If I were still in the real world, it would have been exactly twenty-four years and eleven months by now. Strange, isn't it? How time flows—faster than memory, colder than absence. And yet, in all this time, my body never aged. Not a wrinkle, not a breath out of rhythm. I remained exactly as I was.
But the things I've witnessed... they have aged my soul beyond reckoning. Horrendous things and Unforgivable things.
After seeing it all unfold—every drop of blood, every scream swallowed by the silence of forgotten lands—I finally began to understand what this life truly means.
Gritting my teeth, I whispered under my breath:
"We call it the cycle of life—a poetic phrase to hide the filth underneath.
The deer grazes until it is devoured.
The hawk soars until it is snared.
The wolf feasts, then starves.
And man... man slaughters everything—then writes scriptures to justify it."
The winds howled quietly across the dreamscape. We were far beyond the lands where sunlight ever touched. The skies above were dull gray, scattered with motionless clouds like ancient ash. Below us, the soil cracked with dryness and age—no green, no birdsong, only the brittle breath of a broken world.
I continued, voice deeper now, echoing through the hollow plains:
"Pigs bleed for kings. Kings bleed for gods. And gods... they bleed for nothing. But even they rot in time.
You kill to live. You live to kill.
All wrapped in ritual, in ceremony, in excuses.
They say nature is balance—I say it's chaos wearing the mask of order. A masquerade where everything eats, everything runs, everything dies.
Even peace is war in disguise.
Even love is a transaction.
Even innocence is just ignorance waiting to be corrected by pain."
A crow screeched far above, its wings vanishing into a cracked moon.
My voice grew quieter, almost mournful:
"The bird pecks the worm. The cat kills the bird. The dog tears the cat. And man buries them all under stone—then weeps when he's next.
So no. I do not praise this cycle called life. I do not revere it.
I see it for what it is: A throne of bones, built by the hands of prey."
I could hear the wind wail.
"Break the chains, and they call you unnatural. Refuse to kneel, and they call you a monster.
But I... I did not come to play my part in this slaughterhouse of existence.
I will not join this feast. I will not be preyed upon.
No. I will not live that kind of life… a normal NPC life."
The wind began to settle. The land before us stretched into dying valleys, where once-great trees stood hollow.
"And when I am done with this world… there will be no cycle.
Who I was or who I am no longer matters. The way I am treated does not matter anymore.
Because if there is one truth that echoes clearer than all others now—it's that pain doesn't humble you. It hardens you.
And when there is pain, there will be no one there to comfort you.
Only silence…
Only you."
My gaze fell on Atom.
He was no longer the child I once knew.
Now he stood tall, armored, and haunted. His body bore the strength of a warrior, but his face—his face was quiet. A man forged by solitude and survival. His black and silver armor was dented and blood-streaked, but his back remained unbent. His long hair was tied back, his helm tucked under one arm. He was now a Dream Knight.
And yet... in that desolate field, standing among thousands of slain beasts, his expression softened.
Before him stood a child—no older than five. Her clothes were torn, skin smeared with ash and mud. Her eyes were wide but empty, too young to understand what she had survived. Her village, consumed by disease and turned to monsters, had left her an orphan.
Atom kneeled before her, offering a crooked, wild smile that split the tension in the air. Stretching out his right hand, he asked gently:
"Will you... be my daughter?"
She paused. Confused. Hesitant.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
Atom's voice cracked as he whispered:
"Then I shall call you... Zaraia."
He lifted her into his arms and began walking toward a distant carriage. The metal creaked, wheels buried halfway in mud, manned by a single driver. Near it stood Aziel the 43rd Dream Knight of the Dream World, his white robes stained red, a longsword strapped to his back.
Aziel raised an eyebrow and asked with quiet disdain:
"Who's the kid?"
"She's my daughter,"
Atom answered without breaking stride.
Aziel scoffed, walking closer. His voice turned colder:
"If you found her in the village, you best leave her to die here. Or better—we kill her now. The plague that turned her village into beasts may still rest inside her."
Atom's voice remained calm, firm:
"You shall do no such thing."
Aziel stepped in front of him, close now, his tone sharper:
"Ever since you became a Dream Knight, you've been getting cocky."
Atom looked away from him, his eyes narrowing.
Then, quietly:
"Let's go. And by the way... she's my responsibility now."
The carriage doors shut with a creak. The horses neighed faintly