"Psychologically, dream̴̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅs are defined as "subjective m̴̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅem̴̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅories of what we experience while sleeping" or "vivid, visual sequences of im̴̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅagery that occur at regular intervals during sleep," as outlined in studies by Kithing et al. and Russel et al.
[ W.k- .P ]
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These scholars describe dreams as fragmented narratives shaped by the brain's attempt to process emotions, m̵̼̰̜̜͖̤̺̟̺͕̤͚̻͇͍̅́̚ě̸͚̆͑̀̄̇͂̉͘͝m̵͈͖̀̊̍̐͆͆̔̎͒̌̉̕ǫ̴̲̏̀̈́͆̾̔̕r̷̡̨͖̟̭̪͖̥̂̽́̎̉͐̈́̆̒̇̊̋i̴̼̝̼͕̊́̂̊ë̵̥̝́̈́̃̔͑͑̽̓̕s̸̢̛̛̘̩̰̮̝̬̖̫̈̽͑̐͗, and sensory stimuli during REM cycles. Yet, for all their clinical precision, such definitions fail to capture the visceral, almost mystical quality of dreaming—the way it dissolves the rigid b̶̨̲̣̥̳̤͉͔̤͛͛͐ͅo̷̘̝̜̰͇͇̱̔̋͑͌̋͑͐̑͝ǖ̸̫̘̮͊̈̚̚͜n̸̡̢̰̖̣͚̳̳̑̿͂̑͛͘͝ḋ̴̨̧̤̗͇̳̘̣͈̩̲̘̯͑̐͐̅̃̑̍̿̿̄͝͠͠a̸͕̪̝̰͛̀̈́̉͝r̶̛͚̭͓̈́̂i̶̹̱̰̣̬͒̈͐̉̚͜ę̶̪͕͔̟̹̺͕͓͔̱͓͂̔̽͐͝ͅs̷̢̧̖̩̺̮͇̳̜̱͍̣͚̳͑͐͌̑̋̂͠͝ ̵͙̫̝̬͇̲̠̭̹͖̌͠ọ̶̍̋̉̄̅̕f̷͇̟͚̣̓̃̏̓͛̃̇̈̀͠͠͝ ̷͉̳̭̭̦̖̙̜͉̦̣̑͜ṯ̸̡̡͙͇̥̫̪͇̗̻͚̟̦͚̃̏̿͘ḭ̷̛͓͉̟̤̼̖͓̣̫͈͙̻̫̉̓̒͑̔͛̈́͘͘͠ḿ̴͖͇̍̇̇̄͝e̸͓̜̭̹̜̔̓̈́̅̔̓̽͂́́̚͘, space, and identity. To an ordinary person, dreams are less a neurological phenomenon and more a descent into a realm where r̷̡̳̩̤͚̞̼̀̒̈́̓͒̉͌͑̋̑̄̄͜͜͝ẻ̸͕̯̫͇͕̝̦̱̳̪̣̈́̒͂͋͘a̵̛̭̘͎̯͖̼̟̩͑l̶̢̢͚̫͇͍̰͙̹̥̗̭͗͛̈́̆̀̇̔̚̚į̵̤̗͓̲͖̺̖̥̘͈̟͈͒̓̓̋͝ͅt̸̨̨͙̮̤̺̘͎̊͋̂̇͊̿́͌̊̓̃̀͝y̶͚̮͉͙̦̤̔̉͋̀͂̾̚͘ ̵̫̙͈͔̣͐ų̴̛̪̝̼̝̺̣͔̣̟̫̙̓̂̏͗̄̏̐̊͒ń̷̦̗͖r̸̨̨̮̞̼̰͍̞͛͑̌̐̈́͑̇̓͐̿̂̉̚ą̶͍̹̦͖̬͓̩̠̯̱̟̅̅̈́͜v̶̧̛̻͉̫̖̝̖͙͔͔͗̏͂̂̓̽̏́͜ͅẹ̶̢͔͉̩̗̦̎̓̽͗̓͛͌͘l̵̝̘̣̲͉̹̣̗̞̙̥̭͇̟̗̈̿̅̽͊̉̅͂̀̍̽̉͐̕s̴̡͈̘̘̉̽̓̊͝.
