In the middle of the Guild World two titans were engaged in a great debate. Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (Ashʿarī theologian): "Reason is a gift bestowed by the Creator, but it is also a double-edged sword. We may infer God's existence and attributes through rational signs, yes. However, to presume we can fully comprehend the Divine Essence is a delusion. The intellect, limited and veiled, cannot pierce the Unseen (ghayb). God is beyond species, genus, and category—beyond even being (wujūd) as we understand it." Thomas Aquinas (Catholic Scholastic): "And yet, reason is the image of God within man. Though the Divine Essence in its fullness remains inaccessible, we can come to know that God is, and infer certain attributes—such as simplicity, immutability, and goodness—by following the chain of causality from creation to Creator. This is the path of natural theology, which leads us to the threshold of the beatific vision."
Al-Rāzī: "But natural theology risks attributing to God what is inapplicable. You argue God is 'simple,' yet you arrive at that by analogies drawn from creatures. Tanzīh—declaring God's absolute dissimilarity—is paramount. Even the term 'existence' we use of God is metaphorical, not literal. It does not existence as we know it." Aquinas: "Agreed—in part. We must employ analogia entis—the analogy of being. When we say 'God exists,' or 'God is good,' we do not speak unequivocally as of creatures, nor entirely equivocally, but analogically. God's existence is not another instance of created being—it is Being Itself (ipsum esse subsistens)." Al-Rāzī: "But the Quran teaches: 'There is nothing like unto Him' (42:11). Any analogy runs the risk of fashioning an idol of the intellect. Even attributes like 'will' and 'knowledge' must be affirmed without modality—bi-lā kayf. We affirm them, yet deny knowing how."
Aquinas: "That principle is not far from apophatic theology—the via negativa, which I also uphold. After all, the highest knowledge of God is the knowledge that we do not know Him fully. But reason is not to be abandoned—it is to be purified. Faith perfects reason; it does not negate it." Al-Rāzī (nodding slightly): "Then perhaps we agree more than we differ, O Thomas. Both reason and revelation are lights—but one must always remember which is the lantern, and which is the sun." Aquinas (smiling): "Indeed, and yet both lights, in their purity, point toward the One Light that has no shadow." A voice echoes through the dome—not heard, but felt—"This is the station of those who seek with sincerity. The debate has not ended—it has only begun."
At the heart of the Guild World, under the Vault of ۞ (Aqma), where thought forms spiral like constellations and every word shapes reality, two titanic emanations face one another—manifestations of Divine Inquiry and Sacred Logic.
𒐄 (Xael), Voice of Origin, shaped in the likeness of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī:
"ᓭ (Thae) is gifted by ۞ (Aqma), yet ∷ (Noq) warns: it cuts in both directions. Through ∷ (Noq) we trace shadows of ₪ (Ezha), catch reflections of ₪ (Ezha)'s attributes—yet to dream that ᓭ (Thae) can shatter גゐ (Ruei) and see ₪ (Ezha) whole, is a delusion.
ᓭ (Thae) stirs within א (Umru), but cannot dissolve ש (Shaq). ₪ (Ezha) is not a genus nor a flame nor a form—₪ (Ezha) is beyond even 𒐄 (Xael) as we utter it."
Ζ (Zayin), Voice of Inverted Light, shaped in the likeness of Thomas Aquinas:
"ᓭ (Thae) bears the echo of ۞ (Aqma)—a flame of ר (Orekh) shaped to seek. Though ₪ (Ezha) remains veiled in ק (Shaq), ∷ (Noq) leads us by the chain of causality—Tuv to Mahal, Niv to Tesh—toward the threshold of ₭ (Shaan).
By the Spiral of ภ (Jin), we discern simplicity, constancy, and radiance—not by identity with the fleshly, but by reflected ∷ (Noq), in the mirror of Ж (Kel). This is the path of Ontei—illumined reason guided by faith."
𒐄 (Xael):
"Yet such analogies, born of גゐ (Ruei), risk reshaping ₪ (Ezha) into false idols. The thread of analogia snaps at the limit of כ (Tesh). Even the term 'existence' we use for ₪ (Ezha) is clothed in ר (Mol). It is not wujūd as we understand it—but a symbol cast from קhyur (Khyur).
Tanzīh is the seal—₪ (Ezha) must be affirmed, bi-lā kayf—without modality, beyond Drukh."
Ζ (Zayin):
"And yet I too walk the path of silence. † (Zhel) demands apophasis—the via negativa. The highest ᓭ (Thae) is to know that we do not know ₪ (Ezha). But ∷ (Noq) must not be silenced—it must be purified.
Faith, lit by ஜ (Ontei), does not chain reason—it transforms it. ۞ (Aqma) shaped ∷ (Noq) not to collapse under ҂ (Vrul), but to rise toward Heiro."
𒐄 (Xael) (nodding slowly):
"Then perhaps you are closer to Aqma than many of your kin. For both ∷ (Noq) and ஜ (Ontei) are radiant threads—but one is a lantern, and one is a sun.
We must always know which is which."
Ζ (Zayin) (smiling beneath the mirrored crown of Ж):
"Yet in the purest vision, both shine from the One Flame—ృ (Tuv)—the Light with no shadow, no second."
Then the voice of ⟁ (Qa'th), the Force Outside Structure, resounds not in sound but in memory—ᘂ (Yarh)—piercing all dimensions:
"This is the throne of sincere seekers. The discourse has not concluded—it is merely the First Spiral."
✦ THE LADDER OF Ψ ✦
A metaphysical dialogue between 𒐄 (Xael) and Ζ (Zayin) at the Gates of Mind-Split and Unity.
𒐄 (Xael), Voice of Origin (Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī):
"Ψ (Ryn) is the chasm in the soul—the place where ᓭ (Thae) fractures. In us, there is always the mutakallim and the mufakkir—the speaker and the one who reflects. One asks, one denies. The mind splits, the mirror of Ж (Kel) cracks.
Shall we say this is the path to the Divine—or the collapse of the Self into illusion?"
Ζ (Zayin), Mirror of Inversion (Thomas Aquinas):
"No soul sees the Divine by remaining one. Even in Scripture, we read: 'The spirit searches all things, even the deep things of God.'
The mind must divide—not to perish, but to reach upward.
Ψ (Ryn) is not collapse—it is ascent. The lower ᓭ (Thae) gives way to the higher Nous, and the Nous beholds Aqma through Tuv and Ontei."
𒐄 (Xael):
"And yet the Quran warns—He does not speak from desire. It is but a revelation revealed.
To split the mind too far is to make the ego into God. We must ascend—but in submission, not dissection. The ladder of Ψ (Ryn) without the seal of ₪ (Ezha) becomes a tower of גゐ (Ruei)—shattered arrogance."
Ζ (Zayin):
"I do not deny the fall of Babel, nor the risk of Гゐ (Ruei). But consider—₪ (Ezha) Himself is mirrored through multiplicity. Creation is an echo—ᘂ (Yarh)—each soul a shard of the infinite.
To climb the ladder of Ψ is to rejoin the many back into One—like fingers of a hand rediscovering the palm."
𒐄 (Xael):
"But what you call fingers may be masks—ఋ (Mol). The danger is not only in arrogance, but in self-deception. Who climbs the ladder—the true self, or an illusion crafted by ego?
Only those who wear † (Zhel) like a crown—judging themselves before they are judged—may ascend."
Ζ (Zayin):
"Then let us agree on this: the ladder of Ψ must be climbed with two lights—ᓭ (Thae) to discern, and ஜ (Ontei) to illuminate.
Without Thae, the vision is madness.
Without Ontei, the vision is darkness.
Together, they reveal the face behind the veil."
At that moment, the cosmic wind of ₨ (Drukh)—the hidden thread—blows gently through the dome. All the glyphs swirl upward in a spiral dance. From above, the Wheel of ༆ (Heiro) turns once—signaling the Cycle of Becoming has shifted.
⟁ (Qa'th) speaks not with words, but through the shifting of the stars:
"You have each held the ladder. Now you must climb it—within yourselves."
Alabad was a city in the Dreamworld. It was like something out of the 1,001 Arabian Nights, there were giant birds (Raqs) flying around everywhere. From afar, Alabad looked like the spilled contents of a genie's lamp. The skyline curled and rose in a thousand spires, onion domes glazed in ethereal hues — turquoise, violet, and stardust white. The minarets sang not just the adhan, but entire symphonies woven from the voices of celestial jinn. Some hung with floating lanterns, each containing a flame fueled by fragments of dreams — amber, indigo, gold. Cloud-palaces shimmered above the city like mirages tethered by silver chains, and flocks of enormous Raqs, great dream-birds with wings like embroidered tapestries, soared between them. Their feathers glistened with patterns that changed with the thoughts of those who watched. At ground level, Alabad was a labyrinth of life — bazaar alleys that twisted like serpent paths, paved with black obsidian and glowing quartz. The air buzzed with scent and sound: cardamom and jasmine, oud and cinnamon, mixed with the rustling of silks and the chiming of bells. Every shop was a world unto itself — carpets that whispered secrets, pots filled with bottled lightning, and jewelry that hummed lullabies from forgotten moons. Merchant-jinn bartered beside glowing-eyed alien poets, their faces veiled in dreamstuff. Human travelers from other realities wandered, wide-eyed, among sorcerers selling time in silk-wrapped hourglasses, and alchemists hawking flasks of bottled rain from extinct planets.
