Ezra lay in his bed, motionless, staring at the ceiling. His body felt impossibly heavy, as if the weight of the world pressed down on him, pinning him to the mattress. Time stretched out in an endless loop—he could no longer tell how long he had been lying there. Hours, days, years? His mind flickered between the present and the memories of the nightmare that had been his reality for what felt like an eternity.
The horrors of the dream realm clung to him, each moment of suffering etched deep into his psyche. He had died a thousand times, witnessed humanity's extinction over and over again. And now, even here, in the quiet of his room, the shadow of that pain lingered.
He ran a hand over his face, feeling the familiar contours, the warmth of his skin. He was here, wasn't he? This was real, wasn't it? Yet everything felt wrong. The world around him seemed fragile, like it could dissolve into another nightmare at any moment. He blinked, but the images still flashed in his mind—the monsters tearing through the streets, the screams of the people he loved, the endless cycle of death.
*This can't be real.* The thought spiraled in his head, gnawing at his sanity. He had been trapped for so long—too long. The lines between reality and nightmare had blurred. He sat up slowly, his body aching as though he had aged decades in those few nights. His eyes, hollow and bloodshot, stared into the emptiness of the room, searching for something to anchor him. But there was nothing. No comforting warmth, no sense of peace.
A soft flutter broke the silence.
Ezra's gaze snapped to the grimoire that materialized beside his bed, its pages flipping wildly, as though possessed by an unseen force. His heart quickened, a sliver of dread curling in his chest. *Not again...* But this was different. The book seemed almost frantic, the pages flipping faster and faster until they suddenly stopped.
He looked down.
The ink on the page shifted and twisted, reforming itself into strange symbols and markings that were unfamiliar. The language—the text—began to fade, dissolving into nothingness, like smoke dispersing into the air. Panic gripped him. The grimoire had been his constant companion, his guide. If it was fading, if it was disappearing, what did that mean?
But then, as the last of the text vanished, something new appeared. Bold letters at the top of the page, inked in dark, heavy strokes:
**Name: Ezra Abraham**
**Divine Name: Fate Weaver**
**Age: 17**
Ezra's breath hitched. Divine Name? He had never seen that before. His heart pounded in his chest as he read it over again. Fate Weaver. The words pulsed on the page, alive with a power that resonated deep within him, though he didn't fully understand it.
Before he could process, the pages flipped again. His stats appeared, but they were not as he remembered them. The numbers, which had once been low, had surged—his speed, strength, intelligence, perception, every stat skyrocketing uncontrollably. It was as if some hidden force had taken over, pushing everything beyond its limits. His hands trembled as he watched the numbers climb higher and higher until, finally, they stopped.
Maxed out.
And the entire state rest back to one the grimoire tells him that he is not the normal boy anymore he has surpassed the human capabilities from now on he has to get stronger as god.
And at the head of the page there was one line of Text
**Child of Fate lvl 1**
His entire being had been altered. No longer was he the same boy who had entered the dream realm. Whatever power had been granted to him, it had transformed him completely.
The grimoire flipped to another page, its contents swirling and reshaping before his eyes. New abilities emerged, their names glowing with a fierce energy.
**Imaginary Construction** - An ability that allowed him to create not only fire weapons but *anything* his mind could conceive. Ezra's control over flame had evolved into something far greater. He could summon entire armies of fiery constructs, clone himself in flames, or create creatures to do his bidding. Whatever his imagination could conjure, he could bring to life through fire.
**Flash Step: Hypernova** - His old ability to blink short distances had evolved, becoming far more potent. He could now shift instantaneously across vast distances, leaving behind an explosion of radiant heat, capable of incinerating anything in his wake.
**Flame Revenant** - A defensive ability. Upon serious injury, his body would disintegrate into flames, allowing him to be reborn from the ashes stronger and faster. His enemies would never know when he was truly defeated.
**Pyrokinetic Dominion** - His control over fire had reached an almost godlike level. He could manipulate fire on a molecular scale, bending it to his will in any form, even altering the very heat and energy in his surroundings.
As the grimoire continued to list his new abilities, Ezra's mind spun. This power—it was beyond anything he had ever imagined. But the more he read, the colder he felt. His heart, his emotions, everything had dulled. The boy who had struggled through the early days of the quest, the boy who had once felt hope and fear, seemed a distant memory. He didn't recognize himself anymore.
The final page flipped open. At the top, a single line of text:
**Domain of Fate.**
There was no description, no explanation. Just those three words. A sense of dread settled in his chest. This new power—this "Domain of Fate"—felt dangerous. He could sense the weight of it pressing down on him, like the universe itself had bent to grant him this ability. But at what cost?
Ezra slammed the book shut, his hands trembling. The room around him was too quiet, too still. He felt as if the walls were closing in, the air too thick to breathe. The nightmares—had they really ended? Or was this just another layer of the dream? He stood up, pacing the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
His thoughts were fractured, disjointed. The pain of the dream realm still lingered, like a phantom limb. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again—the monsters, the fire, the endless cycle of death. The screams echoed in his head, the faces of the people he couldn't save haunting him. They were still there, just beneath the surface, waiting to pull him back into the abyss.
He stopped in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. The boy in the glass was familiar, yet alien. His eyes were hollow, shadowed with exhaustion and pain. His skin was pale, his body thinner than before, as though the very essence of life had been drained from him. And yet, beneath it all, there was power. It radiated from him, invisible but undeniable, like a force just waiting to be unleashed.
Ezra clenched his fists, the weight of his new abilities pressing down on him. He had survived the dream realm, but at what cost? Who was he now? The memories of his suffering, the countless deaths he had experienced, had changed him. Broken him.
His heart felt cold, distant. He tried to summon the emotions he had once felt—fear, hope, love—but they were muted, as if locked behind a wall of ice. He could remember what they were, but he couldn't *feel* them anymore.
Ezra sank onto the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. He couldn't go back. The person he had been before...that boy was gone. He was something else now—something more, something less.
The world felt empty, meaningless.
*Is this the reward for surviving?* he wondered. *Power without purpose?*
The weight of his thoughts crushed him, and for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to feel the exhaustion creeping in. The grimoire had given him everything—strength, speed, abilities beyond his wildest imagination. But it had also taken something from him. His humanity? His sanity?
He didn't know how long he sat there, staring into nothingness, his mind a whirl of broken thoughts and fractured memories. The silence was deafening, the stillness suffocating.
Ezra felt a flicker of something—an instinct, perhaps. His hand moved toward the grimoire again, though his mind was screaming not to. As his fingers grazed the cover, the book opened on its own, the pages flipping once more. It settled on the same line:
**Domain of Fate.**
And then, in a whisper—so faint he wasn't sure if he had imagined it—Ezra heard a voice.
"*You cannot escape your fate.*"
His heart skipped a beat, cold fear crawling up his spine. The room seemed to grow darker, the shadows lengthening, twisting into unfamiliar shapes. He blinked, but the shadows remained, stretching toward him like claws.
Ezra closed the grimoire with a snap, shoving it away. He didn't want to know what was next. He didn't want to face whatever this "Domain of Fate" meant.
But deep down, he knew he couldn't run from it.
Not anymore.