[ Wak- .P ]
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If you were to ask s̶̡̢͈͇͉͕̘̟̥͖͚̘̽̈́̄̈̾̈́̕͝͝o̵̥̻̫̤̹̻͔͒̊͛̄m̵̢̼̞͍̭̊̓̐̃͒̐͑͌͒̑é̷̬̥̏̋̌́̿͌͑̄̊̚͠ơ̸̞̟̝̥̻͙̓̈̈́̉̾͊́̓̄n̶̮͑͋͆ẹ̵̾ ̷̨̺͔̹̺̻̟̻̏͆̋͋́͑̍́u̵̻͖͈̙̫͇͍͍̻̟̟͇̳͋̌̏̈́͊̈͗̎͆͝͝ņ̶͚̺͈͔̼̬̼̈́̈͆́ͅt̸̫͔̒͂͒̍͌͐̇͗̍͝e̸͉̹̪̰͇̻͍̟̗̟͛ͅͅţ̴̡͍̦̬̲͋̊͐̎̂͒̋͐̏̂̅͊́͜h̶̠̰̜͓͔͒̊e̴̻̞͙͕͊͗̔͝r̷̡̛̲̺̣̭̼̫̼̘̰͕̮̄̽̌̌̃̒̓̅̍̓̽̃̌̋͜ͅė̵͖̲͙͇̮̥̠͇͕̞̫̉̏͜ͅd̶̡̫̬͊̒̏͐ to academic jargon, they might describe ḑ̶̫̜̠͇̣̮̫͉̾̿̾̋̃͋̑̉̈́̉͐̚ͅŕ̴̡̢̤̱͖̩̎̄̎̇̕ḗ̵̯̙̹̭́͂̒͒̈̊̆̓̚ą̴̛͖̳̀͛̌͘͝ͅm̵̢̞͐s̶͉̿́͆̑͝ like this: They are the colors of the waking w̴̡͈̩̐ọ̸̢̜̘͇́̔r̸̬̞͚̠̺̯͖̩͚̺̺͎̄̊̉͑͐̓̕̕ͅl̸̬̳̯̥̘͇͉̠͕͙͙̩̤͔̿̄̽̀̓̓͌͆̃̅̚͝͝d̷̼̘͉̹̱̈́̒̽̈̂̃̎̅́͂̊̆̚͝ melting into shadow, then into a deep, velvety black. For a moment, there is nothing—only ẅ̸̱̙̳̞͇͈͖͎̹́̿̐́̀̀͘͝e̵̳͇̮̲̼͔͎̤̜̋̉ͅḭ̷̝̟̗̤̹̭̫͖̗͊̏̊̾͐͑̇̇̀g̴̢̳̦͕̰̙͉̬͖̟͂̓̋͒̀̎̿͆̔̕h̵̪͓̗̦̲̗̻̼̆̀̔̐́͘t̴̨̘̭͚͚̣̘͍͉̤̰̟̓̽̈̒̀̕l̶̨̧̯̺͖̟̦̪̻̹͎͎̺̠̐̀̀̋͂̂͑̉͜͠e̸̘̱̮͎̜͉̪͌̈̄̌̀s̸̖͚̗̳̪̼͙͊̐̕s̴̢͙̙͚͊̈͊̅̄̕n̷̩̙͚̩̩̙̬̮̟͖̓̈́̐͛̂̈́̃̕͜ͅë̷͔̼̯̙̬̯̖͙̩̐͑s̸̫̘̱̦̣̞̼͔͚̦͖̝̠̏͂͂́͜͜s̷̫̣̮͉̗̳͍̬̿̂̏̊ in silence. Then, ị̶̳̦͙̗̩̫͔͇̰̤͋͜m̴̡̧̛͙͙̭̗̥̬͔̝̼̭̟̰̱͐͋̐̓̕a̶̧͉͚̫̙̪͙͙̙̞͂̊̌͛̈̐͌̈́́̈́̋͆͘͝g̵̟̰̟̜̩̬͂͆̀̈́̀̑͌é̴̛̪͖̬͈̯͚͚͎̩̓̂͂̀̉́͐̋̄s̵̨̤̩̟͓̳̟̟̜̠̖̪̃͂͛͐̏͒͋͑̓̅́̕͝͝ imperceptibly begin to stir like ripples on still water. Shapes form without effort, scenes bloom from the darkness like ink