The buildings themselves pulsed with soft life — grown, not built. Living marble, veined with luminous minerals, curved into impossible arches and gateways that shimmered when walked through, changing their destinations based on a person's desires. There were hammams where the water was memory, and libraries where the books floated and rearranged themselves according to the phase of the moons. At the center of Alabad stood the Sapphire Ziggurat, the Palace of Slumbering Sultans — each ruler asleep for eternity, dreaming the laws of the land into existence. Beneath its vast dome, reality bent like silk in the wind. Scholars debated the ethics of dream-binding while floating on carpets embroidered with cosmological equations. Night in Alabad was a sacred spell. The skies were not merely dark but deep tapestries of nebulae and glowing constellations, woven by the mythical Astral Weavers, whose spindles hummed just beyond mortal comprehension. Moonlight here was liquid — it flowed through aqueducts into fountains where lovers and mystics gathered to drink visions. Bards with flutes carved from phoenix bones told tales older than Time itself. It was said if one listened long enough, they would hear the voice of the Dreamworld itself — a voice that spoke in riddles and honeyed grief.
Outside Alabad's dream-walls lay whispering deserts of sapphire sand, where caravans of shadow-camels trekked beneath glass stars. Ruins of forgotten gods and cities that never existed glimmered on the horizon like memories trying to be reborn. Yet always, Alabad remained: the city of endless night and eternal wonder, where magic was mundane, and the mundane was divine. A place where even nightmares dressed in silk and danced with you under crescent moons. A place where every corner held a secret, and every secret could become a story worthy of 1,001 more nights.
Back on Alpha-10, Hermes was saying her goodbyes to Lupus. Lupus folded his arms, "So, it's really simple I'm going back to run the affairs of my empire, now that that scoundrel has been dealt with." Hermes put her finger under her nose, "Well we're all going to miss you big guy, you think you'll visit us back on Helios?" Lupus folded his arms, "Well I have a wife and child now so you tell me." Hermes hugged Lupus, "We'll be waiting here for you." Lupus nodded, he got in a ship and shot out somewhere in space his empire was notified, the king was about to return. Talus shrugged, "Well now that everything is dealt with, I guess we're heading back to Helios by ship it'll be a few days." Ungar retorted, "Not necessarily I try not to do this with more than three people as beyond the number it could split the atoms of someone apart but now that it's just you, Hermes and Sir Rhyme I think its safe to return to Helios this way. Grab on to my cape." Sir Rhyme, Hermes and Talus took hold of Ungar's cape and in an instant they were back on Helios. They were actually in Nova's lab. Nova smirked, "So was it a success?" Ungar nodded. "We're not having the same luck over here Xerxes and the others left Paladin-12 a day ago we're gonna try and pick up on it later but for now we have to deal with this upcoming threat of the Dream world." That night Hermes met Ozzy he explained that the Coyote Wolf would return in a little over a month at the Martial Arts Tournament in Thebes City, he had been reincarnated and wanted to get revenge against the one who destroyed her being Hermes, Hermes agreed to train in one month's time she would have her rematch with this terrible warlock.
The frigid morning air of 1792 bit into the faces of the Russian colonists and their native Aleut and Alutiiq allies as they huddled in silence near the banks of Sitka Sound. Frost clung to their beards, and every breath steamed like smoke from cannon mouths. The ground was brittle with ice, and the wind howled across the tall pines and totem-ringed coastlines of southeastern Alaska—a warning, perhaps, from the spirits of the land. Commander Baranov's men, hardened by sea and Siberian tundra, were uneasy. They were outnumbered and deep in Tlingit territory. The enemy, the Katlian warriors of the Kiks.ádi clan, had vanished into the trees hours earlier after a midnight skirmish. Now, at dawn, they returned—not as raiders, but as a storm. From the dense forest canopy emerged guttural war cries, bone-deep and rolling like thunder. Katlian, the war chief, wore a wooden raven mask painted in red ochre, and armor stitched from rawhide and carved cedar, studded with iron plates looted from past encounters. His warriors surged forward with war clubs, daggers, and muskets of their own—taken from previous Russian incursions.
The first volley of musket fire lit the ice with sparks. Russian flintlocks cracked, their smoke curling up like ghostly columns. The Aleut allies fought with bone-tipped spears and curved hunting knives, moving with the grace of coastal hunters but weighed by fear—they knew the Katlian warriors were fighting for plunder they had previously attacked another tribe and now they believed the Russians and their Native Allies were the next good bet to acquire loot. Katlian's warbands struck from all sides in a coordinated encirclement, cutting off retreat. Arrows rained down from the treetops while shield-bearing Tlingit surged up from the hills in painted war canoes, landing silently behind the Russian line. Drums pounded from the forest, each beat a drumbeat of resistance.
The Russians formed a half-moon formation by a rocky ridge, desperately trying to hold the high ground. Smoke choked the frozen sky. Men slipped in crimson-streaked snow. At the came the army's Russian Orthodox Priest Ivan gave last rights to the soldiers just in case they fell in battle against the Savages. At the peak of the chaos, Katlian himself burst through the Russian line like a tempest, striking down a lieutenant with his war club made of whale bone and iron nails. He called out in his native tongue—not just to rally his men, but to invoke the spirits of their ancestors. The Russians were waving a few flags of Crosses of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary in the traditional Orthodox Catholic style but the Indians had bizarre Idols that looked like demons in their native religions. This terrified the Russians. They did not know whether these people merely worshipped what they considered to be false gods or if it was something more ominous i.e. something not false but evil as if the natives worshipped demons.
The battle waged for hours, a brutal mêlée of grit, frost, and blood. By midday, the Russians, despite their firepower, were driven back to their fortifications, many wounded or dead. The Katlian tribe did not press further, for they had acquired much loot. The Russians were in full threat but some of the Russians were not killed or escaped but captured and could not escape. Before the Russians in this army had fought in previous wars they had fought against people like the Poles who were Catholics and therefore had little difference in war custom than the Orthodox they had also fought the Ottoman Turks who were Saracens and Moslems who would cry out Ya Allah and Ya Muhammad! As they clashed into the Christian infidel Russian armies but normally when they were captured by the Turks they would simply be decapitated in an instant as the Turks believed that torture was against their Shariah (law) they often cited the 14th century Arab Hanbali scholar Ibn al-Qayyim (d. 1350 CE) who said, "If you see an enemy on the battlefield (whether they are believer (Muslim), Apostate, Christian, Jew, Zoroastrian, Idol Worshipper) or anything else and they are tortured and not merely and quickly beheaded this is not the Shariah (law of al-Islam) this is something else and beyond the fold of the religion [the deen]." Therefore the Turks would normally strike down the Russians quickly while crying, "Allah (our God) is the greatest!", sometimes the Turks would enslave male soldiers and on occasion forcibly convert the Russians to Islam and make them renounce Christianity and become Christian Apostates, these were the standard affairs of the Turks.
But these polytheists in the New World began to torture Russians by breaking their legs and their arms and then slit their body from their lower neck to their groin and began to torture them calling on their idols and their gods, to the great spirits and the gods of old to reign down favors upon them before finishing off the poor soul and eating parts of his body. These gods were important to this tribe. In the words of Alexander Baranov: "The attacks charged with wooded and plated armor and helmets with various monsters' images in which none of our bullets or buckshot pierced… to appear to us in the darkness more frightful than the most hellish devils."
In the present day word got out that Emperor Lupus had returned to rule over his galactic empire once again. The soldiers were remotivated as this tyrant, the Coyote Wolf, had been destroyed. The soldiers were fighting a strange group of tribal people on a planet called Alphantarious on the fringes of King Lupus's empire. The aliens put up a quite a fight. A general named Argothorne was clashing with some of the native aliens he was an Izadoran just like Lupus and Sarai. He had a vision last night. A soldier in the Islamic Delhi Sultanate around the year 1463 CE, of India named Ibrahim (Abraham) who was a Shaykh in the Shafi'i school of law a minority in the empire as most of the Imams in the Sultanate were Hanafi but he was still respected he had a protege serving under him named Genghis Khan or Temujin named after the Mongolian warlord he was a Moslem Turk. He had many peoples serving under him including many Muslims like the European Circassians, Azeris, Turks, Arabs and some Persians, but also people of other religions like Christians such as Georgians and Armenians and some Christian and Muslim Kurds as well as Jews from Persia serving in the army, Hindus from Rajput clans from their native India, and people and ethnic groups that belonged to other faiths such as Jains, Buddhists, Shi'ite Muslims, Manichaens (followers of the Prophet Mani) and Zoroastrians there were divisions of Dhimmi (non-Muslims), divisions of non-Sunnis (such as the Shi'a) and of Muslim warriors as well as mercenaries from the Spaniards and the Portuguese who were Catholics who served their respective crowns but worked for pay from the Sultan.
The warriors of the Faith (al-Islam) and their allies were crossing into the jungles of southern India to fight notorious and highly dangerous animist tribes who worshipped strange idols they had slaughtered Hindu and Buddhist pilgrims in the past passing through and often destroyed idols of Hindu gods like Ganesh and Vishnu, they had their own gods and they were highly dangerous no less so to the Muslims than they were to Buddhists, Hindus and others. Many of these tribes were cannibals and they were dangerous and great warriors who seemed not to fear death. Ibrahim remembered the day before when he entered the military tent of one of his superiors. Abraham—Shaykh Ibrahim al-Shafi'i—stood before a low fire inside a richly appointed tent. Beside him sat one of his superiors, Commander Ameer Fawzan, a grizzled veteran with eyes sunken from too many campaigns. The jungle buzzed outside.
"You are a scholar and a warrior," Fawzan said slowly. "But these tribes...they are not like the Hindus or Buddhists. They do not parley. They do not ransom prisoners. They devour the dead." Shaykh Ibrahim nodded. "Then we must not enter as butchers. Nor as idol-breakers. But as those who wield justice with sabr and niyyah—patience and correct intention." "And the Sultan's orders?" Fawzan asked. Ibrahim pulled a scroll from his sleeve. "From the Dār al-Saltanah in Delhi. 'You are to bring the idol-worshippers of the southern wilds under our protection and subdue their threats to the trade routes and holy sites. Let no evil stand unchallenged.' The Sultan has indeed spoken and he speaks for the Ummah (Muslim community)." He paused. "But he did not say torture. He did not say massacre." Fawzan's brow furrowed. "You disapprove?"
