" His voice, raw with desperation, ripped through the dreamscape.
Rime remained unresponsive, her vacant gaze fixed upon him.
Fortunately, Sunny possessed a myriad of strategic options. And so, he chose one.
Suddenly, Rime's eyes, previously alight with pure madness and visceral hatred for the Shadow before her, dilated. Her entire perceived world was instantly enveloped in True Darkness, absolute and suffocating.
She had made a grave error. For beings of Divine Rank possessed a unity: their Souls, Minds, Spirits, and bodies were indivisible. No conceptual distinction existed between them.
And so, just as Sunny had previously invaded the Soul Sea of Entropy, the Profaned God of Disorder, he could, in an analogous fashion, envelop this Dream. Even this intricate dreamscape was connected to the conceptual Soul Sea of Rime.
He tore himself free. Rime was compelled to recoil, retreating from his explosive egress as he shattered her spears and swords of ice. Roaring, unleashing his suppressed power, Sunny lashed out, seizing dominion over his existence once more.
He fell to his knees, summoning his Sacred Soul Serpent to steady his form. Sweat, cold and clammy, cascaded down his face and body as he slowly raised his gaze to Rime, his expression a mixture of profound dread and defiant sneer.
It was then that Rime, or at least her surface consciousness, spoke.
Her True Voice, however… was agonizingly distorted, fragmented beyond that of a Divine being.
Yet he still heard it—
["I remember I remember I remember."] The words echoed, disjointed and raw.
["M-m-my bod-d-d-d-dy-y-y-y."] A choked, broken utterance.
["They… they… gouged my eyes…"] A whisper of ancient, terrible anguish.
Sunny's eyes widened as he witnessed countless Fables rend the very fabric of the Dream, flooding forth from the widening fissures in her consciousness like an unstoppable tide. In that same terrifying instant, innumerable spectral hands of light clawed at these emerging Fables, desperately attempting to force them back into cohesion.
Rime's mind was… unraveling. No, it had been irrevocably undone, completely shattered by the relentless pressure of the Nightmare Spell.
Rime's intrinsic for absolute freedom, to collect and possess all things, stood in direct, brutal contradiction to the Nightmare Spell's fundamental imperative to constrain and bind. Perhaps of all the Daemons, she had been affected most profoundly.
Sunny's face contorted in a grimace.
It wasn't even a "maybe." Compared to Rime's affliction, Mirage's predicament was a mere jest, a triviality.
["Crushed? Torn? No, which? No, no, NO! I-I was f-f…free…!"] Her voice rose, a desperate shriek of violated freedom.
Then her eyes, mad and unfocused, locked onto him.
Immediately, the absolute weight of her entire being crashed down upon him. It was not mere gravity, but the crushing burden of a divine presence, a titanic force intent on obliterating his frail existence.
He felt her wrath. Her burning anger, and an unspeakable longing to be free. Every wound she had ever sustained, every trace of pain—physical, emotional, spiritual—all were acutely aimed at him.
Sunny could not help but violently retch a torrent of blood. It welled from his eyes, his nose, and poured from his mouth, he struggled to remain upright, his spiritual form trembling.
By this point, Sunny had entirely discarded the notion of the Nightmare Spell's constraints providing him any sanctuary. Before Rime, they were utterly useless.
Even his encroaching True Darkness was being violently repelled and utterly crushed. This was because, within the confines of this peculiar Dream, Rime truly wielded the totality of her formidable power.
The might of a Divine-Titan… Though not as brutally overwhelming as the Unholy-Titan, Entropy, it remained a harrowing, terrifying force.
But he could not retreat. Not yet. If he harbored any hope of gleaning a single insight from Rime, he had to compel her inner consciousness to emerge.
And yet… he possessed no inkling of how such a feat could be accomplished. If Rime herself could not extricate her own mind from the depths of her consciousness, then by the dead gods, how could Sunny conceivably achieve it?
