The earth beneath his feet rippled, a liquid mosaic of colors that made no sense but felt oddly familiar, like memories viewed through a shattered lens. The world around him dissolved into a sea of shimmering particles, each one a tiny universe unto itself. The sky above was a boundless ocean of stars, their light piercing the darkness with an intensity that both terrified and exhilarated him.
Ahead of him, a warrior emerged, his form wasn't solid. His body fractured and shimmered, bending in impossible ways, limbs too long, too thin, then too short and thick, his armor rippling as if it were made of smoke and glass. His voice boomed, yet it came from nowhere and everywhere at once, the sound vibrating through Orion's very bones.
"My god doesn't accept prayers from anyone who kneels." Orion's mind recoiled.
The warrior's voice echoed and multiplied, becoming a chorus of whispers that swirled around Orion like a swarm of insects. The words fragmented and reassembled, their meanings shifting and morphing. The ground beneath him pulsed with a life of its own, tendrils of energy snaking upwards, reaching for Orion like grasping claws.
"True power," the warrior boomed, his form expanding until he filled the horizon, becoming a mountain, a storm cloud, a raging inferno, "is not bestowed, but earned. And it is not found in kneeling, but in rising to meet your own potential. To embrace the power within, not the frailty." His eyes, no longer eyes but shimmering portals to other dimensions, pulsed with an energy that defied comprehension.
The ground beneath him dissolved into a sea of molten rock, bubbling and churning as if alive. Suddenly, Orion was no longer standing—he was falling, but also standing. He was both anchored and adrift, tethered to an unseen force that held him suspended in this paradoxical state.
The ground beneath him crumbled, collapsing into a swirling vortex of dust and debris, the shards, glowing with an eerie luminescence, drifted upwards like embers from a dying fire, their forms shifting and morphing as they rose.
He could see himself from above, and below, and within. The warrior loomed larger now, his body a reflection of an entire battlefield, and yet a reflection of nothing at all. The battlefield morphed, flickering between jungles and deserts, oceans and endless voids, where faceless soldiers marched on all fours, serpentine arms raised to the sky.
The warrior spoke again, but this time his words felt like a physical force. They bent Orion's vision, splitting the world into infinite shards, each reflecting a different version of the battlefield—one covered in flowers, one on fire, one submerged underwater where fish swam lazily around frozen soldiers.
"My god demands not prostration," the warrior said, his face now composed entirely of shifting landscapes—forests on one cheek, deserts on the other. His voice came in waves, rippling through the air like a distorted radio signal, "but might."
The sky opened up, peeling back like skin from a wound, revealing an infinite abyss—a deep, churning void where stars were born and died in mere moments.
"What is honor or righteousness," the warrior asked, his arms spreading wide, elongating unnaturally, until his fingers brushed the horizons of every possible version of the battlefield, "if it is built upon the shifting sands of another's whim?" His arms stretched further, bending reality until the sky curved, until space itself distorted around him, ripples of time warping in the fabric of the dream.
As the warrior's words took shape, Orion felt himself torn between dimensions. Faceless soldiers marched forward, their bodies blending with the wind. They melted into the ground, their shadows continuing to move without form. The earth below Orion surged upward in chunks, forming spires that stretched toward the heavens—no longer solid, but fluid, as though the very air was becoming liquid.
"Such hollow convictions never cease to amuse me," the warrior sneered, his face now shifting between humanoid and something grotesque—mouths in places where there should be none, eyes blinking in his armor's reflection. "They are shackles for those who cannot bear the burden of their own freedom."
Orion stumbled back, but his legs twisted beneath him, not in pain, but in some strange disjointed way, as though his own body had forgotten its shape. The warrior's words pulled at the core of his being, distorting his thoughts, making everything around him ripple and vibrate in unnatural pulses. Trees made of flame sprouted from the ground, only to dissolve into nothingness. Faces—hundreds of faces—emerged from the sky, screaming silently as they melted into puddles of light.
"Confront your fears, successor." the warrior declared, his form now towering, filling the entire dreamscape, casting a shadow over reality itself. "Seek your own truth."
Suddenly, Orion found himself standing on the edge of an abyss—an endless drop into a swirling, chaotic storm of colors, shapes, and sounds that made no sense. Figures flew in and out of the chasm—faceless creatures made of lightning, soldiers marching upside down in twisted formations. The abyss called to him, its pull growing stronger, but Orion stood frozen, torn between jumping and resisting the pull of the void.
"Cling not to the past, nor fear the future," the warrior's voice echoed from every direction, from within Orion's own mind, "Find peace in the present moment, for it is all you truly possess."
