Ezra stepped through the portal into the Dream Realm, and his body instantly rebelled against it. The shift in atmosphere hit him like a freight train—his senses overwhelmed by the wrongness of the place. His ears rang with distorted sounds, a cacophony of whispers and shrieks that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. He tried to steady his breath, but even the air here seemed toxic, thick and rancid like the smell of rotting flesh. His mind screamed at him to turn back, but there was no retreat. The portal had sealed behind him.
The ground beneath his feet was neither solid nor fluid, some strange in-between substance that rippled and shifted under the slightest pressure. It was like walking on a living thing, a beast lying dormant beneath his steps. The sky—or what passed for it—was a swirling nightmare of ever-changing colors: blood-red, sickly green, blacker than any night he had ever known. There was no sun, no stars, just an infinite void above, stretching into madness.
As he moved forward, the world around him began to shift—trees with skeletal branches sprang from the ground, growing at unnatural angles, their bark twisting like the limbs of tortured souls. Every step felt like a descent deeper into insanity. The landscape seemed alive, warping and pulsating in reaction to his presence. It wasn't just a realm of nightmares—it *was* the nightmare itself.
The first signs of danger came from the mist that curled around his ankles like the fingers of the dead. Dark, humanoid shapes began to materialize from it, their forms grotesque and wrong. Limbs bent in ways that defied logic, faces that were barely human—twisted masks of agony with hollow eyes and gaping mouths, as if screaming in eternal torment. They moved toward him, silently at first, then suddenly, one let out a shriek that tore through the air like a razor, and the others followed, their wails high-pitched and maddening.
Ezra backed up, his heart hammering in his chest. His instinct screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go. He was trapped. His only option was to fight.
"Grimoire!" he shouted, his voice shaking. "Give me my abilities back!"
Nothing.
The book that had saved him so many times in the past remained cold and silent, its powers seemingly locked away, leaving him with only the Qi he had trained to use. The creatures were almost upon him, their claws extending, dripping with some black, oily substance that sizzled as it hit the ground.
Ezra steadied his breathing. He would have to rely on his raw strength. He braced himself as the first creature lunged, its claws swiping toward his face. He ducked, narrowly avoiding the attack, and drove his fist into its stomach. The impact felt wrong—too soft, like hitting something that wasn't fully solid. The creature let out a screech but didn't stop. It swiped again, catching him across the chest, and Ezra hissed as pain flared up his body. The wound was shallow, but the sensation burned like acid.
Another creature lunged, this one coming from the side. Ezra dodged again, rolling on the ground and springing back to his feet. But more were coming, closing in fast.
"Grimoire, please!" he begged again.
And then, finally, the book pulsed against his side.
**Ability Restored: Fire weaponry **
Without hesitation, Ezra summoned the flame, feeling it surge from within him, coursing through his veins. He swung his hand, and a blade of fire erupted, cutting through the nearest creature. It let out a bone-chilling wail as its body disintegrated into ash, but more were already upon him.
Ezra fought like a man possessed, slashing through the hordes with fire and Qi, but they kept coming. Every time he destroyed one, another would rise from the mist, its twisted form even more grotesque than the last. His body screamed in exhaustion, and his mind was fraying at the edges, the constant barrage of shrieks and whispers pulling him deeper into the madness of the realm.
He didn't know how long he had been fighting, minutes? Hours? Time had no meaning here.
Just when he thought he might collapse, the ground beneath him shook violently, and the creatures retreated. Ezra stood panting, sweat pouring down his face, his body bruised and battered. He looked around, confused, but then he saw it—a massive shadow looming in the distance.
The mist parted, revealing the source of the tremor.
It was a beast unlike anything Ezra had ever seen. Its body was massive, towering above him, covered in jagged scales that seemed to shimmer with malevolent energy. Its face was a grotesque mix of human and dragon, eyes glowing with a sickly yellow light. It moved with terrifying grace, its claws digging deep into the ground with each step.
Ezra's heart dropped.
There was no way he could fight this thing. Not now. Not when he was already on the edge of collapse.
The grimoire pulsed again, and a new message appeared before his eyes:
**Quest Update: Survive 72 Hours.**
The hours dragged on like years. Ezra had lost all sense of time. The sky—if it could even be called that—had not changed, but his body told him that days had passed. His muscles ached with every movement, and his skin felt raw from the constant exposure to the unnatural atmosphere of the Dream Realm. But it was his mind that suffered the most.
The creatures were relentless. They came at him in waves, their forms ever-changing, their attacks unpredictable. Some appeared as twisted versions of animals, others as grotesque humanoid figures that defied all logic and reason. Each battle pushed him closer to the brink of insanity. There was no rest, no reprieve. Every moment was a fight for survival.
The worst part wasn't the physical pain—it was the psychological torment. The Dream Realm played tricks on him, warping his perception of reality. Sometimes he would see familiar faces in the fog—people from his past, loved ones, friends, even enemies—calling out to him, begging for help. But when he approached, they would twist into monsters, attacking him without mercy.
He had stopped trusting anything he saw or heard. The realm was designed to break him, to tear apart his sanity piece by piece.
The grimoire, which had been his lifeline, was no longer the helpful tool it once was. It felt more like a prison, its demands growing more severe with each passing moment. It would give him back his abilities, but only after he suffered. Only after he was pushed to his limit.
And the quests… the quests were impossible.
"Survive 72 hours," the latest one had said, as if such a thing were reasonable in this hellish place. Every minute felt like an eternity, and every battle was a fight for his life. The creatures didn't stop. The pain didn't stop. His body was covered in cuts and bruises, his clothes torn, his Qi drained almost completely.
The worst part was the lack of sleep. Whenever he tried to close his eyes, the Dream Realm would assault him with visions—horrible, twisted visions of death and destruction. He would hear voices in his head, mocking him, telling him he was weak, that he would never escape, that he would die here, forgotten by the world.
At one point, he saw his own reflection in a pool of black water. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, and for a moment, he didn't recognize himself. He looked like one of the monsters that had been hunting him.
He wanted to scream, but he didn't have the energy.
Ezra's mind was unraveling. He could feel it, like a thread being pulled from the center of his consciousness, slowly, agonizingly, until there was almost nothing left. His thoughts were fractured, his memories blurry. He didn't know how long he had been in the Dream Realm anymore. Hours? Days? Weeks? It all blurred together in a haze of pain and terror.
The creatures had grown more powerful, more intelligent. They no longer attacked him mindlessly—they hunted him, cornered him, toyed with him. Some of them whispered his name in the dark, their voices like nails on a chalkboard, promising him death if he didn't give up soon.
But Ezra couldn't give up. The grimoire wouldn't let him.
The gate.
He had seen it once, a shimmering portal on the horizon, surrounded by mist and shadows. It was his only way out, but the grimoire had warned him—getting to the gate was only the beginning.
And now, the final trial awaited him.
Ezra stood, his body broken, his mind teetering on the edge of madness. The creatures circled him, their eyes glowing in the darkness, but they didn't attack. Not yet.
In the distance, he saw the figure. It was tall, imposing, and as it stepped into the light, Ezra's heart sank.
It was him.
A perfect copy of himself, but stronger, faster, and with a look of pure malice in its eyes.
This was the final fight.
Ezra's muscles screamed as he prepared to face his greatest enemy—himself.