As soon as the eyes cracked open, Oliver shielded his face. The light pouring from them was unbearable—so intense it hurled him backward. He struggled, but every movement was futile. Even lifting his head to glimpse the creature's legs felt impossible. He stayed crumpled on the ground, helpless, until something sliced through the crushing weight.
He sensed it before it came—a grey, wave-like beam of light, cutting through the air in the direction of the creature's gaze.
And in that instant, he heard it again.
The melody.
That same haunting tune from before he reached the crowd. But now, it sounded closer—like someone was whispering it directly into his ear.
As the melody pushed against the suffocating light, Oliver managed to rise. His gaze met the source of the radiance. Moments ago, the space had burned with a deep crimson hue, but now it shimmered—gold streaking through red. A golden crimson: luminous, sacred, and terrifying.
Then he saw them—his past selves, standing before him like spectral soldiers preparing for war. The air thickened, heavy and vibrating. He struggled to breathe.
The ground cracked open beneath him.
Without warning, he was suspended in the air—just like the others.
And then his body betrayed him.
He couldn't move.He couldn't run.He couldn't scream.
He could only watch.
Something sliced through him—clean, instant. He didn't register it until his lower half dropped into the abyss, while the upper half remained afloat, grotesquely alive. The pain was monstrous, blinding. But he wasn't dead.
His skin turned ghostly. His eyes began to sink into their sockets. A pressure built behind them, swelling outward—something trying to escape.
Then, it appeared.
Not death.
Something far worse.
Something even death would flee from.
It stood before him—a being older than the first grave. Its shadow crossed no tomb. Its name could never be etched in stone, yet it burned itself into the memory of the oldest gods.
Oliver felt like a germ in its presence.
It didn't move its lips, but the words struck his ears like a meteor.
"Why have you returned?"
Blood gushed from his body. He shrank inward. Bones pushed through paper-thin flesh. He tried to speak, but his mouth refused him. His lips cracked like scorched bark, solid and useless.
His arms shriveled. He hovered between cursed immortality and rotting decay.
"WHY HAVE YOU RETURNED?"
The second question thundered darker—colder, hungrier.
His neck collapsed into his chest, leaving him headless but aware. Blood no longer ran red. It turned white—soft, mist-like—seeping from his shredded abdomen.
He wasn't bleeding blood.
He was bleeding water.
Then the being turned.
Something slammed into him from both sides—like two colossal fingers pinching shut. The pressure crushed him. His skull split. Thick, black blood erupted from every pore.
And as the fingers parted, the space they revealed twisted into something vile—a grotesque surface, a nightmarish canvas burned into memory.
Then—
"Hh–!"
Oliver's eyes flew open. He gasped, breath caught in his throat. His hands clutched the bed so tightly his fingernails tore through the fabric.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink. Couldn't speak.
He just stared—at Nyxara. At Leo's. His eyes wide. Wild. Sinister.
"It's okay…" Nyxara said softly—then laughed. Loud, unbothered, uncontrolled.
The sound grated like metal. Even Leo, who had no idea what Oliver had seen, felt its weight. He couldn't look away. Yet somewhere deep inside, a part of him still yearned—desperately—to one day bring Nyxara to heel.
But this time, his mind betrayed him. His thoughts played out like words on a screen—one only she could read.
And in that moment, he understood.
He finally understood what she meant.
Then, in a flash, Leo saw his body floating—suspended in the air. A breath later, he crashed against the roof. Then, with a sickening thud, slammed onto one of the metal tables below.
For a long, dreadful moment, he didn't move.Didn't twitch. Didn't breathe.
He just lay there—motionless.
Time held its breath.
Then—
Snap.
Nyxara's fingers cracked like thunder.
Leo gasped. His lungs restarted. His arms jolted.
He breathed again.
"What did you do to me!?" he shouted, already staggering to his feet. The pain followed close behind—his body echoing with the memory of impact. But he didn't care. He shouted anyway.
Nyxara didn't flinch.
"I can see some potential in you," she said.
Then, without warning, she tossed something at him—a thick glass bottle.
Leo caught it midair.
"This will help you get what you want," she added. "But... be careful how you use it."
Her words trailed into nonsense—gibberish in his ears.
Still dazed, Leo turned to the door. As he opened it, he glanced back—at Oliver, still frozen on the bed—then slammed the door behind him.
Outside, he stopped.
Lysandra stood there.
She stared at him, confused—as if she'd just seen a ghost and wasn't sure whether to believe it. For a moment, Leo considered slipping past her unnoticed.
But her gaze followed him—like a soul tethered to his.
He had no choice.
He walked toward her.
Inside the room, Oliver began to stabilize—mind, soul, and body slowly piecing themselves together.
His eyes landed on the lamp. That same lamp—its carvings eerily familiar.
Nyxara handed it to him, sensing the exact moment he was ready.
The moment he touched it, something clicked.
"I think I've seen these symbols before," he muttered, scanning the room. His eyes landed on a word carved faintly into the wall. At first, it was barely there, but now he could see it. His vision had sharpened.
He thought it was his imagination.
But as he studied it, he realized: his eyes had changed.
Don't trust anyone.
The words seared into his thoughts. He turned slowly toward Nyxara, now fully reclined in the chair.
Am I the only one seeing this?
For a while, Oliver tried to make sense of the dreams.
But there were no answers.
Then—
"How did it feel… when you were sliced in your dream?"
Nyxara stood and turned toward him. Her voice was low, but in Oliver's ears, it echoed—loud, clear, unavoidable.
Wait… what?!
How does she know?
I never said a word.