Alas, that was, regrettably, the least of his immediate concerns, for he felt himself inexplicably drifting away…
His eyes widened in alarm, pushing past the pain and the incessant flow of blood from his spiritual body. A vital fragment of his consciousness remained anchored to the Night Garden, allowing him to perceive a chilling truth:
Repose was… rousing it from it's slumber. She must have comprehended the nature of his presence here, and thus realized that even if she could not personally end him, her creation most certainly could.
It was an evident maneuver, yet also a monumental wager. After all, Sunny was a Shadow, a Spirit of Death. And if one recalled the some of the ancient memories of this world, the Demon of Repose and the Shadow God, Izanami, were, to all intents and purposes, mortal enemies.
Rime had, in ages past, bested the Shadow God. And now, one of Izanami's abhorrent Divine Shadows stood before her.
She was not in a rational state of mind to question the purpose of his intrusion. The being could barely form coherent thoughts, much less engage in discourse. Thus, she must have been operating under the impulse of her terrible, intrinsic instincts, which now commanded the eradication of this foreign soul from her Inner Dream.
"Wait!"
Sunny cried out, attempting to raise a hand towards Repose. But in the very next moment, his form began to dissolve into shadows. He was being forcibly expelled.
"Rime!! Please wait!!"
Rime glowered at him, her scarlet hair intertwining with her fingers as she clasped her face in both hands. Through the splayed digits, Sunny could discern the sheer, unbounded madness in Rime's eyes.
They had once been piercing blue, an icy winter held within their depths, but now they blazed with a manic confluence of burning red and aggressive orange, fueled by an incandescent fury.
She spoke, her distinct, distorted True Voice lacerating Sunny's very Soul.
["After all this time, you have chosen to yet again behold me? You terrible Death…!"]
Sunny blinked, then stumbled backward as he was violently propelled further away.
'Is she mistaking me for Shadow God—?'
The thought remained unfinished, abruptly severed as Sunny suddenly felt two hands clench around his throat. He was slammed to the ground as Rime, acting with frenzied, singular purpose, descended upon him and began to sink her fingers into his spiritual throat.
Her nails were not merely lethal blades of poison; they were heavenly blades of pure light. And yet, for a Shadow such as himself, such potent life proved utterly poisonous, antithetical to his very essence.
Sunny's two hands clamped around Rime's arms. It became palpably clear that this was not the full, unbridled might of a Divine-Titan, yet it unequivocally surpassed the power of a Sacred. The confining strictures of the Nightmare Spell on the Daemons were still partially in effect, and yet…
Rime was subtly altering her Fable to nullify these very constraints. Slowly, yet inexorably, she was reclaiming her true, formidable power within this Dream.
"A-ugh! S-Sto—…stop!" His plea was choked, desperate.
Rime's blazing eyes pierced into his own, and he swiftly realized that the time for dialogue had completely passed.
And so, Sunny began to exert his own indomitable Will and Power, pushing back against the divine onslaught. The Dream itself began to rupture, fragmenting under the sheer force Sunny unleashed.
In that very moment—
Rime's eyes widened, and she recoiled with astonishing speed. As she moved, the dreamscape itself seemed to tear apart and shift with her, now separating their two Soul Seas with an ever-widening chasm.
For Sunny had unleashed everything. His Shadow and blazing Light had coalesced into a Blazing Black Twilight, a swirling maelstrom of pure power. His True Darkness had manifested as numerous conceptual weapons, attempting to repel Rime with sheer existential force. His Nothingness had formed as ethereal white mists, dissolving her very grasp.
And now, the two stood on opposite sides of the schismed Dream, an impassable chasm of void gaping between them.
On Sunny's side, he regarded Rime with a somber expression. There was little overt hatred in his eyes, as he now understood that Rime was barely conscious, barely aware of the reality of her actions. But this fleeting understanding was swiftly eclipsed by a hardened resolve to fight.
For there remained no other recourse but battle. He already sensed the Night Garden stirring awake outside the Dream, being manipulated by the reweaving of Rime's Fables.
