"Where… where am I?"
It was pitch dark. The air felt thick and heavy, pressing against him like a wet shroud. Solaire couldn't see a thing. In fact, he couldn't even feel his body at first — just a floating awareness adrift in something formless and suffocating.
"Am I dead? Heh… what a pathetic life. Just a moment of carelessness."
Bitterness crept through his thoughts. Was this really how it ended? Because he let his guard down for a moment? So many complaints rose inside him, but deep down, he knew the truth — it was his fault. He had underestimated the Dream Realm.
That place wasn't home, not even a battlefield. It was a death sentence.
Time passed — seconds, minutes, he couldn't tell. Slowly, sensation began to crawl back into him. The first thing he noticed was the rhythm — a steady, pulsing squeeze around him, like the world itself was breathing. Smooth, wet flesh pressed against his back, flexing and contracting in slow waves.
Then came the liquid.
Cold at first, then warm — a viscous fluid dripped onto his skin in uneven drops. Every touch burned faintly, as if it were alive. The stench was unbearable, thick with decay and acid. His stomach lurched.
His head throbbed violently; he couldn't tell which way was up or down. But he could feel movement — the sluggish churn of a living creature, dragging him deeper inside.
As his thoughts steadied, memory returned like a knife. He wasn't dead. He couldn't die. Relief flickered for a heartbeat before dread swallowed it whole. Immortality didn't mean safety — not in a monster's gut.
"Let me check my runes…"
He raised his trembling hand — but before his eyes could focus, the floor beneath him vanished, and he plunged into a pool of liquid.
"Oh crap! I'm in the stomach… AHHHHHHH!!!"
Pain hit instantly. His skin ignited in agony as the acid clung to him like fire in liquid form. Every nerve screamed. He could feel himself dissolving — flesh melting, bones softening, nerves unraveling one by one.
It was pure torment.
He tried to move, but his limbs barely responded. Each attempt only tore more of his skin away, and the thick, bubbling fluid gurgled around him like a cauldron of boiling tar. His scream echoed through the chamber — muffled, swallowed by the creature's insides.
One hell had ended, only for another to begin. Then, mercifully, his consciousness snapped.
Solaire didn't know how much time had passed before he woke again. When he did, the pain was immediate — sharper this time, as if the creature's stomach remembered him. The acid clung tighter, eager.
He dissolved again.
The pain tore through his mind like lightning. Fear gnawed at him, twisting his insides. He didn't know when this creature would excrete him — or if it ever would. Until then, he would endure this endless cycle of death and rebirth.
Three times. Ten times. Fifty. A hundred. Two hundred and fifty…
After a while, numbers lost meaning. His nerves dulled; pain became a steady companion, distant but constant. He stopped struggling. His humanity began to erode — piece by piece, breath by breath.
This was going to be his eternal prison, a place where he would rot, regenerate, and rot again.
The air — if it could even be called that — was almost nonexistent. He could barely breathe, and what little he inhaled burned like acid in his throat. His lungs filled with the same foul liquid that melted his flesh, choking him between lives.
He didn't even know how long he had been there anymore. Days? Weeks?
Somewhere in the haze of suffering, memories began to drift through his mind.
He had once dreamed of escaping the slums — of living in a clean home, in the shining districts where the rich lived without fear. When he first Awakened, he thought things would finally change.
"What a pathetic dream… at least if I could've died permanently, I wouldn't have to suffer like this."
He thought back to his childhood — the cold streets, scavenging for scraps, surviving on the smallest rations.
"And then I got infected by the Spell."
He had given up that day, but fate dragged him along anyway — into his first nightmare, where he died again and again. At least back then, death was merciful.
Faces flickered before him: Sunny's cautious grin, Teacher Julius's stern gaze, Awakened Lautrec, the knight who had pulled him out of a cell. Then the deformed monster, the Hollows…
The Hollows.
Realization hit like a dagger. The direction his mind was heading — it was the same path they had taken. Soon he would lose himself too, becoming just another empty shell, trapped forever.
Something inside him resisted. A spark — weak but stubborn — lit within his heart.
No.
He wouldn't die like this. He wouldn't rot in this thing's belly forever. So what if the creature was corrupted? A dreamer can't defeat a corrupted being? Who decided that?
Rage filled his chest, and through gritted teeth, he vowed,
"It doesn't matter if it takes me a week, a month, or a year. I will carve my way out of this bastard."
The moment he felt sensation return to his hand, he clenched it — and summoned the Darksword. Black steel glinted faintly in the darkness. Before the acid could melt his arm away again, he thrust the blade into the wall of flesh.
It resisted. The blade sank only an inch before stopping. The stomach quivered around him, muscles tightening like a living vise. His arm disintegrated, and the world went white.
He repeated it. Over and over.
Each time he dissolved, each time he came back — he drove the sword again. Until, finally, it stuck deep enough for him to pull himself upward.
He clung to the slick wall, his chest heaving. The acid below gurgled hungrily. His body ached, his skin half gone, but he didn't care. For the first time in what felt like eternity, he wasn't sinking.
Now came the harder part — finding a way out.
He stayed still for several minutes, letting his regeneration finish. Gradually, his blurred vision sharpened. He could make out faint shapes — curved walls pulsating rhythmically, veins glowing faintly through translucent flesh. And there, far above, he saw the dark tunnel where he had fallen — the creature's esophagus.
"Okay… I have to make this leap."
He swung himself once. Twice. On the third swing, he leapt — fingers scraping against the wall. For a moment, he felt hope — and then his grip slipped.
He fell.
The acid welcomed him back with a hiss.
"It's fine. I just have to keep trying."
Even as pain flared anew, the fire in his eyes didn't fade. Again and again, he tried. Nine times he leapt, nine times he fell. But on the tenth, he caught the edge of the fleshy tube.
"Alright… now time to climb up."
The Darksword bit into the tissue like dull iron through rubber. He dragged himself upward, inch by inch, while the walls pulsed and convulsed around him. The air grew thicker, fouler, each breath scraping his throat raw.
Finally, he reached a dead end — a circular, chitinous plate sealing the passage ahead. It was hard and black, glistening with mucus, and pulsed faintly with the creature's heartbeat.
Propping the Darksword between the walls, he leaned against it, staring at the barrier that trapped him.
"What should I do now?"
The only answer was the slow, rhythmic thud of the creature's heart — echoing through its endless, living prison.