On a nightless sky, a castle could be seen in the middle of a black sea. The black waves crashed upon the castle with tremendous force, as if trying to erode it away. This was the Dark City.
The walls of the Dark City rose from the black sand of the Forgotten Shore to the horizon, as if reflecting the night sky upon themselves. Their concrete-black stone gleamed faintly in the dying light, a promise of safety from the rising tides of the Forgotten Shore at night.
A lone figure scaled them with a grim, deliberate rhythm. His armour was cracked and torn as though huge claws had ravaged his chest and back. His cloak was ripped into ribbons, his usually sun-coloured hair wet and plastered to his face, obscuring his view. And yet, the figure continued to climb. Each motion scraped metal and flesh against stone. His fingers were pale and wrinkled, a sign that he had recently been swimming. But who in their right mind would—or could—swim in the black sea, filled with unknown horrors?
The man climbed with a grip that defied logic. Where anyone else would be slipping and exhausted on a wall hundreds of meters tall, he ascended with swift ease. He dragged himself higher until, at last, he collapsed within the wall's battlements and lay still, chest heaving with exhaustion.
"I have returned," he thought to himself as he gazed at the lightless expanse of the sky. There were no stars, only empty blackness, a void. But there was no triumph in him—only silence.
He remembered their march—thirty strong when they had first departed, the greatest cohort the Dark City had ever assembled. Chosen by the First Lord himself, every one of them fierce, brilliant, irreplaceable. Together, they had dared the Forgotten Shore, carved through abominations, and claimed the first Shard Memory. Victory had seemed possible then. Even as their numbers dwindled with every battle, even when the second Shard demanded blood, the First Lord's spirit and the people's will to seek freedom carried them forward.
But by the end, when they reached for the third, their numbers had fallen to single digits.
Too few to claim a third Shard. Too few to even endure the journey back. And so, they gambled everything on the Hollow Mountains—a shortcut, a desperate hope of reaching the other side, of finding civilization once more.
He remembered the mist—how it descended without warning, rolling in like a tide of pale death. Their scout and pathfinder died early in the journey, resulting in heavy casualties within the cohort. With no signal left to guide them, the fog swallowed the cohort whole. He heard their screams choke and die in their throats, but worse than the silence that followed was the sensation of being unravelled, his very existence fading thread by thread. It was not just death pressing down on his soul—it was erasure, as though the world itself were stripping—no, smudging him away, leaving nothing but void.
He had shut his eyes then. Shut them tight, as though blindness could keep him alive. He did not move, could not, paralysed by fear and dread. He felt the mist cling to his skin like incorporeal hands brushing against his face and armour, begging him to open his eyes. He did not breathe. He was paralysed with pain—not physical, but mental. His entire sense of self was being denied, extinguished, erased by a slow, deliberate stroke of a brush.
He dropped to his knees and howled in pain, his very soul and thoughts being erased. Hours passed—or perhaps seconds; he could not tell. He felt numb, hovering on the edge of death, as though standing at the brink of a cliff where any sudden movement would send him falling.
His breathing stopped. His trembling stopped.
He could not think—any thought was extinguished before it was realized. Then he froze for a heartbeat and suddenly began clawing at his head, his scalp bleeding, his hair tearing free in clumps. If I can still feel, he reasoned dimly, then I'm still alive. So he hurt himself, desperate to affirm his existence. He muttered words, then shouted them, though he could not hear his own voice, nor his thoughts, nor his feelings. His muttering grew into ragged screams, until one phrase tore from his throat.
"Si-Si-Silent… Tide… Silent Tide… SILENT TIDE!!"
He screamed it over and over. He did not know what it meant, nor why he said it, only that the pain of erasure began to ease. He felt whole once again, as though being stitched back into reality itself. His voice returned, though the words meant nothing to him.
By the time the mist faded, his body was a wreck. His scalp, forehead, and neck ran with blood from his own nails. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with tears and despair. And when he looked around, he realized… he was alone.
They were gone. All of them. Not even the First Lord remained.