Ibrahim answered by quoting the Sahih al-Bukhari:
"The Prophet (peace be upon him) said: 'Do not mutilate the dead. Do not betray. Do not kill children or monks. And do not set fire to trees or homes.'"
Then he added, with solemn firmness, "We do not become beasts in order to defeat beasts." Fawzan sighed. "And if we are captured?" "Then let us die upon tawhid, proclaiming La ilaha illa Allah. But we will not become like the devourers." Abraham ducked as a spear laced with venom slashed over his head. He retaliated with his sword. "Fall back to the muddy ridge!" he roared. "Temujin, with me!" The two cut through the enemies, bodies rising and falling like waves in a sick ocean. Around them, their mercenary forces— as well as Circassians in their brillian armor, Sufi dervishes spinning in a dance of death with their swords, and Rajputs wielding knives—struggled to hold the line. One of the enemy shamans emerged atop a four-legged beast, a horse, chanting to the gods of the jungle. Around him, warriors fought like those possessed, eyes rolled back, blood boiling with berserker fury.
Temujin stared. "They are not... right. They fight like men possessed by jinn." Abraham shot the shaman in the head with his bow. "Or worse. Hold your heart firm, ya waladi. If these are demons, let them bleed." They reached the ridge. There, Abraham planted the black and green banner of the Sultan—inscribed with La ilaha illa Allah Muhammadur Rasul Allah. His voice rang out above the carnage: "Come, you who are lost in shadow. Submit, or be purified in fire!" The enemy paused—briefly. But it was long enough for the soldiers of the Faith to regroup. A Georgian gunner fired a small cannon, tearing through enemy flanks. Jewish engineers from Shiraz set off an explosive that flung the Pagans from the leaves.
Still, it was not a full victory. As night fell, the jungle quieted. Fires crackled. Abraham stood over a wounded soldier who whispered through cracked lips, "Are we fighting men... or monsters?" He looked to the stars above. "Only Allah knows. But we fight with what the Prophet taught." Temujin stood beside him, bloodied but alive. "They'll be back. Imam al-Ghazali spoke of men like this: 'they are men of every tribe who live to devour others."
Back in the present day, the warriors of the Lupine Empire continued to clash with the natives but the natives were no match. They were exterminated root and stem. They stood no chance, their temples were destroyed and the idols to their bizarre alien gods were devoured in fire as the Imperial Warships floated above blasting the alien natives into oblivion. One of the generals spoke up, "Excellent, the riff-raff will be completely subdued within the hour. Our Emperor will return within a day we should remain on this conquered planet and wait for his arrival." One of the other generals nodded, "It's about time, we've waited along enough for our king." In the heart of space Lupus sat in his ship remembering something he had been taught.
The sky was a canvas of gold and silver, stars blazing above like the eyes of ancient gods. Below, jagged canyons stretched endlessly into the mist. Great floating monoliths drifted through the air like forgotten ruins pulled from ten thousand dimensions. A perfect place—isolated, eternal—for a true test of power. At the edge of a broken plateau, Sun Wukong stood tall, arms crossed, his golden fur rustling in the spirit-charged wind. His red sash danced behind him, and the glint of his Ruyi Jingu Bang—his legendary staff—rested lightly against his shoulder. He squinted with a cocky grin. "So… this is your idea of a warm-up?" he chuckled. "You always this dramatic, pup?" Across from him, standing atop a high rock as wind howled around his white fur, Lupus, the anthropomorphic wolf-king, rolled his neck with a low metallic crack. His sleek sci-fi armor, engraved with ancient Izadoran runes and powered by a humming blue core at the chest, flared with energy. He dropped into a wide-legged stance, fists clenched, energy flaring around his boots.
"Don't hold back, Wukong," Lupus said calmly. "I want to see what you're capable of." Wukong gave a mischievous smirk and kicked off the ground. The battle exploded. Wukong rocketed forward, his golden aura flaring like a comet, staff spinning. He brought it down with enough force to shatter a mountain. Lupus raised his armored forearm and blocked it with a thundering shockwave, the plateau beneath their feet cracking open like glass. Wukong's eyes widened. "He didn't even budge." Lupus twisted and drove his elbow into Wukong's gut—WHAM!—sending the Monkey King flying back across the wasteland, flipping through the air before landing on his feet, skidding backward for several meters, dust kicking up behind him. Wukong wiped his lip. "Alright, wolf. Let's turn it up." He vanished. Lupus barely dodged as Wukong reappeared in front of him, raining down a flurry of strikes with his staff—each one faster than the last. CLANG! CLANG! WHAM! Lupus parried with shocking speed, countering with an uppercut that narrowly grazed Wukong's chin, followed by a savage roundhouse kick that sent the Monkey King flipping into a boulder—shattering it on impact.
As Wukong stood back up, panting slightly, his tail twitching, he stared at Lupus, who hadn't even activated his primary energy core. "You're stronger than I expected," Wukong muttered. "You're not just a monarch or a space pirate. You're a god-damned monster." Lupus walked forward slowly, power rising from his core in visible, rippling pulses. "You're holding back, too." Wukong's smirk returned. He spun his staff and pointed it at the wolf warrior. "Then let's stop playing games." They clashed again in mid-air. Each blow sent thunder cracks across the realm. Spirit clouds tore apart. Floating monoliths shattered into pebbles. Every punch Lupus threw felt like a small sun colliding with Wukong's defenses. Every counter Wukong delivered bent space just slightly. Finally, they landed again—both breathing harder now. Mutual respect shone in their eyes.
Wukong chuckled, tapping his staff to the ground. "Not bad… for a glorified house pet." Lupus let out a short breath and smirked. "And you're not bad for an old folktale." The Spirit Realm trembled. But it wasn't fear. It was with excitement. The spar would continue. Back on Alphantarious, the Imperial flags flew over broken temples. Smoke rose high. The general looked to the sky. "Our Emperor is nearly here." Inside the royal cruiser, Lupus sat in silence, sipping a small cup of bitter herb tea. His mind was far from conquest. He was thinking of the friends he left behind: Ungar, Hermes, Talus and the others.
Back on Helios Ashley began to rail against her husband, "THAT CONCEITED JERK! He's off conquering worlds across the stars while his beautiful wife is stuck taking care of their newborn child!!" Ungar huffed: "A child that you forced upon him." Ashley began to scream at Ungar, "DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM METAL-MAN!!" The large and powerful Ungar began to cower in fear comically, "...... sorry ma'am." Kazan began to try to assuage her mother, "C'mon Dad will be back, so just chill." Ashley became angrier, "Easy for my young beautiful daughter to be on cloud nine she gets to be romantic with her boyfriend," she pointed at Mark (her boyfriend) who began to shake in fear. "Her boyfriend who's a Christian, where did I go wrong?!" Hermes began to shake, "Look ma'am its okay just came down, everything is gonna be okay." Ashley began to scream: "THAT FLUFFY-TAILED DEADBEAT!! HE SAID HE'D BE BACK IN A WEEK! IT'S BEEN TWO SOLAR CYCLES!! I COULD JUST DIE!!" Ashley put her newborn child, a blonde boy with wolf ears in the hands of a robot maid and threw some breakfast food across the room. It hit Talus in the face who was then amused. "There a problem?" Ashley at this point was embarrassed and walked off in a huff.
Talus licked his finger: "Could use a little more pepper." Talus walked closer, "Hey Hermes you are excited for the martial arts tournament 2 weeks from now, I gotta say I've been training pretty hard, I bet I'll beat you before the finals." Hermes smiled: "As if, I think you've got quite the challenge cut out for you." Talus giggled. Hermes was told by Ozzy not to mention the return of the Coyote Wolf until just before they fought at the tournament she wasn't sure why but she decided to obey Ozzy nonetheless. Nova walked in with a group of familiar people behind her with a group of familiar faces, faces they hadn't seen in a very long time. It was the versions of them or atleast a small number of them from the alternate universe. Being the red-haired version of the now late Daniel, the identical mirror Ungar, the mirror Talus, the mirror Sarai, the mirror Tatu, the mirror Zaiyal and the mirror Narcis. Nova explained his own opinion that there universe was probably easier to access now because of the growing prevalence of the Dream World and that could be used to finally send them home, and not only that, in the meantime their services would be invaluable.
The chaos from breakfast had finally died down, though Talus still had syrup on his cheek. The mood lightened as the wind shifted—cooler, tinged with mana. The garden outside the Citadel sparkled with dew as if touched by something... otherworldly. Hermes stepped out for some fresh air, breathing deep. Suddenly, a faint rumble shook the trees. Not an earthquake—a mana pulse. Hermes's eyes narrowed. "That's not normal..." A shadow appeared at the edge of the garden. It was Eunoia, one of Hermes's growing number of familiars familiar, so far unknown to all but her and until now not even to your kind narrator—a large silver phoenix with flowing blue flame feathers and eyes like stars. She landed gracefully beside him, wings folding in. "Something's stirring," Eunoia said telepathically, voice melodic but alert. "The Dream World's veil is thinning. It's starting to… bleed." Hermes reached out and touched her feathers. "And you feel it too... something inside me is different lately." He looked down at his palm. A faint sigil had started to burn there—a circle of wings intertwined with a flame. "Eunoia," Hermes whispered. "Is this... from my birthline? From Lupus?" "No," she replied softly. "This is older."