On Rime's side, she gazed at Sunny with a terrible expression of profound confusion and searing pain, clutching her head with her hands. Her visage was a maelstrom of madness and fury, yet beneath it, Sunny perceived an undercurrent of sweet, impossible longing for freedom that he, tragically, could never give her.
But this complex tapestry of emotion was swiftly overwritten as she began to laugh, her form shaking uncontrollably. Sunny couldn't help but ponder…
If Rime's consciousness was so fundamentally distinct from that of other Daemons due to her unique nature, if she had been so catastrophically affected by the Nightmare Spell…
Then for how long had she endured this fractured state? For a period far exceeding any reasonable span, he supposed.
In that moment, Sunny's Massive Soul Serpent manifested, coalescing into a long odachi. Even as his shattered side of the Soul Sea began its retreat back to the World of the Nightmare, he pointed the tip of the weapon at Rime. This gesture only seemed to deepen her confusion.
He spoke calmly, his voice resonating with unwavering conviction.
"Rime, Demon of Repose, one way or another I will get through to you."
He possessed both unflinching resolve and the indomitable Will. He could not conclude this Nightmare and attain his desired outcome without Rime's pivotal assistance in restricting his Fable. There was no merit in simply concluding this Nightmare's natural progression, as he would not retain the totality of his experiences and gains.
He was avaricious. And as he had always maintained, Greed is a virtue, a potent driver.
Rime tilted her head, then erupted into laughter, a sound both chilling and mirthless.
["You yearn to embrace me in Death once more? Was the brutal plucking of my sight not enough, wretch?! Did you not discover pleasure in rending me apart… ahhh… tearing me… over and over and over…"]
Rime's hands began to roam her own body, tracing its contours, as if reliving every agonizing interaction with her being in the most perverse, violated manner.
Then she laughed once more, a mocking, triumphant peal, as Sunny's grip on the Dream began to falter.
["Well then, let us dance, oh my sweet Shadow. You terrible fool, to have dispatched a mere Spirit to attend to me again. I shall take this one from you…"]
Her scream intensified, becoming far more mad and piercing.
["I WILL TAKE THIS ONE FROM YOU, JUST AS ALL YOU GODS TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME!!"]
Thus was the unyielding Will of Rime, the Demon of Repose. The Daemon who had fiercely sought freedom, only to have it savagely ripped from her grasp.
Just another of the myriad Daemons tragically denied a lineage.
Just another of the Daemons, inexorably condemned to a perpetual demise, yet never permitted the solace of true death.
Just another fragment… of the Oldest Dream.
Caged within a sweet, terrible Spell.
—
Back upon the deck of the Nightgarden, Sunny awakened, disoriented. Blood spilled from his mouth as he stumbled, collapsing onto his back.
However, he had little time for respite. For in mere moments, it began.
The entirety of the Nightgarden commenced a profound shudder. A sweet, haunting lullaby emanated, seemingly from everywhere at once.
'It's coming.'
Sunny, unleashing [Soul Flame], partially recuperated the damage to his physical body—damage that had, by some peculiar transference, permeated from the Dream. He manifested four wings of shadow and swiftly retreated from the Nightgarden. Utilizing [Blessing of Storm], further amplified by the significant fragment of Nokstella's power, the very world manifested gales capable of propelling him at astonishing speeds.
The speed he achieved now dwarfed his previous capabilities, even with the Blessing. Truly, it was an astounding augmentation.
Sunny could only hope it would prove instrumental in this imminent battle… against a True God.
For that was precisely what now materialized beneath him.
Looking down, Sunny observed the unfolding spectacle. Slowly, inexorably, something immense was emerging.
The very fabric of existence around him seemed to warp.
The Nightgarden, this colossal ship, a kilometer from port to starboard, began to… expand even further. A suddenly blazing, celestial light seemed to emanate from its very timbers.
The city upon it… oh… it began to gracefully crumble. Its structures melted away, consumed, devoured by the Nightgarden as mere fuel, deemed no longer useful.
The hull, the core structures, all were being reshaped according to Repose's desires. The wood, once part of the Heart God's Avatar, still retained its ancient memory and soul. Its emotions and deepest wishes.