spreading through liquid, and logic slips away as d̷̺͓̼̯̠̱̮̩͕̮̻͍͇͖̋͛̾̚ͅr̸̯͈̗͇̖̎̅̏̌̆̃̀̽̿̈́̂͒͆͋͘ȅ̸͇̬͔͓̩̳͉̩͇̫͇̩͛̉͊͒͛̂̒́͝ͅa̴͇̪̮̲̻͉̭̋̾͛͆͐̑͑̿̑͠m̶̧̞͔͖̜̬̦̺͎͉̮͍̦̒͒͑͘͝͠ḭ̸̡̢̧̛͓̠̺̱̪̤̣̖̘̃̈́͊͗͂̀̃̒͝͝n̶̬̐̕g̶̟̦̝͈̗̥̦̼̮͎̤̞̮̔́̂̈́̐̔̃̕̚͝͝ͅ ̶̢̨̧͈͓̟̯̻̭̻̭̰̈́̀͝ͅt̷̥̜̠͚͉̩̫͎̼̙̾͌̐͗̂̆̅̓ͅȁ̴̡̢̛̬̖̳̜͚͔͓͙̀͗̊͑̀̑͘ͅk̴͖̯̯͙̗̗̯̤͇̥̒̂͑̈̏̅̇̓̾̕͘͝͝ę̸̬̫̣̭̞̖͔̹̖̓͒̌̿́͜͝ͅs̵̹̼̯̩̓̓̈ ̴̨̢͖̟̥̻̔̓̆͛͊̈́̋͗̍̓̆͐̚ḧ̴̢̗̯͉̯͑̌͋̈́̉͑̍ȍ̵̢̰̱͉̟́̓̀͗l̶̨͉͈̖̯̮͛̆̅d̶̲̲̠̭͙͇̭͚̭̙̝͙͕̎̾̅—̸̨͉͔̱̣̝͙̰͜͠͠͝ͅf̸̘̬̺̳͔͇̊l̴̡̨̢̧͓̙̦͙͇̱̰̈͒͊͛͛͘͘͜͠ṷ̷̡̤̙̺͈̘̭̼̣̰͑͊̀̏̊̉ǐ̵̡͍̭̫͚̩̙̌̀͘͜d̵̝̻̗̟̥͇͉͆̑̍̈́͌̂̂̆̐̊̕, surreal, and unbound by r̵̩̓̑̌͐̏͜ě̸̹̄͌̄a̸̛̲̠̍̿ͅl̶̢̧̫̘̦̖͓̯̞̓́͛̈́̃̾͑̓̇̊͘͠i̷̛̞̓̉̅̂́̏̔̅̾̄͒̚͠t̷̡̪̪͍̤̹͍̥̮͖̯̾͌̄͋̈́͌͝y̸̗̼͙̙͔̯̤̗̞̳̙̓͐͋̄͆̃."
[ Wake Up Isaac! ]
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The air rushed back into my lungs with a gasp that felt like drowning in reverse. One moment, I was there—eviscerated by his staff, vision dissolving into static—and the next, I was here, standing in the same dense forest that stretches endlessly. The same village, rustic and primal, my hands trembling against the nearest log.
I'd leaned on minutes before. The metallic tang of blood was still fresh in my mouth, but my body was whole again, every scar and scrape erased as if death had been nothing but a nightmare.
