He realized it wasn't a dream as blood of a not so lucky soul splashed across his face.
It struck him suddenly—warm and heavy—smearing across his cheek and lips as someone barreled past him. The impact nearly knocked him over. He staggered, choking, and wiped his face with the back of his hand.
Red.
Dark.
Sticky.
The metallic taste flooded his mouth, sharp and undeniable, making his stomach twist violently. He gagged, breath hitching, eyes fixed on his trembling fingers as the liquid clung stubbornly to his skin.
It didn't fade.
It didn't blur.
It didn't vanish when he blinked.
A scream cut off behind him—too abruptly, too completely—and the sound left a hollow silence that pressed down on his ears.
Something inside Michael snapped.
The dream broke.
This wasn't confusion anymore. This wasn't disorientation. This was reality—raw, merciless, and unfolding too fast for denial to survive.
His senses sharpened painfully, like a blade dragged across his mind. The desert around him came into brutal focus: the jagged sand biting at his boots, the fractured light slicing across pale stone, the smell of blood carried faintly on the air.
And the clicking.
He heard it clearly now.
Not chaotic. Not frantic.
Measured.
Purposeful.
Michael turned.
The creature that had killed the man was already moving again. Its pale, segmented body flowed forward with unnatural grace, bladed limbs cutting through the air as its feelers twitched, locking onto new targets.
On him.
Fear surged—hot, suffocating—Then it froze.
Something colder rose from deep within his chest, spreading through his limbs like ice water. It wasn't bravery. It wasn't courage.
It was instinct.
Cold. Sharp. Absolute.
Run.
Michael didn't hesitate.
He turned and sprinted.
The ground tore at his feet as he ran, uneven and cruel, threatening to send him sprawling with every step. His lungs burned instantly, breath coming in ragged gasps, but he forced his legs to move faster.
Behind him, the clicking shifted.
Accelerated.
The sound multiplied, rising into a rhythmic chorus that crawled up his spine. He didn't need to look back to know they were coming.
They were hunting.
A shadow passed him on the left—a man screaming, arms flailing wildly. The scream ended mid-stride as a bladed limb tore through flesh. Blood sprayed again, dark against the pale sand.
Michael flinched but didn't slow.
His heart hammered violently, each beat echoing in his ears. His mind screamed at him to think, to plan, to understand what was happening—but instinct crushed those thoughts mercilessly.
Thinking wasted time.
Time killed.
He swerved sharply, nearly losing his footing as the terrain dipped. His boot caught on a jagged ridge, and he stumbled forward, barely catching himself before crashing face-first into the sand.
The clicking surged closer.
Too close.
Michael forced himself upright and ran harder, legs screaming, chest on fire. Panic clawed at him now, threatening to tear through the cold focus that kept him moving.
Don't trip. Don't stop.
A shape burst from the sand ahead of him.
Michael veered at the last second, feeling air slice past his side as a bladed limb missed him by inches. The creature landed awkwardly, chitin scraping against stone, and clicked sharply—irritated.
Another emerged.
Then another.
They weren't just chasing from behind anymore.
They were cutting him off.
Michael's vision tunneled as dread threatened to overwhelm him. His pace faltered for a heartbeat too long, and something slammed into his shoulder, sending him tumbling across the sand.
Pain exploded through his body.
He rolled instinctively, the world spinning, and scrambled away just as a limb struck where his head had been. He screamed—not in terror, but in raw defiance—and pushed himself up again.
His hands brushed against something half-buried in the sand.
Metal.
He grabbed it without thinking.
A sword.
Old. Rusted. Heavy.
It felt wrong in his grip—too real, too solid—but he didn't question it. The creature lunged again, and Michael swung blindly.
The blade struck chitin with a jarring clang that rattled his bones. The impact sent shockwaves through his arms, but it was enough. The creature recoiled, clicking sharply.
Michael stared at it, stunned.
Then the others closed in.
Cold instinct screamed again.
Not like this.
He turned and ran, dragging the sword with him as he fled. It scraped against the sand, slowing him, but he refused to let go. For reasons he didn't understand, the weight of it grounded him.
As he ran, something unsettling dawned on him.
His movements were changing.
He wasn't flailing anymore. His steps adjusted naturally, balance correcting itself without thought. When he glanced over his shoulder, his body shifted automatically, blade angling as if anticipating an attack.
He didn't know how to fight.
But his body did.
The realization frightened him—but not enough to slow him down.
Ahead, the desert warped.
A dark mass rose from the dunes, jagged and immense, tearing upward where there had been nothing moments before. A mountain.
It shouldn't have been there.
Michael was certain of that.
The sight sent a chill through him. The world felt unstable, as if it could rearrange itself at will, reshaping reality without warning.
Behind him, the clicking grew frantic.
Closer.
Michael chose forward.
He sprinted toward the mountain, lungs burning, legs trembling, sword clenched tightly in his hand. Around him, other Seekers ran—some screaming, some silent, some already falling.
Hands reached for him.
He ignored them.
Guilt tried to surface, but the cold instinct crushed it ruthlessly.
Survival came first.
Always.
As he neared the mountain's base, he spotted a narrow gap between two massive rocks—a裂 barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through.
Hope flared.
He dove toward it, barely fitting, scraping his shoulders painfully as he forced his way inside. He turned just in time to see one of the creatures slam into the stone, screeching in frustration as it failed to follow.
More gathered outside, clicking furiously.
Then, slowly, they retreated.
Silence returned.
Michael slid down against the cave wall, chest heaving violently, sword slipping from his numb fingers. His entire body shook now, delayed terror crashing over him in heavy waves.
Blood dried on his face.
Itched.
Burned.
He wiped it away with shaking hands, eyes staring into the darkness.
This wasn't a dream.
It never had been.
"And whatever this world was…this place is "
It had tried to kill him within minutes of his arrival.