Chapter 2 - (Nice Dream)
He dreamt of a desert—vast and endless, where the land stretched far beyond sight, suffocated by the relentless weight of the scorching sun. The sky was a sickly red, as though the sun itself bled into the earth, casting everything in its oppressive glow. The ground cracked open in jagged lines, like the skin of something once alive, now hollow and dry. The air was thick with the stench of dust and decay, as if this place had witnessed horrors long forgotten but still lingering in the silence.
The ground around him was littered with the remnants of war. Scattered bones, bleached and cracked by the relentless sun, jutted from the earth like the forgotten graves of those who had perished here. Rusted blades, broken shields, and tattered banners lay half-buried in the sand, their edges worn smooth from years of exposure to the elements. The remnants of armor, twisted and deformed, clung to the bones of the fallen like broken shells, a haunting testament to the violence that had once ravaged this place. Piles of shattered weapons—swords, arrows, and maces—stood half-buried in the sand, as though waiting for their owners to return.
When night returned, the blinding crimson sun finally receded, leaving behind a stark, chilling moon. Under its cold light, the desert shifted from suffocating red to cruel pale ash, the shadows stretching long and haunting, as though the landscape itself was watching.
The quiet felt unnatural, a void that had swallowed all life long ago. The wind whispered across the sand like a forgotten warning, carrying with it a faint echo of lost cries and desperate struggles, as if something terrible had once happened here.
And in the stillness, it almost seemed as if the desert itself remembered.
Astoria stood in the heart of the desert, watching as the land shifted before his eyes. The moon hung overhead, its pale light casting long, ominous shadows across the barren expanse. The wind had died down to a hushed whisper, and for a moment, the desert felt almost still, frozen in time.
Then, something strange began to happen. The sand beneath his feet seemed to ripple, like the surface of a disturbed pool. Slowly, the air shimmered with heat, not from the sun, but from something deeper, something ancient. The world around him began to retreat, as if it were being undone, unraveling piece by piece. The jagged cracks in the earth's surface closed up as though the land itself were healing its wounds. The sky flickered, and the suffocating red sun—once a blistering presence overhead—began to pull back into the horizon, its light dimming like a flame fading to embers.
Astoria's heart pounded as he watched the desert's desolation retreat into something he couldn't yet grasp. The broken stones and dried bones that littered the ground slowly gathered themselves together, shifting and settling into their original places. The wind reversed its course, swirling dust back into the air, pulling it from the ground as though the desert were breathing again. The silence that once weighed on him seemed to grow lighter, more distant, as if the very fabric of time had bent around him.
He blinked, trying to make sense of the shifting landscape. The ruins of ancient structures—broken pillars and shattered walls—began to heal themselves. Slowly buildings in the distance were being reconstructed from random scrap scattered within the depths of the desert. Camps and outposts were reenactd from the sand.
Astoria felt an uneasy sense of displacement, as if the world was moving backward. The moon rose again but then it to began to retreat, its pale light drawing away from the land. It was as though time itself were folding in on itself, erasing the massacure, erasing the destruction. The scene around him continued to reverse, slowly and inexorably, as though it were a memory of a time long past, now fading from view. He watched as the desert returned to its ancient form, untouched by human conflict.
He suddenly realized—he wasn't simply watching the desert. He was watching time rewind, the very history of this land playing itself in reverse. The battles fought here, the blood spilled upon the sand, the anguish that had soaked into the earth—it was all being undone. The warriors who had once fallen were rising again, their bodies knitting together, their wounds closing as they moved backward through their final moments. The screams of the dying reversed, becoming quiet breaths as life flowed back into the bodies of the fallen.
The sight was disorienting. Astoria felt the pull of time's flow, and it was like trying to stand still in the current of a great river. He wanted to move forward, to see the world progress, but the land around him was unwilling to let go. He could feel it—the war that had torn this place apart was fading into the past, but in doing so, it was dragging everything with it, including Astoria's sense of reality.
Astoria closed his eyes, then forced them open, struggling to hold onto his bearings as the world around him spun backward. And before his eyes, he saw one opposing side of warriors. It was a mighty force, warriors belonging within the thousands, and thats just what Artorias could see, who knows how many were trailing farther beyond, perhaps hundreds of thousands? All ready for a second assault upon the enemy.
But, what was opposing the army was not an army itself. No, it was merely a singular figure.
The figure stood alone, unmoving. They were cloaked in the tattered remnants of ancient armor, barely clinging to their frame. Their posture sagged slightly, as though the weight of battle had drained all but the faintest spark of life from them. The armor—perhaphs once mighty and gleaming—now looked weathered, worn, and cracked, as if it had borne the weight of countless battles but had since been left to decay. It barely fit the figure beneath, leaving gaps in the protection and exposing skin pale, marred by scars and faint wounds that had never fully healed. But still, the armor remained regal and protective of all vital spots.
Their head was bowed, obscured by a dark, tattered hood that only hinted at the face beneath, hidden in shadow. Yet despite the apparent frailty of their form, there was something unmistakable about them—an aura, faint but undeniable, that pulsed from within. The air around them seemed to ripple, distorting the surroundings as though the very fabric of reality bent in their presence. Though the figure's body was weakened, their power was still undeniable.
The soldiers advanced toward the lone figure, their collective force overwhelming. Yet, as they neared, a tension built in the air. The ground beneath them seemed to crack with every step, the oppressive silence growing as the figure remained still, an eerie calm before the coming devastation. Their weapon—a long, slender blade that looked almost too delicate for such a battle—rested lightly in their hand, its edge faintly glimmering in the twilight.
And despite the figure's physical frailty, there was a palpable sense that this warrior was not as they appeared. Their power, while quiet now, thrummed beneath the surface, a dormant volcano waiting to erupt. There was no fear in their stance, no hesitation in their eyes—or the eyes that could still be seen—only an unspoken understanding that even if this battle was lost, it would be lost on grave terms.
The sands shifted again, then settled. Whatever had happened in history was set, but for now there was a new addition to this spectacle. An addition that had the potential to bring change. Whether good or bad.
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell! Prepare for your First Trial…]