Time hiccupped. My memories clawed at the edges of coherence: the myconid, the dark flare, the W̷͎̠͔̫̥͎̟͊̀͊͗͑͐̽̽̆̄́͆͑̚e̶̡̛̤̩͎̯̫̥̼̤̎̿̈́̓̈́̈́̔͝å̵̯̆̒̎̓̔̔̋̆̄̕̚͝v̶̥̹̫̍̇́̿͂̊̈́͂̔̀͘e̶͉̰̱̮͎̫̘̯̟̰͕̋̽͆́͂̆̊̍̄̿̎͒͑͜ͅr̸̡̥͌ ̵̨̲̣͕̞̮͓̇͛̀̈́̍̌̀̎́͋̂̏̐͆͜͠ö̴̡̢̼̫͎̦̦̪̜͇̟́ͅf̷̮͈̌́͊̇̈́͐͆̑̀̈́̓̌͝͠ ̸̹̦͌͛͂̋Ļ̷̙̫̦̮͇̯̾ȇ̸̡̡͕͈͎̞͈̜̹͖̩̯̻̽̎̊̿́͂͒̈́̽t̷̡̧̜̱̦͊͊̋h̴̢͔̫̼͉͉͓͎̫͚̼̪͒̂̒͌͊̚͠a̴̢̓̑̈́̿̋̓̊͌͐͒̈́̾́͘ř̶͇̪̙̗̳̈́g̵͎̈́́͂͆̂̿̅i̶̧̬͍͍̮̠̖̻̲͋́̽̋́̍̈̂̎͐̍̆̐͂ͅĉ̷̰̫̞̫̱̫͍̍͆͆̓̎ ̵͓̦̟̱̯̟̌̽̈͜L̶̈͌̍̍̂͂̆̈́̏̐́̈́͘͜͝i̸̫̝̪̞̞̖͎̅̎͠g̶̢̰͙͚̜͓̤̹̜̼̹̪̰̬̋̈́͗͜͠h̶̫͑̀̀̐̃̍t̷̹̖̓͂́͑̋ and the darkness.
But I'm back here, stitched back into a moment I'd already lived. Shadows flickered at the corner of my vision, warped like heat haze, as if spacetime itself had recoiled from the paradox of my return. I pressed my palm to my chest, feeling the heartbeat that shouldn't exist. Was this a salvation from God or a flaw in the fabric of reality—a glitch that made death just another door, swinging endlessly on its hinges.
"W-What the fuck man"
A dim blue interface appears to me:
[ Are y̸͖̜̍͛̈́̃o̵̢̥̤̜̪̟͕̗͍̹̐̽̔̒̇̐͝ư̸̮̱̲͈̙͔̳̟͈̫̦͉͂̂̃̓̈́͆̃̈́̀̋̒͠ alright? i̴͕̳̞͓̔̿͗͝ͅ don't have a̶̱̩̲̠͕̤̤̺̗̘͌n̶̥̝̳̲͌̒̀̄̓̽̊̈́y̵̝͙̙̼̲̱͉̥̟̩̿́͛̾ more e̴̫̋́ñ̵̢̋́̄̕ͅergy left to sen̴̢͍̫̹͈̜͒͂̈́̓̐͑͊͘͠d̴̛̗͓̹͕̥̰̽̽̔̿̽̐̎͋̓͠ you bȁ̵͕͎͚̺̭͖̃́̽̅͑͋̇̿̐͆͒̇́̕c- ]
The system glitches and stutters, as if fading?
