Morpheus stood at the heart of an endless river of blood. The thick, metallic scent lingered in the air, coating his lungs with every breath. This place… this nightmarish landscape was born from his first Nightmare. Now, it had become his Soul Sea — a twisted reflection of his psyche. And it had grown. Vastly.
With a slowly burning cigar pressed between his lips, he tilted his head back and gazed at the heavens. The sky above was an eerie tapestry of stars, countless eyes blinking in silent rhythm. He felt it in his bones — they were watching.
He was being observed.
And the more he progressed on his path, the more he felt it.
The gods — distant, cold, and omnipresent — had turned their gaze upon him. They knew. They knew everything he did, everything he said, every step he took. And yet, they never acted. Not once had a church confronted him. Not once had a divine warning been sent his way. It was almost as if… they considered him one of their own. Were they hoping he'd stay on their side?
Morpheus lowered his gaze.
The river of blood below no longer held its crimson hue. It had darkened into something near black, thick and heavy like tar. He had once believed that by becoming stronger, he would be able to purge the corruption infecting his Soul Sea. But with every step forward, every leap in power, the corruption only deepened. Now, even as a Sequence 1 — the Snake of Mercury — the only thing he could truly preserve was his sanity. And even that teetered on the edge of collapse.
Above, in the swirling sky of the Soul Sea, his Echo — the [Snake of Mercury] — shimmered like a constellation. Its traits were now fully revealed. Each one bore a name that echoed the essence of the pathway. Morpheus had believed that absorbing those traits, one by one, would eventually erase his Echo — that it would fade once his journey was complete.
But it hadn't. It remained. Watching.
And that persistent presence whispered a terrifying truth: There is still another step. You are not done yet.
Just then, as he stood motionless within the river of corrupted blood, a ripple passed through the mist — a signal from the Gray Fog. His moment had come.
He emerged from the Soul Sea and arrived where Klein was — a battlefield already soaked in tension. Klein and two of his old comrades stood against a monstrous entity. Even before anyone spoke, Morpheus recognized it. This was Ince Zangwill's true form — grotesque and unholy.
Without hesitation, he extended protection to each of them, shielding their minds from collapse, amplifying their strength. But he didn't lift a hand against Zangwill. This wasn't his vengeance to take. He would not rob them of it. Instead, he stood back… and watched.
And when Zangwill finally fell, when the corrupted angel's form crumbled into silence, Klein turned to his old teammates. That was when another angel descended.
Morpheus felt it instantly. The space grew denser, almost heavy with divine authority. Klein, Daly, and Leonard turned in unison toward the new arrival.
Morpheus already knew.
From the Tarot meetings, from half-spoken truths and hidden messages — he knew.
Adam.The Angel of Imagination.
Adam knelt beside Zangwill's shattered corpse and calmly retrieved 0-08 — the cursed object that had twisted so many fates.
And Morpheus understood everything.
This being… this angel… was the one pulling the strings from the shadows.
Every disaster Klein had faced. Every loss. Every turning point. All orchestrated.
All… him.
Fury exploded within Morpheus. His cloak rippled as white scales rained from beneath it, hitting the ground like shards of molten metal. His body trembled not from fear, but from the magnitude of the wrath boiling inside him.
Adam turned to face him, his expression calm — almost mournful.
"You don't have much time left, Morpheus," he said gently, as if offering pity. "The only reason I allowed you to live was so you could assist the Mysteries Candidate. But now… your time has run out. If you continue living, you will become something mindless. Something monstrous. You need to die."
Even with the chorus of a hundred maddened voices screaming in his head, Morpheus heard him. Understood him. And rejected him.
He took a slow, steady drag from his cigar.
"I won't die," he growled, his voice deep and shaking. "Not before I kill you. Not before I tear down every last one of your kind. You don't get to walk away from what you've done to me."
Adam gave a sad, almost tender smile.
But that expression only added fuel to the fire.
Morpheus summoned the [Extraordinary Sword].
The blade tore through the air, heavy and radiant with power. Klein, Daly, and Leonard felt the crushing pressure the moment it appeared and instinctively stepped back.
Morpheus raised the blade high, ready to strike.
But Adam conjured the Corpse Cathedral, a defensive fortress of divine power. No matter how hard Morpheus tried, he couldn't cut through it. The sword trembled in his grip. The voices in his mind were louder now, distorted, screaming, insistent. They bent his will. They weakened his resolve.
And when the edge of his cloak shifted, the truth beneath was revealed — muscle and bone, barely held together by layers of corrupted blood. His body was breaking. He was spending most of his power just to keep it from falling apart.
Then Adam spoke again.
"From the moment you were born," he said, "misfortune latched onto you like a curse. Every step of your life — every victory, every tragedy — followed you. You thought that by rising higher, you would be free. But there's nothing ahead but more suffering. More emptiness. Let go, Morpheus. Fall."
There was power in his words.
Divine suggestion.
Morpheus — broken, corrupted, and utterly exhausted — was vulnerable. He had endured his own personal hell since that first nightmare. And yet, he had always tried to laugh. To find joy in the small things. To joke. To live.
But now… it was too much.
The pain had gone too far.
And so, at last, he let go.
He released his grip on hope, on vengeance, on everything.
And he fell into the black river of blood.
Just like he had in his very first nightmare.