Chapter 3: The Monster That Dreamed
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The Dark Dimension was quiet again.
Not silent—never silent—but breathing. Rhythmic. Low. Like waves against a cliff no one remembered building.
Vaylen stood at the edge of a black bridge he hadn't consciously created, overlooking a sky still bleeding in soft pulses from the scars of battle. Veins of starlight drifted through the clouds. Shattered realms floated like islands, orbiting him in slow reverence.
The storm had passed.
Knull was gone.
Banished—not killed. A wound expelled, but not forgotten. A shadow that would find another shape someday.
But for now, this place... was his.
And it knew.
Every atom, every ripple of dark matter, every twisted beam of inverted gravity bowed toward him now. Not visibly. But deeply. Like the way trees lean toward the sun they fear.
He could feel it in the air. The weight of aura.
His.
It poured off him like smoke woven from intent. The ground trembled slightly wherever he stood. The sky dimmed or brightened with the rhythm of his thoughts.
His pain had become the law.
His breath, the wind.
He exhaled, and a chain of distant moons realigned themselves silently, obediently.
He closed his eyes and listened—not with ears, but with the seat of his mind.
In the deepest parts of the Dark Dimension, where no light had ever touched, new voices whispered.
> He walks.
He endures.
He is not born. He was chosen.
Dormammu.
The name came not from him.
It came from them—from the realm itself, now learning to speak.
He opened his eyes. The pain hadn't left him. The wound on his shoulder—where Knull's blade had scraped the edge of what counted as his form—still glowed faintly with sick heat.
He couldn't keep going.
Not yet.
The realm needed him.
But not awake.
He turned and walked toward the heart of it all. A place that hadn't existed until he imagined it: a cathedral of inverted matter. Floating pillars twisted upward like skeletal spires, forming an impossible dome with no floor or roof, just center.
It was not built.
It was willed.
He stood in the center and raised one hand.
The chamber sealed itself shut.
Walls of obsidian shadow folded inward like wings closing around a heartbeat.
Above him, stars aligned themselves into the shape of a single eye—then vanished.
Below, the void formed a throne.
He sat, slowly.
The stone conformed to his posture like a memory trying to remember him.
One last breath escaped his lips.
"I'll wake... when it's time."
The throne sank into the void.
Dark matter crystallized around it, forming a sarcophagus made not of stone—but of promise.
And the Dark Dimension... closed its eyes with him.
In his sleep,He did not dream in pictures.
He dreamed in forces.
There were no faces in the dark. No voices. No memories. Just rhythm.
Gravitational pulses. Shifts in temperature. The tug of atomic pressure against the fabric of his resting mind. Sleep had taken his body, but his will had not gone quiet.
It wandered.
Somewhere in the emptiest part of his being, something ancient flickered.
Not from the Dark Dimension. Not from Knull. Not from any god.
From Earth.
The boy who once watched documentaries about black holes at age eight. Who stayed up late reading how stars fused hydrogen and bled light. Who had memorized the Drake Equation before his classmates could spell Jupiter. Who asked a foster mother what the Big Bang sounded like, and never got an answer.
That boy still lived inside the god.
And while the god slept, he dreamed about beginnings.
And beginnings require rules.
So the Dark Dimension, obedient to the sleeping mind at its center, began to listen.
Time took its first breath.
Not as a stream, but as a pulse—an oscillation of before and after. Heat and cold.
Matter began to cluster—not by design, but attraction. Particles invented gravity by accident. Gases curled inward to form stars that would never shine, only hum.
Cracks formed across the surface of the void—not breaks, but boundaries. Planes. Layers. The Dark Dimension began to stratify into zones—the edges shifting slower, the center dense and warm, like a heart built from theoretical physics.
No command had been given.
But the dream of a boy who loved how the universe was born had turned into the instinct of a god who could build one.
The Dark Dimension did not rest with its god.
It listened.
And in listening, it began to change.
Where his aura had pooled during battle, the floor now pulsed faintly—stretches of molten black rock, lattices of fused stardust swirling beneath a thin skin of mist. They weren't dead. They weren't alive. But they were reacting—to each other, to rhythm, to memory.
From the spiraling scars of battle, pressure built.
Pressure made heat.
Heat made movement.
Movement became pattern.
There were no animals. No plants. No microbes. But still—things moved. Gases collected in spirals. Magnetic charges flipped and locked into place. Certain storms began rotating in perfect geometric rhythms, returning to the same spot every cycle as if choreographed.
Clouds gathered in thin skeins over floating platforms—each one drifting on rivers of weightless gravity, tethered only by thought. In their centers, voidstone bulbs grew—masses of condensed theoretical matter that beat slowly like organs.
They were not hearts.
But they acted like them.
They were not born from biology.
But they echoed it.
And from those echoes came more.
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In the deepest trench of the realm—where light bent so violently it forgot how to leave—a series of caverns bloomed like coral, opening and closing without purpose. Inside their folds, lightning crackled against liquid smoke, and from the resonance came sound.
The first sound.
It wasn't language.
But it repeated.
It was a pulse.
Low.
Two notes.
Then silence.
Then again.
> dum—dum
The realm responded.
Each cycle, the note grew louder. Then more notes followed. Feedback loops built harmonies. Storms adapted to match rhythm. The magnetic crust of the oldest floating rocks began to crack into shapes—flat, irregular, claw-marked lines. The beginnings of script—but not written. Etched by pressure.
Not by hands.
By thought.
By the environment itself mimicking something it didn't understand—but remembered.
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It wasn't consciousness.