[ B̴̛͙̩͙̩̏͂̉͑͋̎͒̀̄́͊͌͘͝ą̸͍͈͗̊c̶̫͂̔͆̒́̀̀̐̀̾̀̃̇̈́̆ķ̴̮͚͍̄̌̈́̽̄͗͛̈́̈͒ ò̸̢̬͈͔̖̼̫͔ne m̸̡̧̭̲̮̺̼̫̳̩̰͙̌̈͗͋̊̑͐͝͝o̴̢̰͖̩̭̜͙̖͎͉͇͋̓͒̎̒̓̐̒͌͛͋͜͜͝ͅr̴̛̭̰̂̈́̐̀̆̐̋̾͝͝͝e̷̲̞͕͇̫̫͚̍̆͛̿̅͐̐̾̿͛̔̌͊͜͜ͅ tim̸̡̞̟̺͔̫̿̔̈́́ë̵̪̝̤͔̙̲́̉̀̈́͐̊̾̀̇̐̃̕̚, I̸͎̞̯̼͚̯͎̼̽͜ ̷̥̭̺͈͕̦͍̞̤̬̠̙̝͋̑͒̈͘͝c̵̢̀̎̓̈́͊̈́́̔̒͌̕a̷̗͑͐͛̽̍̈́́̚ņ̵͈̪̠̞̼̖̗̋̓̀͗̅̌̑̒͂͂̓̽̅͜ ̶̧̈́̀̾̓͋̉̀̚ö̵͚͇̾͗̾̾̃̾̉̽̈͒͑͠͝n̵͔̩̪̖̞͍̳̥̝͎̤͈͒̂̎͑̇̄̑̈́̇̾̈̾̎̐̕͜l̷͕͓̼̹̭̹̥̰͈̼͉̽͛̈́̾̃̋͊͋͜ỳ̸̟̐̍̑̋͛̈́̐̓̅̄̄́̈͝ ̴̧̨̢̨͔͔̫̫͕̜̜̮̔͝͝ͅs̶̠͔͚͋ͅh̴̖̤̗͐́̈́̽͒͊͂̔͒̈́̑̇͝͝o̶̯̖͔̣̥̍͛͆͋̏̈̄̑͜͝w̶̪̗̼̘͔̎̈́̑̓͂͆͛͘͘͝ ̴̳͈̦͍̪̠͔̘̣̮̗͆̈́̒̀̂͂̈́̿̒̏̔̊̚͜͜ͅy̸̧̢̢̨̧̩̜̱̥̱̫̞͙̬̽͜ȏ̷͇͎͇̼̭͚́̊̔̇͌͘͝͠u̵̧̡̹̪͍̖̝̥̒̋̀̈́̽̊̃̽́͝ ̶̻͇̻̥̺̩̰̄̍s̸̢͖̒̉̿̇̍̀͝t̵̘̓͐̃̔͗͂̈͂̚͠͝å̷̭͔̖̮͔̜̱̭̫͛̏̑͊̒̈̀̌͗̆͐ͅt̸̡̫̞͎̼̆͆́͑͂̇̈́̋͑̅̉s̵̢̛̲̞̹͔̬̞̠̳̖̠͎͚̍͛͂̿́̌̌̄̿͘̕͠ͅͅ ̶̖̦̺̪͓͕͕̣̈́͒̓́̀̃͜ͅà̷̢̢̛̖͙̪̣̯̥̺̠̬̫̈̐̀̏̈́͜͠ͅn̷̢͍͍͇̠̟̱̠̤̭̈́̂̐̃̌̿̅͒̄͝d̸͍̈́̀̀̇̌͗̆͆̉̎̓͋̚͠ ̴̲̳̣̻̭͎̝̙̫̝̗͗̐̃̂̿̓͂̈́̈́t̵̂̄̌̅̾̑̄̂̈͆̌ͅh̷̯̯̳̟͙̖̞̥̥͖̫͈̞̋̿̽̾̒͗̏̃͌͝͝͠e̸̜͕̼͔̲̻̠͍̙̩̭̬̱̮̒͌̿͘͜ ̶͍̹̽͂̀̕͝ͅw̸̭̫̭͓͑͆̅͗̆̎͆̍̀̃̄̍̊̚͠o̸̧̡̧̢͕̪̲̦͖̖̻͉̺͍͛r̶͇͂̌̂̂͂̋̏̍́̌́̕͝͝l̸͈͉͚̼̞̹͙̭̦̠̥̙͇̝̣̀̔̒̊͗̾̒̅̍̈̔d̷̡̛̳̻̬̥͕̪̹̺͓̒̇̄͊̈́̔͆̉. S. sţ̸̳̞̮̣̙̝̯̺͖͎̳͕̮͈̇͂́ay ̵̯͂̏̋̾̕ā̷̢̜͕͉͍̱̖̞̰̙ḻ̶̢͙̥̫̹͚̼̫̉̄́̄̐͛ͅi̸̧͙̯͉̪͕̱̖͓͍̲̺͋̂̅̈͐̈́͘͠v̶̨̻̯̅̿͘ę̷̻̲̥̺͎̗̎͗́͛͂̐͘, Ple̵̡̡̡̡̛̠̗̹̜̬̙̯̺̲͆̈́ą̴̨̟̪̱͖̖͕̒͛̂̈̄̍́͂̕̚se ]
And the interface disappears.
