Merciless' eyes drooped, and the world around him began to blur, the sharp edges of reality fading into an indistinct haze of slumber. Darkness enveloped him, an inky gulf stretching in all directions, consuming the shreds of consciousness. Yet, within that blackness, little glimmers began to stir—light, not harsh or blinding, but gentle and otherworldly, like the echo of stars long gone.
The lights flickered, creating shapes, scenes, and images that danced before him as if projected by an invisible hand. It was like a dream, but more vivid and real, as if he had slid past the limits of sleep into a realm where the very fabric of existence was made from the strands of his own imagination.