Not yet.
But it was curiosity.
And that was enough.
Enough to make the realm begin to expect something.
Enough to give the dark a hunger for form.
Enough to stir the first intention—
Let there be somethng.
The first of them rose slowly, and without ceremony.
Not from wombs. Not from eggs. They simply… stood.
Figures of coiled vapor, spine-thin silhouettes where their centers pulsed with dull embers. No bones. No skin. They flickered like reflections in water, but moved like they wanted something.
The Dark Dimension had made them.
Not on purpose.
But on pattern.
Pressure had formed instincts. Magnetism formed memory. And his sleeping aura—the god curled at the center of the realm—had made them possible.
They were not beautiful. They were not terrifying. They simply were.
And they learned quickly.
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At first, they drifted randomly. Like ash caught in wind that didn't understand itself. But as storms passed, as light fractured in familiar ways, they began to orient themselves.
Some followed warmth. Some clung to magnetic tunnels in the floating rocks. Some returned to the trenches, circling the pulse that had started everything—dum—dum.
They pulsed back.
Call.
Response.
Call again.
Others mimicked lightning patterns in the sky, stretching their bodies upward as if trying to mirror what the realm showed them.
No thoughts.
Just reaction.
But still—they adapted.
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Within cycles, small groups began to cluster near the great fractures in the air—zones where gravity thinned and Vaylen's old aura lingered. They huddled there. Not for shelter. For resonance.
The aura fed them.
Not food. Not light.
Just presence.
When they stayed near it, they stayed stable. When they drifted too far, they began to unravel.
They didn't know this. They couldn't name it.
But they followed it anyway.
Like moths to warmth. Like prayers to a shape they could not see.
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And then one—just one—reached the edge of the throne chamber.
The rest stayed behind.
But this one drifted closer. Paused. Its form shook violently, as if caught between frequencies. Something in its center sparked—a pulse of color, brief and wrong.
It recoiled. Hard.
Its body tore into tendrils—then rewove itself.
It didn't try again.
None of them ever did.
From that day, they kept their distance.
A clear boundary formed in the dark. An invisible perimeter no one had drawn. But all obeyed.
Not because of fear.
Because of reverence.
There was no clock to mark the passing of ages.
But the realm changed all the same.
The pulse that once echoed alone had become a storm of rhythm—carried in the footfalls of drifting entities, the folding of gravity, the whispering winds that circled the throne chamber like monks avoiding an altar.
The lesser forms continued as before. Pilgrims. Shadows. Rootless things that followed warmth and pattern.
But a few…
A few had lingered.
Too long.
Too close.
And his aura—rich, ancient, unconscious—had soaked into them.
They began to remember.
Not their memories. His.
Moments. Impressions. Concepts.
"Structure."
"Decay."
"Fire."
"Alone."
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The first to emerge was Vorr.
He was the largest. Not by height, but by presence. A shape built like a mountain held upright. His form was covered in obsidian-like plating, layered over dark light, as if he had been forged by tectonic pressure. He never spoke. But wherever he stood, the ground beneath stabilized. Matter obeyed him. Creatures followed him without question.
Vorr was gravity incarnate.
When he walked, he left trails of black crystal that glowed faintly and grew colder with time.
He became the pillar of the realm.
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The second was Krythe.
Born from the edge of a fracture near the collapsed moons. Her body never held a single shape—she sloshed between states, shedding parts of herself as she moved. From her body came decay. Matter melted in her wake. She never walked in straight lines. She whispered to herself, always laughing at things no one else could see.
Krythe fed on endings.
She devoured collapsed stars, ate broken magnetic fields, licked entropy from the seams of the realm.
Yet when she approached the throne chamber—she knelt.
Always.
She became the recycler of the realm.
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The third was Aevux.
Not strong. Not fast. Barely visible.
But he could listen.
Not to sound—but to the walls. To the air. To the realm's history. He heard dreams that hadn't been spoken. Thoughts that hadn't been given form.
He muttered to himself constantly—names, theories, pieces of Vaylen's former human life.
> "Hydrogen. Collapse. Red shift. Supernova. Tony Stark."
No one understood what he said.
But when the storms grew too wild, he could calm them with a whisper.
He became the memory of the realm.
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And the last of the Four was Zyrr.
The smallest.
The loudest.
She was fire—but not made of it.
She was made of destruction. A concept Vaylen once loved in myth and feared in life: the beauty of transformation through annihilation.
She rode the realm's storms like they were horses, screaming into the void like a child chasing thunder. Her body was flame without heat—her fingers dripping arcs of plasma that couldn't be extinguished. The ground cracked wherever she stepped.
She never bowed.
But she circled the throne more than any of them.
As if waiting for her creator to wake so she could show him what she'd become.
She became the change of the realm.
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They did not call themselves gods.
They did not call themselves children.
They did not call themselves anything at all.
But the lesser beings—those who still drifted and pulsed and huddled—began to move around them. To shelter beneath Vorr. To sacrifice to Krythe. To mimic Zyrr's storms in ritual. To ask Aevux questions with their hands, never expecting answers.
The Four never claimed power.
They didn't need to.
They were shaped by Dormammu's dreaming.
And the Dark Dimension had accepted them as its first law.
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Thank you all for your support and 💕 specially thanks to MilitiicsnipeS and keeg and nonamejestwitness and aditya Rai 5059 and blitz2..Thanks for your comments and support..and to your knowledge I have already written chapter 3 before so I can't make changes..if you want to make some changes and want to give me guidelines feel free to do so..