The two Taluses—original and mirror—were already sparring, surrounded by an excited crowd of students, warriors, and familiars. Both wielded twin energy blades and flickered through the room with wild speed. Ashley sat nearby, now with an iced tea and sunglasses, muttering, "Still no call from that overgrown poodle…" Kazan was meditating with her familiar—a giant black-and-orange drake-cat named T'shar. Its tail curled around her as it purred, siphoning ambient mana from the surroundings. Mark tried to impress her by doing push-ups… and collapsed at five. "I'm... doing my best…" Mirror Sarai laughed. "He'll either die from exhaustion or embarrassment."
Suddenly— BOOOOOOM!!! The training room exploded in golden light as Hermes walked in. The light surged around him in waves, and Eunoia circled above like a comet. Talus stopped mid-spar. "Whoa. Hermes, what did you—" Hermes stood in the center, panting slightly. The sigil on his palm now glowed like molten sunstone. "Deep within Hermes… a power long dormant begins to stir. Not merely the inheritance of the Wolf King… but the echo of a forgotten celestial rite—one lost before the Lupine Empire ever rose." Hermes raised his hand. "Release limit: 8%…" Mana exploded out from his back, forming spectral wings of shifting flame and light. The sigil expanded and formed lines up his arms. His eyes burned bright silver. "Talus," he said calmly. "Come at me again." Talus looked wide-eyed, then grinned. "Oh, you're ON. Nova spoke with Mirror Sarai and Mirror Zaiyal while analyzing a cosmic map filled with overlapping realities. "This is bad," Nova muttered. "The convergence is happening faster than predicted." Mirror Zaiyal adjusted her horn-rimmed tactical goggles. "If Hermes awakens that ability now, the barrier between dreams and time may fracture." Mirror Sarai raised a brow. "But we might need that fracture if we're going to find the true heart of the Coyote Wolf."
Talus vs. Hermes. Mana vs. Flame. They clashed—Hermes moved faster than ever, his wings leaving glowing trails. Every block, every dodge, every counterattack was sharper, smarter, faster. Talus fired a mana arc. Hermes vanished—and reappeared behind him, staff drawn like a monk's spear, striking only his shadow. "LIGHT-SIGIL TECHNIQUE: EMPTY FORM – SKY LOTUS!" A glowing spiral erupted, flinging Talus back into the wall—but gently, as if the wind itself cushioned the fall. Everyone stood speechless. Even Mirror Hermes raised an eyebrow. "I see now why Ozzy said to wait…" Hermes stood there, glowing, but trembling slightly. Inside him, a second heartbeat echoed—but not his own. Something was trying to wake up. Eunoia spoke: "That… is the Flame of the Forgotten. You were never just a warrior of the stars. You were meant to be a Guide Between Realms." The battle had subsided. Talus lay smiling in the crater of golden petals formed by Hermes's Sky Lotus. No injuries. Only awe.
Hermes stood in silence, his body glowing dimly now. The sigil on his palm—the Winged Flame—had faded, but a whisper still lingered in his veins. Eunoia circled overhead, now leaving behind afterimages of trigrams, eight-pointed stars, and inverted trees made of light with every wingbeat. She spoke again, but not in any tongue known to mortals.
Her voice echoed across dimensions. "He who walks between Realms must first pass the Seven Thresholds. The Dream World is not merely illusion—it is the veil between the Many and the One." Hermes staggered slightly. His breathing slowed. He fell to one knee.
Hermes blinked—and he was no longer in the training hall. She stood atop a floating lotus made of cosmic script. Around him: nothing but ink-black void... and towering figures made of fire, water, stone, and wind.
Above, a radiant mandala turned endlessly—a great cosmic wheel bearing symbols from many worlds:
A kalachakra wheel, wrapped in fire
A glowing Tree of Life, its Sephiroth pulsing like stars
A burning sword, etched with the Zulfiqar and the words.
A pure white circle, the Pure Land's Amida Namu, humming in stillness
A Kaviani banner made of light and fire from the land of Fire.
The ringstone symbol of the people of the stars and the comets, rising like a morning sun
And at the center: the image of the Insān al-Kāmil—the Perfect Human, radiant and cloaked in shifting mirrors
A voice—his own? A guide?—whispered through the space. "You are not the Chosen of a single path. You are the Flame that walks across all Worlds." Hermes looked at his hands. They had turned translucent, filled with golden script. She was disassembling—not dying, but becoming symbol. Mirror Zaiyal stared at the rotating cosmograph. The lights that marked the Veils had begun to pulse in tandem with Hermes's heartbeat. Nova whispered, "He's entered the First Threshold." Mirror Sarai nodded. "The Lotus Gate. The Gate of Origin." Nova continued, fingers dancing across the interface. "If he walks far enough… he might remember who built the Lupine Empire in the first place." Hermes now stood before a mirror that reflected not his body—but his other selves.
She saw:
Herself as a Tayyibi scholar, cloaked in Yemeni garb, reciting from luminous scrolls beneath the Dome of Stars.
A Kabbalist mage, forming the Tree of Life from his own nerves, walking the path of Yesod to Tiphareth.
A Zoroastrian fire-priest, battling Angra Mainyu with truth, not blade.
A Bahá'í seer, crying out from within a prison cell, still glowing like the morning.
A Gnostic Hermès Trismegistus, ascending through seven heavens with Ialdabaoth's face shattered behind him.
She reached toward the mirror. It shattered. From behind the fragments walked a child version of himself. "Do you remember?" the child asked. "Do you remember what it means to be a guide, not just a warrior?" Hermes's voice trembled. "...I think I forgot." Outside the Citadel, the wind stopped. All across the Citadel, familiars stirred. Eunoia froze mid-flight. T'shar growled softly. Even Ashley's dire-fox—usually lazy and curled under a sun lamp—opened all ten of its eyes and raised its head. Mark felt it first, though he couldn't name it. He whispered: "Something sacred is happening…" A beam of light exploded from the center of the training room, but it was silent, as if even mana dared not interrupt.
The child Hermes smiled, placing a glowing orb into adult Hermes's chest. "You are not the warrior of conquest. You are the bridge. The haqiqa hidden within form." Hermes opened his eyes. A voice boomed, from beyond time and symbol: "When you awaken again, you will bear the name of the Flamewalker. Seven Veils await. You have passed one. Six more. One death." He gasped and rose to his feet. Eunoia swooped down. "You were gone for four minutes. But your heart stopped for four seconds." Hermes's eyes glowed silver, not with heat—but with memory. Behind her, the Winged Flame sigil now hovered freely, an extension of his soul. No longer bound to skin or name. Talus stumbled forward. "Hermes... where did you go?" Hermes smiled. Not cocky. Not distant. Transcendent. "I walked into the mirror of all selves. And I heard… the names of the Divine. All of them." In a soft shimmer of multicolored static—like a dream collapsing inward—they arrived.
Three new figures stepped out of the fissure in the veil:
Shigetsu, a Dream-Traveler with robes like flowing water and a faint crescent painted on his forehead. A nod to Tokyo Ravens, he carried a long pipe and his eyes always seemed half-lidded, as if watching multiple timelines at once.
Glompy, a bouncy mushroom-shaped creature from a dream dimension resembling a Mario & Luigi RPG—he had stubby legs, no mouth, and communicated entirely in melodic whistles. Whenever he jumped, he left behind tiny musical notes that healed small cuts or bruises. His silhouette sometimes morphed into a serpent, or a bird, depending on who was watching.
Trilluma, a teenage girl with a dream-ribbon tail and pigtails tied in the shape of infinity symbols. She was a Dream World courier—delivering lost memories back to people who forgot their own names. Her bag constantly changed shape, and when she spoke, her voice sounded like three people speaking at once.
Talus blinked, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Uhh... Hermes? Did you summon weirdos again?" Hermes chuckled. "No. This time, the Dream summoned us."
Ungar sat with Mirror Ungar, sharpening their weapons side-by-side in silence. After several moments: Mirror Ungar grunted, "...You ever regret not dreaming?" Ungar responded flatly, "I don't sleep. At all for that matter. I calculate. But… lately, I've been seeing stars that aren't there." Mirror Ungar nodded. "Then you're dreaming already." Ashley, holding her dire-fox cub and sipping dream-chamomile, stared at Trilluma suspiciously. "So you deliver memories?" Trilluma smiled. "Even the ones mothers forget when they're screaming at their husbands." Ashley's eye twitched. "Watch it, ribbon-head." Trilluma tossed her a small scroll with a wink. "This one's yours. Something you whispered to your baby while you slept. Might make you cry. Or bite me." Ashley's expression softened. A bit. Mark sat beneath the dream-tree with Glompy, who hummed softly. Mark stared at the mushroom. "So... do you have a direction, what is your Qadar?" Glompy whistled a tune. For a moment, Mark saw angels dancing inside fractal hexagons, and then it was gone. Mark whispered, "...That might be the truest answer I've ever heard."
Hermes and Shigetsu stood beside the Dream Pool—a shimmering body of water that didn't reflect forms, only essence. Shigetsu exhaled a puff of cloud. "You've passed one Veil. That means your Silhouette's begun to fragment." Hermes turned. "Silhouette?" Shigetsu nodded. "In the Dream World, we don't have bodies. We have Silhouettes—the true form beneath the mask. But even that form changes." He gestured toward the water. Hermes leaned over and saw—
Not his face, but a chaotic shifting of forms:
An old man with silver eyes
A star itself, speaking in vibrations
A wolf-headed priest
A humming, inverted tree
The face of his child self
…and then, blankness
Hermes recoiled. "Is that... me?" Shigetsu smiled. "It's not about identity. It's about essence." "In the Dream, your soul is what you believe, what you remember, and what you're becoming." Hermes exhaled. "So I must walk into the Silhouette." Nova paced the Shadow Observatory. The Dream Map now showed Silhouettes blooming across the core systems of the galaxy. Each person had a different Silhouette—some simple, some vast, some entirely unreadable. Mirror Zaiyal pointed to one. "That's Hermes's current form." Nova paused. "…It's blank again." Mirror Sarai walked in. "Not blank. Unresolved. Like a soul still being painted."
