WebNovels

Chapter 19 - Chapter 19: Dreams Within Dreams: The Serpent in the Sanctum

Metatron screamed.

But no sound came. In the dream, his voice was a ripple — and the ripple became words and the words turned to knives that stabbed back into his throat.

The dream folded over itself like paper soaked in ink. Each fold erased memory, reason, will. The voice of Hypnos hummed in the background — a lullaby sung by madness itself.

"Shh. Don't wake up. Not yet."

The god of dreams drifted above Metatron's collapsing consciousness, tracing lazy circles in the air with his finger. Every motion rewrote physics. Every sigh became another trap.

Metatron's wings burned, reformed, and burned again. He ran, fell, drowned, burned — all in one endless heartbeat. But somewhere beyond this nightmare, the real world waited. And in it, a far more dangerous presence stirred.

The Celestial Sanctum.

Metatron's home — his temple of order, carved from pure light, orbiting the unseen edges of Heaven. It was said no one could step foot inside without being invited. Reality itself would reject them.

Until that night.

A fracture formed in the sanctum's barrier — thin as a hair, red as sin.

From it crawled a shadow with horns curved like question marks and eyes that burned like forges. Azazel smiled, brushing dust from his coat.

"Beautiful. Even the holiest places get cracks when their masters fall asleep."

He stepped forward. The marble beneath his boots hissed — not from heat, but from disgust. Every tile of the floor was alive, glowing with angelic symbols that recognized corruption instantly. They tried to purge him. They failed.

"Still loyal to your master, are you?" Azazel smirked, kneeling to trace one glowing rune with his claw. "Pity. He's busy having nightmares."

He stood, spreading his wings. Feathers fell — black, metallic, each one dripping shadows like blood. The walls pulsed with warning. The entire sanctum — once serene — began to shake.

In the dream, Hypnos tilted his head. He felt something stir beyond his realm — a tremor, a trespass.

"Ah. Visitors," he said softly. "How rude."

Metatron looked up, trembling. "What… what's happening outside?"

"You can't see it," Hypnos whispered, his smile too wide. "You can feel it, though. That ache in your chest? That's your home being desecrated."

The words hit him like lightning. "No…" he tried to rise, but the dream pinned him back. "No one can enter my sanctum."

"You'd be surprised," Hypnos murmured. "Demons have a way of finding doors that don't exist."

Back in reality, Azazel explored. The sanctum's halls stretched infinitely — corridors lined with floating scrolls and mirrors that recorded divine history. Each mirror showed a different era of existence: creation, judgment, apocalypse — on endless repeat.

Azazel paused by one. Inside it, he saw a reflection of himself — wingless, chained, screaming in Heaven's flames.

He smiled.

"Oh, I remember that. You burned me once, didn't you, Scribe? Let's see how you enjoy being dissected."

He touched the mirror. It cracked, hissing.

Every crack bled light. He collected a droplet of it in a vial.

"Divine essence. A nice reagent. Maybe I'll sell it to Beelzebub for a billion souls."

He wandered deeper. Every step left footprints that bled shadow. Every shadow whispered back his name. The sanctum resisted — walls warped, trying to push him out — but Azazel was patient. He hummed, unbothered, like a scientist dissecting a sacred beast.

At last, he reached the Heart Chamber — the room that held Metatron's Codex, the book that recorded the laws of Heaven itself.

The Codex floated in the air, bound in golden chains that moved like living serpents. It pulsed in rhythm with the beat of the cosmos.

Azazel grinned.

"Found you."

Meanwhile, Hypnos watched from beyond. Through the dream's endless folds, he peered into the waking world like a voyeur through glass.

"Your friend seems ambitious," Hypnos said. "Do you want to stop him?"

Metatron struggled to rise again. His eyes flared with divine fire, though his form was cracked and fading. "Yes."

"Too bad," Hypnos said cheerfully. "You're dreaming."

"I command you—" Metatron began.

"You command nothing here," Hypnos interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp. The dream around them trembled. "You think power means control. But in my world, control means acceptance. You can't dominate dreams — you must surrender to them."

Metatron clenched his fists. "Then I'll burn your realm down."

"Good luck," Hypnos smirked. "Fire sleeps too."