The First Lord—whose body he never found. Perhaps swallowed by the mist, perhaps still wandering its endless veil. For a time, he had wanted to go back, to push deeper, to search for his king. But even as the thought formed, he knew it was madness. To enter the Hollow Mountains again was a death sentence. He himself did not know how he survived—no, that was a lie. He knew, as clear as day.
He glanced at the first words on his runes and smiled.
True Name: Silent Tide.
"Silent Tide…" he muttered, his body racked with agony and exhaustion. Who knew one could gain a true name naturally in the Dream Realm? His thoughts spiraled to his escape.
He had been forced to choose between traversing the Hollow Mountains and risking erasure, or turning back toward the Dark City. The choice seemed difficult, but to him, it was the easiest decision he had ever made. He pressed on alone, stumbling through the spiraling coral blades of the Forgotten Shore. They bent and twisted around him, a maze made to trap its victims forever. By day he walked, by night he swam.
If not for his Aspect, Abyssal Veil, which gave him the passive ability to breathe underwater while erasing his presence, he would never have survived.
He rested during the day and swam at night. For seven days and seven nights, he fought and evaded monsters of every shape and size until, finally, he reached the black walls of the Bright Castle.
He remembered some of the creatures clearly. One had been as large as a flying mountain, shaped like a whale with tentacle-like appendages swaying in the air, generating sounds that carried for miles. And yet, not a single creature dared attack it. Its carelessness was palpable—the confidence of a Great-ranked creature. It floated above the sea like a leviathan through space, until it dove into the depths, its force sucking him beneath the waves. The pressure crushed him, stealing air from his lungs. Even though he could breathe water like air, he still needed to inhale and exhale, and the crushing deep denied him even that. He didn't even have a chance to react before his back slammed against the seabed. The crushing pressure forced the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping. His eyes flew open, and what he saw would have stolen his breath entirely—if he had any left. Dozens of identical behemoths moved through the depths like a migrating horde.
For a long moment, he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. It wasn't until the horde finally passed that his screaming lungs yanked him from his daze. Frantically, he swam upward—and in that instant, he remembered a lesson learned long ago: no one, no matter how strong, could survive the dream realm alone.
It didn't take long before he encountered another behemoth—one no sleeper, not even a master, could hope to face. It resembled a lanky human draped in living shadows, but its size was incomprehensible. Its legs alone rivalled entire buildings, and its pitch-black form melded seamlessly with the night sky. Only the stars and its eyes, blazing like watchtowers scanning the sea for prey, gave it away. Its gaze cut through the darkness like twin blinding flashlights. The instant that light threatened to touch him, a dread unlike any he had ever known seized him. He sank into the abyss, plunging deeper than he thought possible. Instinctively, he knew that if it found him, not even his Aspect could save him.
No matter what horrors he encountered, he pressed forward. Stride by stride, he endured, striking down only those foes he could fight without drawing greater predators. Even then, he never escaped unscathed. Through blood, grit, and sheer will, he clawed his way back to the castle upon whose walls he now stood.
Dispersing his thoughts, Silent Tide rose and gazed down at the city within the walls. The Dark City. Once a home, now a ruin. Safe from the sea, yet filled with nightmare creatures of the Fallen rank and higher. The streets wound like veins through a carcass of stone, lined with husks of crumbling homes. Every gust carried salt, decay, and the distant howls of prowling horrors.
And yet, amidst the ruins, there was resilience. Sleepers carved paths of their own through the wreckage. Torches burned dimly, banners clung to shattered towers, and life endured, fragile but unbroken.
At its heart rose the Bright Castle. White marble gleamed against the gloom, towers and bastions standing like gods' handiwork rather than man's. Impossible beauty, carved into unyielding power.
It was here that Silent Tide lived. It was here where they all had lived, as he thought this, an image of a man appeared in his mind.