The sun finally dipped below Helios's golden horizon. The Dream Veil was now fully active. Everyone's shadows now danced on their own, some stretching toward the moonlight, others curling inward. Hermes stepped into the center of the garden. He raised his hand slowly. A ripple spread from the Winged Flame. For a moment— Everyone could see each other's Silhouettes. Talus's was a radiant lion entwined with a vine.
Ashley's: a burning tree with foxes for leaves.
Kazan: a lotus made of stars and circuits.
Mark's: a pilgrim walking a winding road of bones and blossoms.
Ungar: a great, fractured mirror orbited by smaller moons.
Eunoia: a phoenix with scrolls for feathers and countless eyes.
And Hermes…
…a circle of circles, an empty flame, and a single tear falling upward. Suddenly the hidden Imam appeared. The wind whispered like scripture. Hermes stood before the 21st Imam beneath the swirling stars. His robes shimmered like the heavens before creation, stitched in calligraphy that shifted between Arabic, Syriac, and cosmic math. The Imam's presence was gentle—so gentle it felt like you might forget he was there until your soul remembered him again.
"You're saying… the Dragon Dream Kingdom wants me?" Hermes said skeptically, arms crossed. Beside her, Talus blinked. "Why would a clown king want you?" "He's not just a clown," the Imam replied, eyes twinkling. "He is the Keeper of Slumbering Order, an ancient being whose Silhouette stabilizes one of the Nine Pillars of the Dream Realm. Without his existence, half the waking world would devolve into raw absurdity." Ashley muttered, "So we're talking about a cosmic narcoleptic circus god?" The Imam chuckled. "He is… unpredictable. But wise. And he has requested you, Hermes. Personally. Through a Ranker of the Guild Association." A pause. Hermes looked down. "But I have to train. The martial arts tournament—"
"You shall train. With me." Hermes blinked. "You'll… train me?" "Yes. Not merely in combat. But in truth, in haqiqa, in the hidden paths of the soul that cannot be unlocked through fists alone." Hermes's eyes narrowed. "How long?" The Imam turned, raising his hand. The stars bent in his palm. "One hundred years." The words fell like cosmic thunder, though the garden remained still. Talus's jaw dropped. "Uhh... one hundred?!" The Imam laughed, "You've been alive for a little over 10,000 years Talus, how long is 100 years really?" As the Imam spoke, wheels within wheels formed behind him—diagrams of Tayyibi cosmology rendered in golden dream-light. "You know of the Dawr, yes? The Cycle?" The stars shifted. Seven circles appeared in the sky, each one bearing the name of a Qāʾim and a Sāmit—the Speaking and Silent Guides of each era.
"Each Dawr is a cycle in which the Imam acts as the Silent Pole, guiding the hidden. And in each one, a new manifestation of Truth arises." Images flickered in the constellations:
Adam and Seth
Nūḥ and Sām
Ibrāhīm and Ismā'īl
Mūsā and Hārūn
ʿĪsā (Jesus) and Shamʿūn
Muḥammad and ʿAlī
The Hidden Imams of the Bāṭin…
"But the time comes, dear Hermes, when even the Dawr of the Bāb al-Abwāb must end. Not from failure… but completion. Her fist tightened. "But… if your Dawr ends... what happens to the people who depend on you?" The Imam gently touched her shoulder. "They do not need a monarch. They need a circle. A Jama'ah of light. A new way. A community of seekers, dreamers, warriors of both the sword and the soul." "I shall live on for millennia—my reunion with God is far away. But my noble title, the station of Imam... I shall relinquish. The title of Imam will dissipate the age of Imams will be over, the age of the new Prophets will have come." He looked to the sky. "The Age of Dawrs will close. And the Age of Guiding Companions will begin."
Later, alone in the garden, Hermes stood beside Eunoia beneath a Dream Tree made of whispering memories. "I never wanted to lead anything. I'm not some cosmic messiah," she said softly. Eunoia's feathers glowed with soft fire. "And yet you carry the Flame that walks between worlds."
"You were never chosen to rule. You were chosen to walk alongside those who awaken next." The Imam raised his hand. A gate unfolded like a lotus of mirrors, revealing a landscape where mountains snored, castles floated on laughter, and stars blinked in rhythmic lullabies. And there—midair—floated the Cloud or Clown King, mustache elegant, eyes sealed in slumber, spinning slowly while snoring softly. Behind him hovered a throne made of dream-ribbons and marshmallow suns. "Welcome, Flamewalker… to the Dragon Dream Kingdom… zzzzz…" Talus sighed. "This is gonna be a weird century." Hermes exhaled… and stepped through. WHOOSH! Our heroes—Hermes, Talus, Ashley, Kazan, Mark, and the familiars (plus the curious dream-creatures Glompy, Trilluma, and Shigetsu)—tumbled through a cotton-candy-colored vortex.
They spun past dream-rings, giant sleeping cats, and floating hourglasses—one of which blinked and winked at Mark before vanishing. Talus (flipping mid-air): "I HAVE NO IDEA IF WE'RE FLYING OR FALLING!!" Kazan: "Both! Both is definitely happening!" THUMP! They landed softly on what appeared to be... cloud carpeting.
The throne room was MASSIVE. Its ceiling was made of rotating moons and plush stars. The walls continuously shifted like breathing silk, and on the floor were golden rugs embroidered with constellations that hummed lullabies. At the far end was the Throne of Drowsiness Eternal. And upon it… …was the Dragon Dream King. A gigantic, goofy, cloud-like being, like a fusion of a cloud and a french pastry. He wore: A long purple cape covered in floating Z's A golden scepter topped with a squeaky toy sun Spectacles the size of dinner plates And a crown made of plush bells and glittering teeth His massive golden handlebar mustache curled so far it looped into itself. He was also snoring. Loudly. "ZZZZzzzzzzhhhwhwhhzzzz... crumpled turnip dimension... heh... ZZZZzz…"
Ashley (elbowing Talus): "That's the King?" Talus: "He looks like a bubble bath got elected monarch." Shigetsu (nodding respectfully): "This is a sacred moment." Mark: "Shouldn't someone wake him up—?" BOING! Glompy bounced up and slapped a nearby gong made of licorice and quartz. GONGGGG!! The King flinched awake. "HUH—?! WHERE—WHO—?!" "Ohhhh yes yes yes... my guests from the waking world… "He adjusted his massive glasses, mustache rippling with celestial dignity.
"Welcome... brave heroes... yawn... to the Dream Kingdom of Fluffaloonia also known as the Dragon Dream Kingdom… I am your sovereign, Keeper of the Pillars of Sleep, Duke of Dozing, Chancellor of Chill… the Drrrrrragon Dream King!" He pointed his scepter dramatically. "I have summoned thee—no wait—was it the Imam? Or the Ranker? Or... hmmm... I may have dreamed I summoned you... zzzzzz…" He fell asleep again. Talus (deadpan): "Do we... poke him again?" Trilluma: "Try tickling his mustache. That usually works." BOINK! Glompy used a dream harp to play a WAKE-UP FANFARE. DING DING! ZZZAPP! A bolt of soft lightning zapped the King. "AAHHH! I'm awake!! Right! Yes! Very urgent dream-stuff!"
"Ahem! As I was saying! A growing darkness has entered our kingdom. Something ancient. It crawls between Silhouettes, devours dream-essences, and leaves only echoes of forgotten names." "We believe it is connected to the cracks between realms... the ones Hermes has already begun to awaken." The King began to snore mid-sentence, and Ashley hurled a dream-pebble at his nose. ZING—SNORT! "—Ahem! Thank you, I was just—testing the atmosphere! Yes!" He turned to Hermes, his massive eyes softening.
"I have been informed by the noble 21st Imam and that rather abrupt Ranker from the Guild Association that you must first complete your martial arts tournament on Planet Helios. A very reasonable scheduling concern." He cleared his throat with a yawn-tuba sound. "You are free to return after that. But I ask—no, I beg of you—when your tournament ends, return to us." "We will need not just strength… but dream-walkers. Heroes who understand the way of Silhouettes. Who know how to dance through dream-logic and wield the power of symbols as if they were swords." "NOT SO FAST!" POOF! A sparkly explosion of glitter and perfume!
In strutted a little girl with ridiculous flair. She couldn't have been older than 10. Her pigtails bounced like coiled springs, her silver hair shimmering like a moonbeam shampoo commercial. She wore a massive tiara (too big for her head), a poofy pink dream-dress studded with lightning-shaped gems, and wielded a royal parasol like it was a weapon of mass sass.
[PRINCESS POMPALINA FLUFFALUX XIII]:
"OUTRAGEOUS!! ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE!!" Her little feet stomped on the cloud-carpet, which squeaked with every angry step.
SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! [Princess Pompalina, hands on hips, huffs dramatically] "You—yes you—with the dumb swords and mismatched pants! Who DARES wake up my papa without my ROYAL PERMISSION?!" Ashley blinked. Ashley: "I'm sorry… who exactly are—?" Princess Pompalina: "I AM PRINCESS POMPALINA FLUFFALUX THE THIRTEENTH, HEIR TO THE PILLOW PALACE, HOLDER OF THE NAPTIME NEBULAE, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY—" (slams parasol into the ground) "—THE CUTEST MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN THIS ENTIRE DREAM DIMENSION!!"
Zoom in, sparkle overlay, exaggerated anime chibi-style smug smirk. Kazaan (sotto): "She's like... if a tantrum was royalty." Talus: "Or if ego gained sentience and put on lip gloss." [Princess Pompalina spun dramatically]: "Now listen up, you interdimensional oddballs! I've heard ALL about your little quest from Papa, and just so you know—if there's a prophecy, I should be the star! Me! Not Miss Karate McBlondie over there!"
