In this world, power is death, and knowledge is insanity.
The words hung in the air, unspoken yet heavy, like the remnants of a dream he couldn't quite remember.
When he opened his eyes, the sky was the first thing he noticed. A deep, churning red stretched endlessly above him, fractured by black veins that pulsed faintly, as if the sky itself were alive. He stared at it, dazed, for what felt like an eternity.
Then the cold seeped in.
The ground beneath him was cracked and jagged, biting into his skin. He pushed himself up with trembling hands, only to find them stained with dried blood. His pulse quickened. It wasn't his—he felt no pain, no wounds. But it was there, smeared across his palms and forearms like a violent accusation.
He stumbled to his feet, the barren world spinning around him. Everywhere he looked, the earth was broken, lifeless. Twisted remains of trees clawed at the sky, their skeletal branches shivering in the cold wind. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faintest whisper—a sound so subtle he wondered if it was real or simply his mind trying to fill the void.
"Where… am I?" he rasped, his voice unfamiliar even to himself.
The question hung unanswered.
His mind was a void, a blank slate where memories should have been. There was no name, no past, no anchor to reality. Only fragments: a flicker of fire, the sound of distant screams, and a sense of loss so deep it made his chest ache.
He tried to piece it together, but the harder he searched, the more elusive it became. It was like grasping at smoke.
Keep moving, a voice inside him urged.
The wind picked up, colder now, carrying with it a low hum that seemed to vibrate through his bones. It wasn't natural. It wasn't… right. He turned, scanning the horizon, but saw nothing except the wasteland.
Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.
He started walking, though he had no idea where he was going. Every step felt heavy, as if the ground itself were trying to pull him back down. Shadows seemed to shift at the edges of his vision, but when he turned to look, there was nothing there.
The whispers grew louder.
"You're not real," he muttered, trying to convince himself. "This isn't real."
But the more he said it, the less he believed it.
The wind howled, and suddenly, he saw something—a shape in the distance. It was faint, barely more than a silhouette against the crimson horizon, but it was there. A figure, standing perfectly still.
His heart skipped.
"Hey!" he called out, his voice raw. "Can you hear me?"
The figure didn't move.
He hesitated. Every instinct told him to stay away, but he couldn't ignore the pull, the strange compulsion to approach. His feet moved almost on their own, carrying him closer with each step.
As the figure came into focus, his breath caught.
It wasn't… human. At least, not entirely. It was shrouded in black, its form twisting and flickering like a flame caught in the wind. Its face—or what should have been a face—was hidden beneath a hood, and its eyes glowed faintly, twin pinpricks of sickly green light.
It wasn't looking at him. Not directly. Yet he felt its gaze, cold and piercing, as if it were peeling back layers of his soul.
"What are you?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind.
The figure tilted its head, almost curiously. Then, without warning, it dissolved into shadow, fading into the air as though it had never been there at all.
His chest tightened. He spun in place, searching for any sign of the figure, but the wasteland was empty again.
A sudden, sharp pain erupted in his head, and he dropped to his knees with a cry.
Visions flooded his mind, disjointed and chaotic: a city engulfed in flames, the sky torn apart, blood pooling at his feet. He saw faces—strangers, yet painfully familiar—twisted in fear, in hatred, in sorrow. A woman's voice echoed, calling his name, though he couldn't make out the words. And then, amidst the chaos, a shadow loomed, monstrous and all-consuming.
He gasped for air, clutching his head as the visions faded, leaving only a lingering sense of dread.
"What is this?" he whispered, his voice breaking. "What's happening to me?"
The whispers in the air grew louder, merging into a single word:
Remember.
He flinched, scrambling to his feet. "Remember what?"
The wind howled in response, and for a moment, he thought he saw the figure again—just at the edge of his vision. But when he turned, it was gone.
He staggered backward, his pulse racing. The ground beneath him seemed to shift, the cracks widening, threatening to swallow him whole. The sky darkened, the crimson light fading into black.
"No," he muttered, shaking his head. "This isn't real. It's not real."
But the whispers only grew louder, deafening now, as the world collapsed around him.
Then he woke.
He shot up with a gasp, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His hands clutched at the coarse fabric beneath him, grounding him in the present.
The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of a single lantern casting shadows on the stone walls. He was lying on a bed—if it could even be called that—made of rough wood and thin blankets.
He touched his face, his hands still trembling. No blood. No cracks in the earth. No crimson sky.
It was a dream. Or a nightmare.
But the weight in his chest didn't fade.
The words echoed in his mind again, unbidden and relentless:
In this world, power is death, and knowledge is insanity.