A lone figure stood in a vast, desolate field.
The land was cracked and lifeless, stretching endlessly beneath a sky drowned in dark clouds. The air hung thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp crackle of mana, as though the world itself had been wounded. Sparks of pale green energy drifted aimlessly, vanishing before they could touch the ground.
The figure's head hung low.
His body was covered in injuries—deep gashes carved into torn, dark armor. Blood seeped through the gaps, staining the ground beneath his boots. In his right hand rested a sword unlike any other, its blade blackened and jagged, ancient runes crawling along its surface like living things. Dark, half-dried blood clung to the steel, pulsing faintly as if it still remembered the lives it had taken.
The wind howled.
Slowly, the figure lifted his head.
His eyes were dull at first—empty, lifeless. Then, without warning, a strange light ignited within them. A pale lemon-green glow spread across his pupils, sharp and inhuman. Long black hair parted naturally as it cascaded down his shoulders, swaying despite the absence of wind.
He stared straight ahead.
Not at the land.
Not at the sky.
But at something unseen.
His lips parted, and a low, deep voice echoed across the empty field—ancient, commanding, layered with something that did not belong to the living.
"Wake up."
Jael jolted upright with a scream.
His chest heaved violently as he gasped for air, sweat soaking through his clothes. His heart slammed against his ribs as though trying to escape his body. For a moment, he couldn't tell where he was—or who he was.
The cold bit into his skin.
Snow-covered wooden walls came into view, dimly lit by a flickering candle. The small cottage creaked softly as the wind brushed against it, reminding him that he was still alive.
Barely.
"W-What was that…?" Jael muttered hoarsely.
His throat burned. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he stared at them, half-expecting them to be covered in blood.
"…Who was he?" he whispered.
The image refused to fade. The sword. The eyes. The voice.
"And why… why does he look like me?"
Before he could think further, pain exploded inside his head.
"Arghhh—!"
Jael clutched his skull as if trying to hold it together. The pain was unbearable, sharp and crushing, like countless needles being driven straight into his brain. His vision blurred as strange whispers flooded his mind—overlapping voices speaking in languages he didn't understand.
It wasn't just sound.
It was pressure.
Memories that weren't his. Screams that didn't belong to him. Images of death, betrayal, and burning skies flashed violently behind his eyes.
"What—what is this?!" he cried out.
His legs gave way.
Jael collapsed onto the cold wooden floor with a dull thud, his fingers digging into the frost-coated planks as he groaned. Tears streamed freely from his eyes, but he couldn't even bring himself to wipe them away.
"It hurts… it hurts so much…"
The voices grew louder.
Closer.
Mocking.
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling with hollow, unfocused eyes. His breath came in shallow gasps as despair crept into his chest like a slow poison.
"Is this… how I die?" he whispered weakly.
Images surfaced unbidden.
A girl with trembling hands.
Blood-stained snow.
A smile that refused to fade even in death.
"…After all she did for me?" Jael's voice cracked. "Lemi…"
His lips quivered.
"Lemi… I'm sorry. Your sacrifice… was it all for nothing?"
His vision darkened.
Just as consciousness began to slip away, the pain vanished.
Completely.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Jael blinked.
Before him, floating silently in the air, was a translucent screen etched with ancient, glowing symbols. The letters pulsed faintly, as though alive.
SURVIVE YOUR NIGHTMARE
Jael stared at it in disbelief.
"…What is this?" he muttered weakly.
He reached out hesitantly, but his fingers passed straight through the screen. A chill ran down his spine.
"Why… why am I seeing something like this?"
The symbols were unfamiliar, yet he understood them instinctively—as though they had been carved into his soul long before this moment.
"Survive… my nightmare?" he whispered.
A low rumble echoed in the distance.
The air around him shifted.
The cottage walls began to blur, melting away like smoke. The floor beneath him cracked, giving way to endless darkness.
Jael's eyes widened in panic.
"Wait—!"
The world collapsed.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Cold crept into his bones as snow began to fall once more. When Jael opened his eyes, he was no longer in the cottage.
He stood barefoot in the same desolate field from his dream.
The sky thundered.
Far ahead, a lone figure stood waiting—sword planted into the ground, glowing eyes locked onto him.
The figure smiled.
And the ancient voice echoed once more, no longer distant.
"Nightmares are not dreams, child."
The sword lifted.
"They are rehearsals for death."
The runes on the blade ignited.
Jael took a step back as terror flooded his veins.
The screen reappeared before him, its words changing.
NIGHTMARE TRIAL HAS BEGUN
FAILURE RESULTS IN DEATH
Jael's breath caught.
"…Survive a day," he whispered.
The figure lunged.
And the nightmare truly began.