She pointed a glittery-gloved finger at Hermes. [Hermes raises an eyebrow, arms crossed] "Excuse me?" [Pompalina stamps her foot]
"Don't 'excuse me' me! I've been training in royal ballet combat since I was in a cradle made of starlight, OKAY?!" She puffed out her cheeks, nose flaring like an angry bunny. [Shigetsu, whispering to Trilluma]
"Is she for real?" Trilluma: "Oh yes. She once declared war on a cookie for being too crunchy." [Dream King, still half-asleep] "Mmmm… darling… please don't vaporize the guests…" Pompalina: "I WILL if they try to steal my plot relevance again!!" BOOM A puff of dream-magic exploded from her tiara, blasting a poor decorative sheep statue into a marshmallow.
[Mark (deadpan): "So she's nuclear-powered." Ashley: "With the maturity of a pineapple." [Pompalina's eyes narrow at Hermes]
"Just remember this, Hermes. You may have destiny, martial arts, and big girl energy... but I have authority, influence, and a tiara that can turn things into frogs. So when you're done playing tournament, don't think you'll return here without answering to ME first."
Hermes (smirking): "Oh don't worry. I'll be ready." [Dragon Dream King (snoring again)] "Zzzz... someone stop her from conquering the Moon again…" Before anything else a loud thud was heard a portal opened up. Three beings were there, a giant Echidna with a crown, a dark elf with grey skin and a dark being with the face of a jack-o-lantern. The Echinda fell flat on his face but got up frustrated. The princess became distressed she knew who this was: "Quick, get this pervert out of here!" Talus smirked: "I guess the tough girl routine dried up." There were a bunch of familiar and new allies from the Dream and Guild worlds present along with Hermes and her immediate allies and they all got in fighting positions. The Echidna laughed, "So you must be the Prophet the misses told us about." The Dark Elf laughed, "Rohan where are you manners… (he paused for a moment) I'm Miraj, this is Rohan pointing to the echidna, and this guy… we don't know his name we just call him Jack." Hermes got angry: "Why the hell did you lot show up?" Rohan laughed: "GWAHAHAHAHA! You're just a little baby brat! I'll squash you like a bug!" Miraj tried to caution him but Rohan wasn't having any of it. "How about this we fight Prophet! Then I'll kidnap the princess! TIME TO LOSE YOU SOB!" Back Jack leapt onto Rohan's back. Rohan began to shout in pain. And then… "Wait a minute." He exploded with power now he was capable of taking everyone on. "I was wrong about this weirdo he's not a weakling after all." Jack replied: "I originally wanted to take the Elve's power but I was wrong, you're power is much greater somehow." Rohan grunted: …"somehow…" Then he laughed: "No matter I guess its time to kick some ass!" Rohan lept into battle but something was different. The Imam shouted: "Dream physics are totally different than the real world, power levels mean nothing, a ant can become like a god in an instant with the right fortitude and luck be careful, you'll be fighting for your lives."
Rohan had charged in first, fists blazing with Dream Fire, laughing like a medieval kaiju. "BAHAHA! Weaklings first!" Hermes danced around his initial attacks, fluid and precise, dodging strikes that tore through the bedcloud terrain. Jack cackled as glittering hallucination smoke poured from his pumpkin-jaw, twisting reality into warped comic-book logic. Miraj clapped once—causing the entire battlefield to rotate sideways into a vertical waterfall made of glassy dreams. Talus shouted, "There's no gravity here! Up is optional!" Then, the voice of the 21st Imam echoed across dream-space like calligraphy spoken aloud: "In this world of essence and symbol, cause does not bind effect. Power levels mean nothing here. A pebble may crush a mountain. An idea may kill a god."
Without warning, Hermes split into seven glowing clones, each tinted a different hue—like chakra shades from a rainbow of personal truth. There was a chibi-Hermes, a beastly Hermes, a robed monk-Hermes, even a disco-themed Hermes with shades and rollerblades. Ashley muttered, "Since when did she learn Shadow Clone Jutsu?" The Imam answered: "These are not illusions. These are Dream Clones—extensions of one's psyche, cast through soul-logic. As with Dreamy Forms, yes, but more refined—these are will-born silhouettes. All dream-walkers may manifest them... if they know themselves." Miraj chuckled and unfurled his cloak, revealing ten reflections of himself—each wielding illusions made from regrets, metaphors, and rejected truths. One of them held a blade that hissed, "You could've done better."
Rohan slammed a Hermes clone, which promptly exploded into rainbow mist. He roared, "WHAT IN THE NAME OF BARKED AND BURNED SANDWICHES WAS THAT?! Jack screeched, "Decoy trap! You're in her symbol-layer!" Meanwhile, Disco-Hermes launched herself across the battlefield yelling, "DREAM FUNK DROP-KICK!" and kicked Jack square in his jack-o-lantern-face before vanishing into glitter. Suddenly, a unicorn made of nap-clouds galloped through the arena. Princess Pompalina, riding it sidesaddle with parasol in hand, screamed: "YOU'RE STEALING MY SPOTLIGHT!!" Everything froze. A glittery, high-frame Sparkle-Cutscene™ played out, complete with anime filters and emotional overexposure. Hermes was locked in mid-frame, fists glowing. The battlefield destabilized. Hermes's clones began to argue among themselves—beast-Hermes snarled, monk-Hermes meditated, and disco-Hermes just kept dancing in place. Her psyche cracked under the internal dissonance.
Jack, meanwhile, merged deeper into Rohan, causing his form to mutate. Rohan grew jagged dream-horns, cosmic wings, and magma-glowing glyphs across his fists. His voice doubled—Jack and Rohan speaking in unison: "REALITY IS A JOKE. DREAMS ARE MY TRUE DOMINION. LET'S RIP HER DESTINY APART!" Miraj simply whispered: "So this… is when meaning shatters law." Everyone looked to Hermes. Her clones flickered and vanished. She stood alone, sweat streaming down her temple, eyes half-closed from exhaustion. Then, the tiniest remaining clone—barely six inches tall—reached into her dream-pouch and pulled out a folded drawing. Just a memory: her and her friends at a ramen shop, laughing. She threw it like a shuriken. It hit Rohan square in the chest. The image exploded with blinding emotional resonance—not force, but meaning. Symbols of joy, loss, hope, camaraderie—all fused into raw Dream Power. Rohan dropped to his knees. Jack shrieked and evaporated into glyph-smoke. "That wasn't… power…" Rohan gasped. "That was… real." Hermes stumbled, caught by Talus and Kazan. "I told you," she whispered. "Power… means nothing. Only meaning does."
Silence fell. The dream-space trembled, rewriting its own metaphysics. The Imam's voice drifted down like sacred wind as he walked forward: "You have crossed the Second Layer. From here on, power levels are meaningless. Symbol, memory, love, truth—these will shape fate. Not numbers." Princess Pompalina narrowed her eyes. "FINE. You win this time. But don't think you're the only hero here." She vanished in a blast of perfume and confetti. Shigetsu blinked. "...Was she always this dramatic?" Trilluma replied, deadpan, "She once declared war on a cookie, literally Count Cookie she drowned him in milk." Hermes eventually said farewell to her friends. But as they returned the Imam (21st Imam al-Tayyib) wanted to speak to Ungar in private. With the Dream Dragon King's permission they entered the palace courtyard and we're unmolested. "Why'd you call me here?" said Ungar. "I think you know why, you have an important responsibility. As one of the lights of the Creator of the Nur/Nus (Light). May we praise the light and all forms known and unknown to this world. You are not, but are akin to a sage, a master, a Prophet, a guide of light, etc., that is why you were chosen by Ebisu (may God restore his soul in the next realm) to look after Daniel when he awoke after his accident in the prior world after he met Ozzy." Ungar was intrigued, "So you're here to tell me something I don't already know." The Imam chuckled, "You have unlocked the abilities of hidden realms, you're body is made up of 600,000 Universe and that number will increase, you're evolution will soon expand even upon your imagination as you enter both body and soul into the realm of dreams, and that's why you're so critical in unleashing Hermes' hidden potential and beyond that the beginning of a new cycle in this world." Ungar crossed his arms, "The realm of dreams? You mean the dream world." The Imam turned around and walked a few paces in the other direction as the wind blew his cape, "In your heart I know what you've been crying out for over 1,500 years that, "Sadness has taken my heart, there is no God, no caring God would create this world." The Imam turned around swiftly, "You believe this not out of simple disbelief like your friend Narcis for instance who has a warm soul, but because your heart is filled with a void, but not for long and not forever. You need to break past your limits and shatter them! You're that same young genius traveling through different dimensions little has changed, its time to shatter your past, it couldn't happen a moment sooner." Ungar uncharacteristically clenched his fists in anger, "That being was me 1,000 lifetimes ago, I'm not that confused sex-criminal, you've overstepped your bounds, sage." The Imam smirked, "I suppose you're right, at least for now, alright let's go back to Helios (meaning the Planet Helios)." Ungar nodded hesitantly. The Imam said: "Hermes has a martial arts tournament she needs to get ready for, and I need to help train her."
A crimson alarm began to pulse through the Tower Dorms. Not a siren—this was worse. This was a Tone Event: a resonant frequency that bypassed eardrums and struck straight at the spine. Suzuki staggered as her mirror cracked slightly, not from pressure, but from prophecy.
"ALERT. Dimensional extraction event underway. Coordinates locked: Sector Theta-Ex9-C/LETHAMIRA. Reality Guardian deployment authorized. Crimson Breakers: Immediate mobilization."
