He wasn't asleep.
He tried. He really did. But sleep didn't come. Not properly. Not deeply.
Just the kind that teases you with the illusion of rest—then drops you back into the silence.
Norian just lay there. Still. Waiting. Breathing.
Eyes open. Or maybe closed. It didn't matter. The room felt like nothing. He felt like nothing.
Eventually—after minutes, or maybe hours—he got up.
He didn't think about it. Just… moved.
Put on some decent clothes. Not because he cared how he looked. Not because anyone would see him. Just because that's what you did. That's what you were supposed to do. You got dressed. You acted like life was normal, even when it wasn't.
He walked into the bathroom. Showered. Brushed his teeth.
Water ran down his body, warm and meaningless. His reflection looked hollow. Was that really his face?
For one last time, maybe.
He didn't feel much. Just did things.
A person filling space. Filling time. Filling the hours that refused to die.
After, he ate. Because his stomach growled and demanded attention.
Not because he wanted to. Not because he was excited. Just… because.
Then the plate clinked softly as he rinsed it. Fingers under water. Breathing shallow.
And that's when he saw it again.
03:22:35
It was still ticking.
He stared at the number for a long time.
It didn't blink.
Didn't pause.
Didn't care.
His chest tightened.
This was it. It was real. It wasn't a dream. Wasn't some fevered delusion.
The timer didn't lie.
The Will of Veltharion didn't lie.
He was going to the Awakening Dimension.
Veltharion.
That was the name of this world. A massive, sprawling, energy-dense planet overflowing with evolution, ambition, and cruelty.
A world of Superpower, Hero's, Villain and... Dimension Walker.
At 18, every citizen of Veltharion was chosen.
Given 24 hours.
No questions. No mercy.
Twenty-four hours to prepare. To pack. To say goodbye.
Or to wait in silence, like him.
To count the seconds like they meant something.
Three chances. That's what the world allowed.
Three missions. Three different dimensions.
Succeed, and you advanced.
Fail all three… and the world cast you out.
No more chances.
Just a body in a world that no longer wanted you.
Some people prepared.
They bought swords, armor, enchanted items, potions, defense tech, talismans. Anything they could.
Not him.
He had saved up for years. Scraped together enough to buy something—not fancy, but serviceable.
It was taken from him.
Stolen.
By them.
Because they could.
Because he was Norian Veyar.
Because he was the Cursed Child.
He looked around. Empty apartment. No gear. No backup. No hope.
Only the knife in the kitchen drawer.
Just a regular knife.
He held it. Weighed it in his hand. Thought about keeping it close.
And that's when his body gave out.
It was like a cord snapped inside him. His knees gave out. His chest locked. His vision blurred.
He sank to the floor, barely breathing, arms trembling uncontrollably.
His skin burned.
But inside—he was ice.
The fear crawled up from his stomach like rot. Not sharp. Not loud. But slow. Creeping.
His head spun. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. He felt the tremor in his legs. In his jaw.
Fever.
Not from sickness.
Fear.
Not of pain. Not of monsters. Not even of death.
He had told himself otherwise for years.
"I don't fear death,"
He used to whisper into the dark.
"I just hate the pain."
But that was a lie.
He feared being forgotten.
He feared dying without meaning. He feared returning from the Awakening—marked as a failure. Branded for life.
Because they wouldn't let him live quietly.
They would make him regret living.
Better to die in another world than come back and suffer in this one.
Better to be torn apart by beasts than by their laughter.
He was hot. Sweating.
But the cold inside him wouldn't go away.
He hated this.
This moment.
This feeling.
This helplessness.
All these years…
All those times he thought about ending it.
All the birthdays he endured, thinking maybe—maybe—he wasn't unlucky.
That maybe he had something inside him.
Something powerful. Something that could change everything.
He dreamed of awakening not just as a Walker, but as someone important.
Someone who could silence them.
Someone who could matter.
But now, with the moment finally here, all he felt was fear.
His bones shook.
His throat clenched.
He curled into himself.
He was cold.
So cold, it hurt.
He stumbled to the door. Put on his boots.
He didn't want to wake up barefoot in another world. That would be stupid.
Then he returned to the bed. Lay down.
Shoes still on. Blanket pulled over his frame. Knife gripped tight in one hand.
It felt wrong.
It felt absurd.
But now wasn't a normal time.
He curled into a ball. Shut his eyes.
Body trembling.
Breath fogging in the airless dark.
And he waited.
Waited for the timer to finish.
Waited for the world to end.
Or begin.
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ Dimension Walker ✶
✧ The Veiled Paragon ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
The knife was still in his hand.
He hadn't let go.
His fingers ached from gripping it too long, too tight, but the thought of releasing it filled him with more fear than holding it ever could.
It wasn't a weapon anymore.
It was a tether.
A stupid little thing anchoring him to this world.
Tick.
The room was silent, but he could feel it.
