Ever since he was little, Orien had always felt closer to the supernatural. Whenever he watched fantasy movies, he was deeply immersed—like every scene was part of his reality.
He often envied powerful characters, wishing he had their abilities. But when the credits rolled, reality returned like a cruel slap. For someone with boundless imagination, nothing stung more than the reminder that it was all fiction.
As he grew older fantasy shows felt hollow compared to the worlds inside his mind. He didn't consider himself a genius, but he often wondered... What if?
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Books changed everything.
Stories, novels, light novels, supernatural dramas—he devoured them with relentless hunger. It felt like he had been starving his whole life and had finally found food made just for him. In those pages, he didn't just consume fantasy... he breathed it.
The deeper he read, the more he drifted from the real world. Orien wasn't stupid—just quiet and Deep. The kind of person who noticed what others ignored. His thoughts were like stars: distant, brilliant, untouchable.
He paid little attention to reality, investing more into the wild theater of his inner life.
That made him an introvert, even gullible in others' eyes. He had few friends, but he liked it that way. The quiet, the space, the freedom to be who he truly was—these were sacred. The friends he did keep were those who shared something deeper. They understood him, and he understood them. But Orien never gave all of himself. He held something back—just in case. Not out of mistrust, but as preparation for the pain that might come.
Orien belonged to a family of five: father, mother, younger sister, younger brother, and himself—the eldest. His mother, a photographer, was known for her kindness and beauty. People in their hometown often praised his father for marrying her. Gossiping aunties would joke, asking Orien what kind of woman he'd marry. His answer was always the same: "A kind and beautiful woman like my mother." That always earned a round of adoring "awwws."
His father, a war veteran, inspired Orien deeply. Whenever he wore his camouflage uniform, he looked like a man carved from stone—strong and dependable.
Their family had a tradition of telling ancient supernatural folklores. His parents' stories sparked Orien's early love for myth and fantasy. At first, it was just boredom—but eventually, he began to feel that these myths held truth. After all, how could so many cultures across time tell stories that echoed one another so precisely?
He believed myths were records—distorted by time, yes—but rooted in real events and beings. Maybe ancient humans weren't mere primitives. Maybe they were powerful, towering beings whose legacy was buried or erased.
He had done research. He'd read accounts. He'd seen pictures that haunted him.
A city beneath the sea.
A village where every person turned to stone—caught mid-movement, mid-breath.
Sculpted forests, shaped like serpents and humans.
The pyramids—too perfect, too mysterious.
A silent town that vanished overnight, never to return.
Each of them whispered to Orien:
"This world is not what it seems."
The more he read, the more convinced he became. From mysterious pyramids to villages turned to stone, to entire cities lost beneath the sea—signs were everywhere. He found himself wondering: What if it was all real?
His dreams became stranger.
He saw faces he didn't know—until he met them days later. He experienced déjà vu so intense, it left him breathless. And then came the visions—of beasts long extinct, of battles between monsters too large for human memory.
One night, the dream was clearer than any before.
In it, he stood deep within a jungle that breathed like a living thing. A massive black-furred ape swung between titanic trees, its roar shaking the sky. Opposite it, a serpent as thick as a house slithered through the undergrowth, scales glistening like wet obsidian.
They clashed with elemental fury—claws tearing, fangs sinking, trees falling. But then... they stopped.
Both monsters turned their eyes to Orien.
Their gazes froze him to the spot. Not with fear—though there was plenty of that—but with something deeper. A recognition. Like he didn't just stumble upon them—they had been waiting.
Then, two voices echoed inside his mind:
> "I saw him first. He's mine. I demand a share."
"Do not test me. You think I did not see him first, you fool?"
It hit him like lightning.
They weren't fighting each other.
They were fighting over him.
Panic surged through his veins. He ran. Fast. Branches tore at his arms, but he didn't stop. The air trembled with fury behind him—the roar of the ape, the hiss of the serpent's tail. Then, at that moment he knew he couldn't outrun them—
—time cracked.
Reality shattered like glass. The jungle fell apart in fragments. Orien woke with a gasp, soaked in sweat, lungs heaving.
His bedroom was still.
But his heart knew something had changed.
> That night marked the beginning—of the dreams, of the whispers... and that not every dream was just a dream.
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