One of those wishes was now being fulfilled. It was solely because the Nightgarden was once a fragment of that Avatar that it possessed the capacity to awaken at all. For it was not a lifeless vessel, but a living soul, having been torn from a Divine Avatar… it could only be—
Sunny spoke in a low tone, yet his True Voice resonated across the world, his will beginning to encompass its vastness. Using the [Blessing of Truth], he uttered its name.
"'Nightgarden, The Undying Bloom'…"
'It's a Divine-Beast.'
And in that moment, its awakening completed. Its appearance had transformed utterly.
Before Sunny now stood 'Nightgarden, The Undying Bloom'. Its body was enveloped in dark brown tree bark, with gleaming golden trees – primarily consisting of leaves – and other wood-like features adorning its form. Its face was a vast, flat plank of wood, punctuated by small slits for eyes and a wide mouth. A pair of colossal, gnarled wooden horns protruded from its head. Compared to its previous size as a mere citadel, in this awakened state, it was twice as vast. As it completed its transformation, its wooden horns ignited with ethereal blue flames, and its eye-slits pulsed with a malevolent red glow.
Having assumed the posture of one with hands clasped as if in prayer, it truly resembled a burgeoning god.
For that was what it was. Born of a True God, then subsequently reshaped by a Divine entity, a Daemon, it was a God itself.
Sunny, once again, faced a God.
He smiled bitterly. He harbored no desire to destroy the Nightgarden. But if Repose, in her maddened state, chose this path?
What right did he possess to deny her the inevitable bloodshed?
Thus, Sunny pointed his Soul Serpent toward the Nightgarden, which now glared at him with its newly awakened, godly eyes.
He smiled as he spoke aloud.
"Come then, Repose! I will show you the embrace of Shadow!"
And in that moment, it was summoned forth.
Immediately, the Storm Sea was utterly enveloped in Shadow, summoned forth by the Fragment of Shadow that Sunny could now wield with effortless command. Alongside that, responding to his Fragment of Storm, the very skies seemed to coil around them. The winds yielded wholly to his burgeoning power.
Ah…
Soul Flame unleashed its full, terrible force, augmenting his entire being, alongside his Seven Shadows.
Liquid Darkness coursed through his veins, magnifying his capabilities further.
The Blessings of Destruction and Peace were invoked, enveloping his Shadows and his blade.
His body, formed of Mythril Shell, and previously augmented by [Blessing of Choice], was now further bolstered by Saint's [Stalwart]. Moreover, it had been altered by the Demon of Destiny himself, rendering him ready to confront a God once more.
His Soul Essence, channeled through [Silver Weave], was called forth, its potency further purified and enhanced by [Pure Soul].
His Desires, held true by [Blessing of Desire], were now singularly focused.
To fell the Nightgarden before Repose could fully manifest within it as an Incarnation.
His Will converged on one objective.
His desires were wholly directed towards one goal.
His wishes and hopes were pointed decisively toward a single target.
The God that stood before him.
He stared the Nightgarden in its eye-slits.
The Nightgarden stared back.
And with such blinding speed that it eluded even the perception of a Supreme being—
The Shadows that had swallowed the sky rained down like countless blades, and from the Sea where Nightgarden resided, innumerable roots ascended, coiling skyward to meet them.
The Storm Sea began to tremble under the sheer magnitude of power being unleashed.
Who would prevail?
The Spirit of Death, augmented to such an unparalleled state that perhaps he could genuinely match the raw might of a Divine-Beast?
Or Nightgarden, The Undying Bloom, having answered the desperate call of its master, could it truly fell the Spirit of Death?
The very same Spirit who now bore not two, nor three, but four affinities and the potent blessings of both Daemons and Gods?
Would the Nightgarden prove capable of felling he who dared to challenge the Oldest Dream?
Such questions held no immediate answer. The world itself remained unable to articulate an answer.
All it was capable of was screaming under the colossal weight of their clash.
It had begun.