The timer wasn't loud. It didn't make noise.
But in his head—it ticked.
Like a heartbeat that wasn't his.
3:05:13.
He tried to breathe.
In. Out.
He'd read somewhere that counting helped. That if you focused on your breath, the anxiety couldn't drown you.
They were wrong.
It still came. It still wrapped around his lungs and pressed down on his chest like guilt with weight.
He wondered—just for a moment—what the others were doing.
All the other eighteen-year-olds.
All across Veltharion.
Right now.
Some were probably surrounded by family. Encouraging words. Hugs. Cries. Promises.
Some were laughing. Cocky. Testing new equipment. Polishing guns and blades and relics.
Calling it an adventure. Calling it destiny.
And some, maybe, were like him.
Alone.
Watching the minutes melt.
Counting heartbeats.
Waiting for the sky to split.
He hated them.
He envied them.
He pitied them.
Mostly, he hated himself.
Because no matter how much he had prepared—not just for the mission, but for this life—he hadn't prepared for this feeling.
The hollow ache. The knowing. The unbearable anticipation.
The fear that maybe… he'd already lost.
That even before stepping into another dimension, the battle was over. And he was on the wrong side.
2:40:52.
He hadn't cried.
He wasn't sure why.
Maybe the tears finally dried up. Maybe the world took that too.
Or maybe the part of him that used to cry—the part that cared—was already gone.
A memory flickered.
Small.
Warm.
His mother, once. Before the silence. Before she stopped looking him in the eyes.
He was Four. She had tucked him in, brushed hair from his forehead, and whispered something.
He couldn't remember the words.
Just the feeling.
The way her fingers lingered at his temple.
Soft. Gentle.
The memory stung now.
Not because it was painful.
But because it felt so far away, it might as well have been someone else's life.
That little boy didn't exist anymore.
He had died slowly, across a thousand sleepless nights.
The world hadn't killed him.
Belief had.
Or the lack of it.
He clutched the knife tighter.
2:13:00.
He hadn't looked at the sky in months.
Not properly. Not really.
He got up.
His legs were numb, but they worked. He moved to the balcony. Pushed the sliding door open.
Cold air hit his skin like a slap.
The knife was still in his hand.
Veltharion's sky was clouded, always tinted with faint glimmers of system light. Faint patterns moved across the dark—shards of floating code, drifting like digital constellations.
He looked up.
There was no moon. No stars.
Just the faint, ever-present glow of the Astral Spire far away in the distance. Faintly pulsing like a warning.
And beneath it all, somewhere in this vast, chaotic world—was him.
A cursed boy.
On a balcony.
Holding a kitchen knife.
Counting down to oblivion.
He didn't pray.
Didn't believe in gods.
Didn't believe in hope.
Just silence.
And the ticking.
1:55:41.
He sat down outside. Cold concrete beneath him. Knife resting across his knees. Head tilted back.
What would it be like?
The Awakening.
Some said it was painless. Just a flicker—and then you were somewhere else.
Others said it was violent. Like being torn apart and rebuilt molecule by molecule.
He didn't care.
What he feared wasn't the moment.
It was what came after.
Because what if he was just ordinary?
What if the world gave him nothing?
No powers. No system perks. No divine blessing.
Just a task.
Just a blade.
Just a fight he couldn't win.
The wirld didn't care about feelings.
It cared about survival.
Progress.
Strength.
If you broke?
That was your fault.
No one would come looking for you.
He thought of the four boys in the bathroom. The way they looked at him.
Like a ghost.
Like a monster.
No one would miss him.
Not really.
Maybe that was a gift.
Or a punishment.
***
He stood there.
Leaning against the edge of the balcony railing like someone half-alive, like someone waiting to fall forward and just vanish.
The morning hadn't changed.
But something in him had.
His hand was still clutching the kitchen knife. His other hand trembled.
The silence didn't comfort him anymore. It just sat there—loud and suffocating.
He looked at the stars.
Not to admire them.
Just to remind himself that he was still beneath them.
In his left hand, the timer still ticked.
01:32:26
And something inside him cracked.
Not like glass.
Like breath held for too long.
He turned away. Slowly. Heavy. As if gravity had increased just for him.
Each step back into the apartment took a little more out of him. His body felt distant—like he was walking around inside a dying machine.
The warmth inside didn't feel warm anymore. Not really.
By the time he reached the bed, his legs had gone numb.
He dropped the knife beside the mattress, pulled the blanket over himself, and collapsed into that same curled shape he'd been in before.
Not to rest. Not to sleep.
Just to be.
A trembling figure beneath thin fabric, too hot to breathe but too cold to move.
The fever hadn't left.
Neither had the fear.
His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat. His eyes wouldn't close at first, but then—slowly, unwillingly—they did.
Not because he wanted them to.
But because his mind couldn't take it anymore.
He slipped under.
And the ticking went on without him.
-To Be Continued