He lounged on a throne with effortless poise, radiating authority in every gesture. His dark, polished armour gleamed faintly in the muted light, unmarred by rust or stain, each plate fitted with the pride of one who expected to endure battles unbroken. Long pink hair tumbled over his shoulders, contrasting sharply with the cold steel. Atop his head burned the Dawn Shard, its jagged halo shimmering like an ethereal crown of power. One arm draped lazily over the throne, the other resting on his lap—his ease itself a form of command. No banners or symbols were needed; he was the symbol. The hall's stillness amplified his dominance. He was the First Lord, had been the embodiment of hope, the one who had inspired the Sleepers of Bright Castle to persevere when all seemed lost. If anyone could conquer the Hollow Mountains, Silent Tide knew, it was him—
"Lord?.. Lord!"
The voice cut through his thoughts. His eyes focused.
She stood at the council table, clipboard in hand.
Her silver armour shimmered with etched patterns, layered over leather straps and marked by a white sash. A tachi rested on her back, deadly in its simplicity. Her black hair was cropped short, framing her stern yet youthful face. Her eyes were steady, compassionate, and unyielding.
"Lord, I've brought the list you requested—the new Sleepers who have arrived within the Dark City these last seven months." Her voice was vibrant, clear as silk even as it bore the weight of grim duty.
"Sixteen Sleepers appeared within the Dark City, five within the Bright Castle, and one… outside the walls altogether. We've lost only four known sleepers to the Shore. Overall, it has been a successful harvest." She lifted her eyes, studying him.
Silent Tide. The Second Lord of the Bright Castle. The last survivor of the First Lord's cohort.
She caught it—the faintest curve of his lips. A smile.
"Well done, Beth," he said, voice deep and steady. "You and everyone else have worked hard to protect the new tadpoles. The Dark City thrives because of your vigilance."
Then his gaze sharpened.
"Tell me… is there anyone who stands out?"
Beth adjusted the clipboard, scanning the names one last time. "Most bear utility-based aspects. Useful within the Castle, though not ideal to join the hunting parties. But one… does stand apart. This Sleeper was dropped directly into the Labyrinth and somehow made his way to the Dark City alone."
The room stirred with disbelief. Whispers rippled through the chamber.
"Alone? Impossible."
"That's... basically a death zone for us Sleepers"
Beth raised her voice, silencing them. "He is a Legacy, and like yourself, he bears a true name. From what we've gathered, he is most likely a scout gifted with a powerful aspect. In his own words, he described it as 'seeing further.' She punctuated by using her hands as quotation marks.
"The most telling detail, however, is his age—he is no older than nine or ten, yet he endured the Labyrinth and reached us alive. Sir Judith himself encountered the boy atop the walls. He said the child navigated the city streets as though he already knew where every nightmare creature and trap were."
Silence fell.
Then came Silent Tide's grin—sharp, wolfish.
Four years since his survival. Four years since he came into power and rebuilt the Dark City, reforged the Bright Castle, gathered the strongest warriors, crafters, and survivors. Four years since he ensured none would be wasted. Yet one weakness gnawed at him still.
Scouts.
The First Lord's cohort had been bled dry after their scouts fell. Ambush after ambush. Blind, broken. Silent Tide knew better than anyone the importance of scouts. Without them, even the strongest blades meant nothing.
While many powerful Sleepers called Bright Castle home, true pathfinders were rare. The few they had were only marginally useful. Their best scout possessed enhanced senses—able to detect danger before it struck. Useful, yes, but far from enough.
Silent Tide knew better than anyone how vital a true scout could be. He remembered the losses the First Lord's cohort endured, cut down one by one after their scouts fell while collecting the first shard memory. Blind without guidance, they stumbled into ambushes, bled dry by nightmare creatures lurking around every corner. Those memories burned like fire, scars that seared whenever he closed his eyes. Scouts were everything—they were the eyes of a cohort, the ones who paved the way and kept the rest alive. Without them, even the strongest blades were useless.
And now… a Legacy child, a true name-bearer like himself, had appeared. One who had traversed the Coral Labyrinth and emerged unscathed. A boy no older than ten, already hardened by the nightmare spell.
Silent Tide's grin deepened.
Perhaps, at last, he had been given what he needed most.
"Bring us the boy. If he is truly the gem you claim, we can forge him into a cohort captain like yourselves. If not, he will still serve as another everyday asset in our fight to secure freedom for all within the Bright Castle."