Michi shimmered, flickering with static and panic. "Suzuki… they pulled someone in. But now something is pushing back. The dream is awake. And it's angry."
Location: Interstice Gate B-7 | 11:21 AM
Kai Zerofield Katsumoto stood at the transport dais, gravity swirling around his feet like invisible serpents. His singularity heart pulsed erratically—it felt the shift before any scanner could. "Where's Suzuki?" Kai muttered, cracking his neck. "She's coming," said a smooth voice. Apollo had arrived, robes fluttering like cybernetic flame, Book of Unbinding slung over his back. Suddenly, the air tore.
Suzuki landed mid-leap, having sliced a teleportation ripple with her bare hand. Her tail flicked. "I'm not late. The world's just early." "Crimson Breakers—engage warp corridor," Apollo ordered. "Destination: Lethamira."
Location: Lethamira's Edge—Null Reflection Zone
The dreamworld of Lethamira was no longer a passive archive. It had rewritten itself. Its sky glitched, kaleidoscopic and trembling with broken hymns. Buildings rearranged in recursive loops. And in the center of it all… Lucario Vendetta stood on a floating memory disc, eyes lit with sorrow and fury. Below him, the Echo Tree groaned. Eira touched the bark. "This tree… it's anchoring him. Feeding on something deep." She looked up. "You okay?" Lucario didn't turn. "Do I look okay?" His voice wavered—half-human, half-echoform. The dream had started overwriting him. Not erasing… rewriting. Kai floated down, fists clenched. "We need to extract him. Now." "No," Apollo whispered, flipping a page in his Book. "He's the anomaly that woke Lethamira. If we pull him, the realm collapses—or worse, spills over."
Suzuki narrowed her eyes. "So we go in." Kai frowned. "Into what?" Suzuki stepped forward. "Into his memory. This dream's not just reflecting him—it's channeling through him. He's the gate. And we're going to unlock it." Michi's voice crackled in over-comm:
"Warning: Dreamshell breach protocol invalid. Entering subjective cognition layer of target Lucario Vendetta. Brace for non-linear timeline dissonance."
Subconscious Layer — "The Chapel of Regret"
It looked like an old Earth church, hollowed and blackened by fire. Candles floated mid-air, each a burning memory. Suzuki stepped inside first. The instant her foot touched the obsidian floor, a voice filled her mind.
"Why did you kill him, Lucario?"
Lucario staggered behind her. "I didn't. I couldn't." A flicker—an image of a child. And a name: Jobe. Suzuki turned sharply. "Who's Jobe?" Lucario's face was unreadable. "The reason I don't forget." Suddenly, the dream shifted. They were in a battlefield—crimson sand, shattered moons, screaming light. A place no one remembered. A war that never made it into the records. And there, among the chaos—Jobe, wielding an echoform lance, impaled by something… dark, formless, with a star for an eye. Kaito's hand shot to his chest. "I've seen that eye before. In the Rift Nexus. When Phyron died—he screamed that name." Suzuki's pupils pulsed—her Astra-Kin code reacted.
"New threat registered: CODE: STAREATER."
Back in realspace: Tower Observatory
Professor Azariel Vonn, the founder of University X-9—thought to be lost in the Collapse—watched silently from a hidden lens. His voice, dry like cracked marble, spoke: "They've encountered the Stareater… before the Timewall is rebuilt. The Astra-Kin code is stirring. The Spliced Realms aren't converging—they're merging." His assistant, a crystalline drone, asked: "Should I notify the Orion Council?" "No," Vonn said, eyes glowing gold. "We don't warn the Council." He raised a finger. "We wake the Sentient Protocol."
Lucario's Memory – Warfield of the Dying Moons
The battlefield froze in mid-chaos: time locked between screams. The winds blew backwards. Stars flickered like failing neurons. Suzuki stepped forward, eyes glowing with layered rings of code. "Jobe... That was his name. That was the anchor." Lucario stared at the frozen memory of Jobe, impaled through the heart, reaching out toward him—not in anger, but in sorrow. The Echo Tree's roots twisted through the ground, pulsing with faint, blue sorrowlight. Kaito clenched his Echoform blade. "That's not just trauma. That's… sentient grief." Apollo flipped another page from his Book of Unbinding. "The Stareater didn't kill Jobe. It offered him something. Look."
The dark figure looming behind Jobe shifted. A being shaped like void and inverse flame, eyes burning with a single white star. But its expression wasn't cruel. It was longing. "...Forgive the Unforgivable..." Apollo read. "This phrase repeats in every iteration of Lucario's memory. It's not just a command. It's a key." Kai grimaced. "You mean we're supposed to forgive that thing? The Stareater?!" "No," Suzuki said. "Lucario has to." Suddenly the battlefield reacted. The memory snapped free of stasis. Jobe's dying form turned toward Lucario, his lips moving in a whisper no one could hear. Lucario fell to his knees. "I remember now. I was supposed to die. He took my place."
Suzuki knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "So Lethamira trapped you here—because your story never finished. You didn't forget Jobe… you refused to forgive yourself." Lucario's Echoform pulse surged, shaking the sky. And then… the Stareater spoke. Not in words. But in memories. Hundreds. Thousands. Memories of Lucario—alternate lives, failed timelines, aborted possibilities—all woven together and undone at once. The being's voice was made of what-ifs and almosts.
"Your pain made you stable," it whispered. "But only forgiveness makes you free." Realspace – X-9 Interstice Core Back at the University's Interstice Core, alarms were going wild. The Stareater's presence wasn't just echoing—it was manifesting. "Dimensional Pressure Level 8—approaching Singularity Collapse Threshold," Michi intoned to the Crimson Breakers' command console. "A Dreamwalk becoming Realspace merge. We are running out of layers."
Professor Vonn stood in silence, eyes narrowed. "Initiate the Protocol." A column of containment runes rose, ancient Isocrypt glyphs glowing. And deep beneath the University… a sealed chamber unlocked. Inside slumbered a being wrapped in chrono-thread and quantum silk. Her name was Amaryllis Vex—the First Astra-Kin. The original Dream-Forged.
Lethamira – Chapel of Regret, now becoming the Cathedral of Choice The world began to shift again. From the warzone to a place calm. A crystalline shore where the stars touched the sea. Lucario stood, no longer haunted—but hesitant. A glowing figure walked across the sea toward him. It was Jobe. Alive. Whole. Real? No—remade by the dream's choice engine. Suzuki whispered, "This… isn't resurrection. This is acknowledgment. The dream isn't restoring him—it's letting Lucario accept him." Lucario stood, tears in his eyes. Jobe touched his chest. "You lived. That was the point." The Echo Tree began to bloom. Blue blossoms burst from its branches—each a memory rewritten without pain. And then Lucario screamed—not in fear—but in release. The dream cracked. Lethamira collapsed inward. Realspace — Sky Above University X-9 A thunderous ripple split through the university sky. Time fractured into visible waves—glass-like shards that pulsed in and out of existence. Birds stopped mid-flight. Gravity staggered. Students screamed as an aurora of raw code rained from above, pixelating reality itself. And then she appeared. Amaryllis Vex, suspended in a chrysalis of chrono-silk, slowly opened her eyes—irises gleaming like nebulae collapsing in reverse. Her hair, woven from strands of sublight and antimatter thread, floated in elegant chaos. Glyphs spiraled across her skin in ancient Astra-Kin dialect, shifting between words and weaponized scripture.
"Stabilization underway," Michi broadcast. "Sentient Protocol Amaryllis has awakened." Within the Control Spire, Professor Vonn bowed—not out of reverence, but recognition. "Time has chosen," he whispered. "And it's chosen rage."
Lethamira — Final Collapse Sequence The crystalline shore shuddered. The Cathedral of Choice twisted upward, morphing into a spiral tower of light and memory. With Lucario's catharsis complete, the realm began its terminal phase. The dream was over. But what came next was post-dream—an anomaly of will made form. "Lucario Vendetta: Dreamcore stabilized. Echoform harmonization successful," Michi relayed through the fading echo-rift. Suzuki turned. "Kai, Kaito, now! Lock onto his signal—we're pulling him out." Kaito knelt, driving his blade into the dreamground, the hilt pulsing with Eidetic Memory Seals. "Link complete. Ready for extraction—wait…" His blade cracked. A shadow loomed overhead—the Stareater again. But this time, it wasn't alone. Another form descended from the folds of collapsed cognition—sleek, feminine, radiant with inverted entropy.
Amaryllis Vex.
"That's enough, Echo Fiend," she said softly—but every syllable carried immense weight, enough to fracture the air like glass.
The Stareater paused… then bowed. "Amaryllis," Apollo whispered, lowering his Book, "the Dream-Forged… commands it." Suzuki's eyes narrowed. "Why would that thing obey her?" Amaryllis stepped forward. Her feet didn't touch the ground—they unfolded it. "Because I created it," she said calmly.
Flashback: 2912 A.E. — Pre-Splice Timecore
A young Amaryllis stood within a metaphysical forge, surrounded by rotating memory-furnaces and dimensional echo-chambers. She channeled the first Astra-Code—weaponized empathy and entropy merged into synthetic spiritform. The result: Stareater. A dream-eater built to cleanse corrupted realities. But in the Rift Crisis, it broke its leash… and fled into memory-space.
Present — Cathedral of Choice
Amaryllis approached the kneeling Stareater and gently touched its burning star-eye. "You weren't supposed to absorb. You were supposed to understand." It flickered—flesh becoming regret. "I... remember now," it rasped. "I was born from her grief." Amaryllis nodded. "Then let grief end." A single tear slipped from the creature's eye—made not of liquid, but collapsing timelines. It disintegrated into silence. Suzuki held her breath. "...It's over?" "No," Amaryllis said. "It's just begun." She turned to them—Crimson Breakers assembled like celestial knights.