More energy? Send me back? Stay alive?...
What the hell is allat supposed to mean???
I take a look around me. Precisely accurate. The bonfire. The screaming woman and her charred son next to her in the flames. The same regurgitation in my stomach with the same scent of burning fat. Again, too realistic to be a dream.
But if everything's the same. The goblin approached in front of me, a sly grin. The same pupils dilated and narrow, irises a feverish yellow. Its grin widened, its jagged teeth glinting in the firelight. I didn't know. It couldn't know. But I did. I'd felt that glare plunge into my ribs two times already—no, thrice? The lines blurred. The fear of death carved the killing movements needed deeper into my muscles, my nerves. Wind Slash. The words hummed in my skull like a struck bell.
This time, I didn't run.
The goblin lunged, rusty cleaver aimed at my throat. I sidestepped, the motion similar to the past, and raised my arm.
"Wind Slash."
Energy surged—not from me, but through me, as if the loop itself were a conductor. The air split with a scream that wasn't mine. A crescent of green mana tore forward, shearing the goblin in half mid-leap. Its top half spun, still grinning, before thudding into the mud and corrupting it with a dark red.
[ Remaining MP: 230/250 ]
The village froze.
Then chaos. Goblins spilled from huts, hissing, claws out. I didn't hesitate. My fingers flicked the air again, again, carving arcs of razor-wind. Bodies ruptured. Tents shredded. Blood misted the smoke-choked air, tangy and metallic. I kept moving, numb, until the screams stopped. Until only the crackle of the bonfire remained.
[ Remaining MP: 10/250 ]
The woman stared at me, her son's charred corpse clutched to her chest. Her eyes weren't grateful. They were hollow. Empty. But full of pain. I think her vocal orpheus burned to a crisp already. She's clinging onto life, but barely.
And for no particular reason, it pissed me off. I'll grant her a fast death, not out of pity. But out of spite. At least she gets a permanent death. I die twice and live in this shitty world I adored as a teenager.
"Wind Slash."
The words left my lips more out of habit than hope. But nothing came. No hiss of energy, no crescent arc of power. Just a pathetic wheeze of breath from cracked lips—my palm outstretched like a fool's gesture.
Of course.
[ Remaining MP: 11/250 ]
A dull ache throbbed through my bones, my body barely more than a scaffold of trembling sinew. Every breath scraped against my lungs like rusted iron grinding. Even so, even now, I moved. Slow. Ugly. Intentional.
With what little strength this weak body could muster, I twisted.
Crack.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the sickening snap of meat and bone—dry, final.
She dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, her eyes still wide with whatever last thought haunted her. A whisper of red trickled from the corner of her lips, pooling beneath her head like a blooming flower. A smile rested there too. Serene. She looked peaceful.
I didn't.
Something stirred inside me—hot, alive, and utterly wrong. It writhed like molten nails grinding through my chest, scraping the tender lining of my heart. Not fire. No... it was worse.
Purpose.
It burned brighter than any spell, hotter than any flame. It wasn't magic—it was will, sharpened to a blade. I'm going to unearth the true ending of this world, peel back the curtain of code hidden behind the screen. Not as a player, but as a inhabitant of the EAA.
And when I do, I'll make sure that boss feels the death he brought me, twice over if possible