Azazel extended his hand toward the Codex. The chains hissed, tightening like serpents. Holy light flared. Every rune in the chamber screamed warning.

But Azazel didn't care. He smiled wider.

"This book contains his laws, his will, his memories. If I can't have his DNA, this will do nicely."

He thrust his claws forward — and the Codex reacted. Energy exploded outward, divine and raw, blasting the walls apart. Azazel stumbled back, smoke rising from his skin.

"Oho… feisty."

He laughed — manic, echoing through the collapsing sanctum.

"Yes! Fight back! Let me taste your power!"

The Codex's chains began to move — alive, aware. They lashed at him like whips, each strike burning holes through his body. But Azazel caught one mid-swing —and bit into it. Darkness poured into the light, corrupting it, twisting it. The Codex wailed — a sound like galaxies screaming.

Azazel's eyes rolled back as his veins glowed red.

"Ahh… now that's divine. Metatron, your secrets are mine."

In the dream, Metatron convulsed. He felt the theft. A part of him was being peeled away — words, laws, memories, all dragged out of his being.

"Stop!" he shouted, but the sound was only a ripple.

Hypnos watched curiously.

"Fascinating. You're being looted while you sleep. That's efficiency I can respect."

"Wake me up," Metatron pleaded.

"Why should I?" Hypnos asked. "You're my entertainment. But…" — he leaned forward — "if you survive the nightmare, maybe I'll let you peek through the veil."

Metatron's light flickered, anger and desperation colliding. He didn't answer. He simply ran again, searching for the end of an endless dream.

Back in the sanctum, Azazel held the now half-corrupted Codex in his claws. It no longer glowed gold — it pulsed black and red, divine law rewritten by infernal will.

"Perfect," he whispered. "With this, I'll write my own creation story."

Then, a whisper. Not Hypnos. Not Metatron .Something else — from within the book.

Azazel… you trespass on the words of Heaven.

Azazel froze.

"Metatron?" he grinned. "You still kicking? Impressive."

This is not your place.

"Oh, but it is now." Azazel's grin turned feral. "You were the scribe. I'll be the author."

He stabbed his claw into the Codex's spine. The runes exploded, carving themselves into his skin. Symbols of creation and destruction intertwined — divine and demonic fused into one impossible pattern.

Azazel screamed — not in pain, but in ecstasy.

"YES! This power—"

He froze mid-word.

The Codex stopped pulsing. The air grew cold.

From the shadows of the sanctum, something else awakened.

A single eye opened — ancient, golden, vast. It stared down at Azazel with calm hatred.

Who dares rewrite what was written?

Azazel staggered back, blood boiling. "I… I am Azazel, Lord of Rebellion—"

Then rebel against this.

The eye blinked — and the entire room inverted. Space folded, gravity turned sideways. Azazel screamed as he was pulled into a vortex of pure scripture — thousands of verses binding him in chains made of truth.

Hypnos laughed in the dream.

"He's been caught. The book fights back. I love when holy relics get temperamental."

Metatron fell to his knees. "What happens now?"

"Depends," Hypnos said. "If he dies, I get a better view. If he lives, you'll have another nightmare waiting for you when you wake."

"Then I'll end both of you," Metatron spat.

"Ah," Hypnos smiled faintly. "He dreams of revenge. That's progress."

The sanctum shattered. Azazel broke free — barely. His body glowed with divine runes burned into demonic flesh. Blood dripped from his eyes, but he was laughing.

"Ha… ha… HAHAHA! Worth it. Every second!"

He looked around at the crumbling ruins of Metatron's home. Pages of divine law floated through the air like ash. He caught one, read it — and it bled red instead of light.

"Even Heaven bleeds when I write."

He tucked the page into his coat. Then he looked up at the stars above, smirking.

"Metatron… sleep well. When you wake, you'll find your world rewritten."

In the dream, Hypnos yawned.

"He's gone. Your home's a ruin. Your law is corrupted. How do you feel?"

Metatron's gaze burned with defiance. "I'll wake up."

"No," Hypnos said softly, almost sadly. "You'll dream deeper."

The dream folded again. The ground split open. Metatron fell, screaming, into another layer of unreality —down where even Hypnos' own reflection was afraid to look.

And as he fell, Hypnos whispered:

"Welcome to the true dream — where even gods can't tell if they're awake."

More Chapters