***
The voice of the Spell still echoed faintly when Bari crashed into the black sand, breathless and disoriented.
His perception flared before his eyes even opened, stretching further than he could count, instinctively capturing every contour of the world around him as though his Aspect refused to waste a heartbeat in dissecting his surroundings.
A somber, grey sky loomed above, heavy and oppressive, while to his side rose a vast forest of crimson coral. Their colossal forms twisted into grotesque towers, irregular protrusions warping together like petrified serpents frozen mid-coil. Grey, and red bled into one another, painting the world in grim strokes of decay.
When he finally opened his eyes, the sight only confirmed the dread in his chest. Dry sand. Jagged stone. Endless reefs of coral. Almost normal for the Dream Realm — almost, the sand was not pale white or golden as the Dream Realm's charts described. It was pitch black, and that was wrong. Terribly wrong.
If even he — someone who was able to memorise every recorded chart and fragment of geography the Dream Realm had to offer — could not recognize this place, then only one conclusion remained, he stood on undiscovered land.
His gaze shifted constantly, his Aspect threading through surfaces, piercing walls, reading hidden truths others would never glimpse. The corals loomed like giants, some towering a hundred meters high, their hollow veins twisting inward into chambers like drowned lungs. The labyrinth stretched far beyond normal sight, broken only by jagged cliffs and eerie ridges rising like the ribs of some long-dead leviathan.
Small details whispered their warnings. At first glance, it looked as though no rain had touched this land for years. Yet to his eyes, faint pools still clung to the crowns of the towering crimson corals, as if a storm had only just passed. But the truth lay deeper, dark watermarks scarred the coral's sides, etched layer upon layer. This place had not merely seen rainfall — it had drowned. Floods, not storms, had scoured it bare. And if the sea could vanish without a trace, then it could return just as suddenly.
Bari's jaw clenched. Time was already against him.
He rose, palms brushing the black sand, and searched the corals with his Aspect. His vision pierced their jagged walls until he found what he needed: a hollow chamber curving upward, sealing a precious pocket of air.
A refuge.
Not all hollows were safe. Some pulsed with water, breeding pools where nightmare creatures writhed in their hundreds. They filled with water due to the hole being higher and larger than the ones with just air pockets and minimal water inside.
The sight turned his stomach — swarms of warped bodies packed into coral caverns, living in grotesque harmony. Even if someone found out about the air pocket, if they stepped inside one by mistake, they'd never come out.
But he could see. And that gave him a chance.
There were hundreds of hollows, each a potential sanctuary, but finding one that held enough air and no nightmare infestation was harder than it sounded. The nearest safe hollow was over a kilometre away.
Most would call his sight miraculous. To Bari, it was a curse. He could see farther than anyone alive — hundreds of kilometres if he dared. But every stretch of distance came with pain: pressure that clawed at his mind, headaches blooming into knives. Worse still was the risk. Nightmare creatures had that killer's instinct — the sense of a gaze. If he stared too directly, too long, they would feel him. Some even looked up, restless, searching for eyes that weren't there.
Walls and distance kept him safe. His vision was not perfect: 200 degrees horizontal, 135 vertical, 60 central — normal field of vision for a human. But unlike any Sleeper, he saw in perfect detail everywhere, as if his peripheral vision did not exist. He could see through things, around things, even glimpse the flow of essence itself. It was as if he was at a higher plain of existence.
That meant when a creature sensed his gaze, it could never tell from where. It might scan the horizon, sensing eyes, and find only a wall of coral. That misdirection kept him alive.
Only one danger remained absolute.
He could never look up attentively.
Above the cloud cover drifted hundreds of nightmare creatures, and unlike those below, they could not only look back, but chase me.
A shiver pulled him out of his thoughts. Only then did Bari realize he was naked. The vastness of this strange realm pressed in on him from every angle, this had distracted him of his current needs.
Summoning his memories, Bari donned [Knight Armour 24] and [Strider's Earrings] before heading toward the nearest air pocket. A knot of unease urged him to move faster—an instinct he didn't dare ignore.