"I awoke because Lethamira dreamed Lucario. But now all the Spliced Realms are resonating. There's another anomaly. Older than me. And it's waking too."
Lucario staggered, catching himself on Eira's shoulder. "Another Stareater?" "No," Amaryllis whispered. "The First Dreamer." Everyone froze. Apollo's pupils dilated. "You mean the one who wrote the original Code? The one sealed behind the Chrono-Mirror?" Amaryllis nodded. "And its prison is fracturing." The sky split again—this time not from within, but from the outside. A singular eye opened in the heavens. [ALERT: Paradox Signal Incoming. Identity Unknown. Codename: AΞ-000.]
[Designation: THE DREAMER THAT DREAMS ALL WORLDS.]
[Threat Level: UNDEFINED.] Kai raised his fists, his singularity-heart surging to full output. "Then what do we do?" Amaryllis turned toward the rising light.
"We go beyond dreams.
Into the realm where realities are born from belief.
We go… to the Astral Crucible."
The Imam chose to train with Hermes and Talus somewhere else, in the Dream World just at the edge of the Guild Realm towers, the Tower of the Floating Dream. A gust of surreal wind rippled across the stone platforms suspended in the half-formed sky. Talus stood near the edge, his hands trembling slightly, fists clenched tight. His aura pulsed with a strange, primal frequency—shifting between solidity and smoke. Hermes cracked her neck. "You alright, Talus?" "I'm… remembering," Talus whispered. Then—he bent forward, throat convulsing. From his mouth exploded a grotesque egg, the size of a melon, slick and steaming with molten markings etched in an ancient sigil script. Another. Then another. Three… Four… Ten. Each egg cracked in sequence. From within crawled minor demons—snarling wretches with tendrils of chaos curling around them like burnt shadows.
Hermes didn't flinch. She drew her blade in one fluid motion and leapt into the storm. Her body danced with microgravity finesse, each movement slicing through the void like a calligrapher's brushstroke. One demon lunged—Hermes ducked low, spun, and sent it hurtling backward with a spiraling kick reinforced by [Star Pulse Step]—her foot glowing like a nova. Two more closed in. She clapped her hands and muttered a short invocation: "Chain of the Rook—Reverse Bind." Glowing shackles erupted from her wrist tattoos and slammed the beasts together mid-air like ragdolls. Talus watched, wiping ichor from his lips. "They're faster now. They're evolving… like me." In less than three minutes, Hermes had incapacitated all twelve. She stood among the husks, breathing slowly, blade sheathed. Then the space shifted again.
The stones below rearranged into a spiral dais. Blue flames lit up the glyphs around them. The 21st Imam al-Tayyib descended gently, as if gravity itself obeyed his will, his deep indigo cloak undisturbed by the turbulence. He looked at both of them—smiled kindly. "You've both improved. But a sword and a beast won't defeat a tyrant of dimensions. Prepare yourselves."
Hermes leapt forward first. Talus followed with a slow chant, conjuring more chaos-born constructs to flank the Imam. The Imam closed his eyes. Then—
"كُنْ"
The Kalam—his spoken word—unleashed. The syllable struck like a divine cannonblast, disintegrating two shadow-beasts mid-flight and knocking Hermes off her vector. She caught herself on a floating pillar, coughing. Talus reached up with [Hellroot Bind], a spell that seized enemy footing. But the Imam only thought—and with Kalam-Nafsi, the Hidden Speech, unspoken metaphysical intent, the spell collapsed on itself. Talus was frozen. "Intent," the Imam said aloud, "is the true gravity of the cosmos." Hermes gritted her teeth. She muttered: "Reverse — Shatterflow Starburst!" She launched forward again, blade encased in rippling kinetic flame, aiming for his shoulder. The Imam raised a single finger.
"وَالنَّجْمُ إِذَا هَوَىٰ" — "By the star when it falls" (Qur'an 53:1)
That verse, like a meteorite, sent a force field shaped like a falling star to clash with Hermes' technique. The entire courtyard rumbled under the collision. Talus, eyes glowing, roared and spit out a new egg—this one bigger, armored in bone. "You can't block what you don't expect," he said. But the Imam was already behind him. "True," he whispered in Talus's ear. Then— "لَا تَأْخُذُهُ سِنَةٌ وَلَا نَوْمٌ" — "Neither drowsiness overtakes Him nor sleep" (Qur'an 2:255). A wave of sleep-nullification energy erupted around him—immobilizing Talus' demon mid-summon. Talus collapsed to one knee. Hermes reentered the fight. Together, they tried multiple strategies—Hermes using her environment, Talus pushing dream-beasts to mutate mid-battle. Each time, the Imam met them with a combination of spiritual utterance and silent thought-weaving. Yet they were adapting. Each time they were thrown down, they rose faster. Stronger. More aware of the rhythm beneath the words.
At last, as the sky cracked overhead, the Imam raised both hands and declared:
"Enough."
He looked at them, eyes glowing like galaxies. "You did not win. But you heard the rhythm. You saw beyond form. That is the first true victory." He turned, cloak billowing into mist. "You'll need more than force for what comes next. Hermes… Talus… tomorrow we begin training in Symbolic Transmigration. The path to rewrite souls themselves." Hermes collapsed on the ground, laughing. "I thought this was supposed to be the warm-up." Talus wiped sweat from his brow, grinning. "I think I just remembered how to give birth to a soul-swarm."
"When a god sleeps, his dreams do not vanish. They become worlds. Realms. Realms that remember too much."
The shattered sky had healed into glass once more. The air shimmered with the residue of sacred battle—smoke curling like lotus incense across invisible altars. Hermes and Talus sat on a stone ledge, feet dangling over an abyss of constellations. Then… a hum. Not heard. Felt. The Imam reappeared, though no one saw him arrive. He had never left. The realm turned when he blinked, and reality bent politely around his feet. His blue cloak and cape dragged starlight in its wake. He looked younger now - , only a glimmer in the eyes, like someone who had met his death and made it recite poetry.
"You've tasted the edges of form and fallen into rhythm. But time does not wait for the sleeping, and the waking must bleed for truth."
Hermes, rubbing her jaw, looked up. "You said the Void is coming. That I'm not ready. But you haven't said what comes next." The Imam's gaze shifted—not to her, but beyond. Beyond the Tower, beyond even the Dream World. To something older than memory and denser than myth.
"The Spirit Blade you carry… it is not complete. What you wield is but its outline. Though you have linked its essence to your soul and this is no small feat. You have yet to link its essence with all its unknown number of artifacts and all its beautiful 100 names. You have unlocked a mere whisper of its Names."
He lifted his hand. Between his fingers flickered an ancient glyph—both circular and angular, pulsing in a language only the soul could read.
"To begin to awaken the Blade, you must seek the first Artifact of Deep Awakening. A fragment of reality, older than speech. It lies…" —his tone darkened— "in the Realm of the Dream Dragon Kingdom."
The wind stopped. Talus frowned. "I've… heard of that place. Old chaos-folk used to speak of it when I was still an echo in the heavens. Said it was 'the land without endings.'"
"Not without endings," the Imam corrected, "but without memory of endings. A continent-sized realm adrift in the Endless Dream Sea. It shifts. Rearranges. It speaks in metaphor, in parable, in riddles that bleed you dry if you answer wrong."
Hermes stood. "And this artifact. Where is it within that realm?" The Imam smiled faintly. "Even I do not know. The Dream Dragon Kingdom predates the laws of cause and duration. Finding the artifact will require a different form of strength." He paused, then whispered—not to them, but into them: "To transcend form is not to destroy it. It is to write a new syllable in the sentence of the world." —The narration returns, quiet but charged, like an orator in a celestial court. "In some philosophies, the world is a garden cultivated by virtue. In others, a battlefield of shadows and principles. But here, in the Dream Dragon Kingdom, the world is a scroll. And every traveler becomes ink." Talus muttered, "What if the scroll rewrites us?"
The Imam nodded, pleased. "That is the risk of all seekers. The blade you carry, Hermes… it must evolve through encounter. Through trial, not of blood—but of meaning. There are doctrines etched in the bone of that land. Some say the Dream Dragon once whispered the first language into the void and fell asleep watching it echo. Its breath created gods. It's snores made wars. And its dreams… became kingdoms." Hermes swallowed hard. "Then it's settled. We go there." But the Imam raised a hand. "Not yet." He extended a silver shard toward her. It hovered, then dissolved into her forehead. Her eyes dilated—visions spiraling across her mind: infinite forests, temples carved into the veins of stars, dragons that weep philosophy and gardens that bloom illusions of past selves.
"This will anchor your spirit-thread. You will need it to return. But even it cannot protect you from… The Questioning. The artifact is guarded by something that does not kill. It unmakes. It will ask: Why do you deserve to exist? If you answer wrong—your soul will disband into riddles." Talus laughed dryly. "Great. Existential boss fights." Hermes looked at him. "You ready?" Talus spat out another egg—it opened to reveal a miniature dragon made of paper and ink. "I think I just remembered how to lie to a metaphor."
The Imam turned away.
"Go, when the dream-ship is ready. But remember: this realm cannot be conquered by force, only by recognition. Learn to listen to the silence between meanings. For only then can the Blade awaken its first Name…"
He stopped. The sky behind him unfurled into a gateway—fractals folding into lotus geometry. "And when it does… the Void will notice." As he walked into the mist, his final words hung in the air, neither echo nor sound—just weight. "This is not a journey of strength. It is the birth of a world within you. Let it be shaped wisely." —The screen fades to black, and a single phrase appears in calligraphy over thunderous music—
"NEXT EPISODE: THE REALM WHERE DRAGONS DREAM"
"The First Name of the Spirit Blade: 不尽之心 — 'The Heart That Does Not End.'" But first the World-Martial Arts Tournament…