The battlefield, the storm, the warrior—they all fragmented, shattering into millions of pieces, each one reflecting Orion's face, his doubts, his fears, his desires, until everything imploded into a single point of light. That point expanded, blinding, devouring the entire dream.
Then, there was nothing.
Orion's eyes snapped open, and he found himself staring at the tent above him painted with the soft shadows of dawn. His heart thundered against his chest, the beat sharp and erratic as if it were still trapped in the warped battlefield of his dreams. He lay there, breathing shallowly, trying to anchor himself in the present, but the echoes of the warrior's words still throbbed in his mind.
Even now, awake and alone in his room, the phrase felt heavy, as if it were reshaping the air around him. He pressed his hand to his chest, grounding himself with the steady rise and fall of his breath. The warrior's voice, the surreal world, the abyss that had pulled at him—all of it lingered, the impressions hauntingly vivid. He had had strange dreams before, but nothing like this. Nothing that felt so… real.
Swinging his legs over the side of the makeshift bed, Orion rubbed his temples. A faint ache pulsed behind his eyes, and when he closed them, flashes of the warrior's distorted form returned, along with the endless field of marching soldiers and the sky that blinked with countless eyes. He opened his eyes quickly, dispelling the images, but his fingers still trembled as he reached for the glass of water on his bedside table.
As the cool water touched his lips, Orion's thoughts cleared, grounding him, He set the glass down and pushed himself to his feet, feeling a strange compulsion to move.
He then remembered, with sudden clarity, that the warrior had called him successor. The word resonated deeply, carrying with it a strange sense of expectation, as though his hand had reached out across the ages handing him the torch.
A mechanical voice resonated within his mind, drawing his attention to the interface materializing before his eyes.
"Techniques analyzed. 146% incremental boost of strength detected."
Orion then stared at the glowing "Dreamweaver" icon on his interface, its cold glow casting an eerie light across the dimly lit tent. His heart pounded in his chest, a familiar rush of dread swelling in his gut.
With a sharp intake of breath, he tapped the icon. The world around him dimmed. The edges of the room blurred, fading until he stood on a simulated battlefield, eerily familiar yet chillingly perfect. The barren landscape stretched before him, filled with echoes of past fight with the Hive soldier.
Orion's senses sharpened. Every heartbeat felt measured, every muscle coiled in precise readiness. He noticed, almost detachedly, that his hands were steady, his limbs free of the ache that usually plagued him. Even the fractured ribs and bruises from earlier felt like a distant memory.
Orion inhaled, centering himself, the movements from the dream flowing through him like a forgotten language returning to his tongue. His muscles remembered the warrior's power, the fluidity of each strike, the harmony of each parry.
A Hive soldier materialized from the shadows, his form flickering and distorted. Orion reacted instinctively, his body a blur of motion. He pivoted, adjusting his sword's trajectory as the System directed, executing a precise rotation that cleaved through the soldier's form, scattering it into motes of light.
Orion exhaled, a wave of exhilaration washing over him. Another soldier lunged, and this time, he was ready. He tightened his grip, the rhythm of the dream guiding his movements.
Orion embraced the change. He moved with a newfound agility, his steps lighter, his strikes more precise.
Another soldier appeared to his left, then another to his right, their attacks synchronized. Orion spun between them, his body a whirlwind of motion. He transitioned into a slash, channeling the warrior's fluidity, his blade slicing through both figures, scattering them into wisps of smoke.
After what seemed like thirty minutes of repeating the same slashes, sweat beaded on Orion's forehead, his muscles burning with fatigue. The repetition was taking its toll, but he pushed through the discomfort, his movements growing sharper with each cycle. The Hive soldiers materialized and dissolved in a relentless rhythm, their attacks intensifying to cope up with his growing mastery.
As his blade found its final mark, the simulation faded, the battlefield dissolving back into the muted glow of the tent.
Orion stood there, his chest heaving, his body aching from the exertion. The pain from his real injuries began to surface—a dull, persistent throb in his side. He swiped a hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had gathered during the battle.
And then the System's voice pierced the silence. Cold. Mechanical. "Dreamweaver session terminated. Continued exertion would exceed safe parameters. Reviewing performance metrics."
"Hold on," Orion interjected, a frown creasing his brow. "What do you mean, 'safe parameters', this is all in my mind right?"
"While the Dreamweaver environment is simulated, the cognitive processes and muscle stimulation are mirrored in the host's physical body." the System replied, its tone flat, devoid of any emotion.
Orion glanced at the fading light of the Dreamweaver icon, he paused, tapping a finger against his chin. "Guess I'll have to pace myself."