Chapter 21: The Lord of Dreams Descends
Whispers turned into roars as thousands stared at the blind boy who had just pushed four supreme vice-principals back with a single pulse.
The four great academies' offers still hung in the air, sight restoration, knight status, blade legacies, each one a fortune that could reshape a superhuman's destiny. The crowd buzzed with excitement and disbelief, their voices a low hum that filled the vast plaza like the distant roar of a storm. Some leaned forward in their seats, eyes wide, while others exchanged glances, wondering if this blind slave from a fallen country could truly wield such power. The air felt heavier now, charged with the raw energy of anticipation, as though the very stones of Daveron waited for the next act in this unfolding drama.
Then the sky itself tore open.
A colossal ripple spread across the heavens above the plaza, not a simple spatial rift, but something far greater. Dream-mist poured out in thick, luminous waves, forming the shape of an immense throne carved from starlight and shadow. The entire arena dimmed as if night had fallen at midday.
Floating banners stilled, their colors muted under the oppressive gloom. The wind died abruptly, leaving an unnatural stillness that made every breath feel labored. Even the distant war drums fell silent, their rhythmic beats swallowed by the void.
Every superhuman felt it, a pressure that pressed down on their souls, violent and absolute, like a dream turning into a nightmare. The weaker superhumans in the stands clutched their chests, aura circulation disrupted by the sheer weight of the descending presence.
Whispers of fear and reverence spread like wildfire: "It's him… the max summon…" "Why now? For this boy?"
From that throne, a single figure descended.
Lord Aron Deveron, the Lord of Dreams himself.
He did not walk. He did not fly. He simply appeared, as though reality itself had bent to his will. His robes were woven from living dreams, shifting colors that showed glimpses of forgotten battles, fallen empires, and futures yet unwritten. One moment they flashed with the crimson of spilled blood; the next, they shimmered with the silver of unfulfilled hopes.
His eyes glowed with soft pink light, the same hue as Abandon's but infinitely deeper, older, and colder, as if they held the secrets of every dream ever dreamed. A crown of swirling dream-mist rested upon his brow, twisting like living smoke, and behind him stretched the faint silhouettes of an army of dream spirits, winged horrors with eyeless faces that seemed to stare into souls, whispering shades that made skin crawl with unseen touches, and towering guardians whose forms flickered like smoke in the wind, threatening to solidify into something nightmarish at any moment.
The four vice-principals dropped to one knee instantly, blades lowered in reverence. Their auras, so overwhelming moments ago, shrank like candles in a gale.
The entire crowd fell silent, then erupted into frantic bows and whispers.
"The Lord of Dreams… he has come personally!"
"Lord Aron Deveron… the max summon… he rarely appears even for this child!"
Aron's gaze swept the arena once, slow, absolute, before settling on me.
His voice rolled across the plaza like distant thunder wrapped in silk.
"The battle ceremony… is concluded."
The words carried finality. The floating tablets that had marked every contestant dimmed and vanished into mist. The blood on the stage began to evaporate as dream aura washed over it, erasing every trace of the slaughter that had taken place. The broken marble smoothed itself, cracks sealing as though time had reversed. The air cleared of the metallic tang of death, replaced by the faint, sweet scent of dream-mist.
Superhumans who had been wounded in earlier rounds felt their injuries itch and heal slightly, as if the Lords presence mended the world around him. Murmurs of amazement spread: "His dream aura… it's healing the arena…" "Only the Lord of Dreams could do this…"
Yet Aron did not leave.
Instead, he raised one hand.
Four streaks of light descended from the high seats, the vice-principals of the four great academies, summoned directly to stand before the Lord of Dreams.
Vabun's skinless demon form shrank back in fear, still kneeling.
Alvin lowered his golden sword, head bowed.
The Twilight knight sheathed her crimson blade.
Dabara's black edge disappeared into its sheath.
All four spoke at once, voices overlapping in respectful urgency.
"Lord Aron," Vabun began, voice steady but laced with greed. "We request a private audience with you. The boy, Liam Heart, has shown power beyond his rank. Celestial Demon Academy offers three sacred demon souls, a personal training chamber in the Celestial Spire, and the title of Direct Disciple under me."
Alvin stepped forward, golden aura flaring.
"Demon comand Academy offers the revocation of his slave status, restoration of his sight through the Royal Dream Pool, and command of a thousand elite soldiers. He will walk as a free man and future general."
The Twilight knight's red hair danced as she spoke, voice clear and proud.
"Twilight Academy offers full restoration of his eyes, the Knight's Oath of Protection, and a personal warhorse bred from the Night Stallion lineage. He will rise as one of our greatest shields."
Dabara's smile was sharp, almost predatory.
"Devil Blade Academy offers the Persistent Blade legacy itself, my personal blade art passed down only to one disciple per century. He will never need to fear death again."
The four great academies stood before the God of Dreams, each offering treasures and promises that could shake the foundations of Fortsterling. The crowd leaned forward, ears straining, as the weight of these gifts settled over the plaza like a heavy fog. Whispers erupted: "Sacred demon souls… for a blind boy?" "Restoration of sight… he could see again?" "The Persistent Blade… that's Dabara's forbidden art!" The elders in the high seats exchanged glances, calculating the shift in power if any academy claimed me.
Aron Deveron remained seated on his throne of dream-mist, eyes glowing softly as he regarded them.
The silence stretched.
Then his gaze shifted, not to the vice-principals, but to me.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"The boy will decide."
The arena held its breath once more.
Helga stepped forward from the edge of the stage, her voice calm yet carrying the weight of command.
"Liam… come."
She extended her hand.
I felt Anki pulse warmly against my chest, the sword's presence a constant, comforting anchor.
My heart raced with quiet joy.
The battle ceremony had ended.
But the real war, the one for my future, had only just begun.
The dream-mist army behind Aron stirred, wings rustling, eyes opening in the dark.
Every superhuman in the plaza felt it, the weight of a peak Diamond rank judgment, the promise of power, the threat of oblivion. Weaker superhumans in the stands clutched their chests, aura circulation disrupted by the sheer force of Aron's dream aura. Murmurs of fear and reverence spread: "His army… it's watching us…" "One word from him, and we're all in a nightmare…"
I raised Anki slightly, the sword humming louder.
But I chose my words carefully, bold enough to show strength, respectful enough to curry favour with the Lord of Dreams who could erase me with a thought.
"Lord Aron Daveron," I said, voice steady and clear, carrying across the plaza. "I, Liam Heart, serve the people of Dreams. Why do you chase me, my lord?"
The words hung in the air, showing my loyalty to the Dream family and Helga, who had forcefully taken me from thetford. Yet I held no anger towards them, as death would have been certain if I stayed on that land , the lord of dreams who knew me from our earlier mental link smiled at me. This was my way to curry his favor, to show I was a loyal knight, not a rebel.
The crowd gasped.
The vice-principals froze in shock.
They had expected me to jump at Demon Celestial or Twilight Academy, the offers of freedom and power were too tempting for a slave. Instead, I stood by Helga's side, framing my choice as loyalty to the Dream house itself.
Aron's smile widened, faint, approving.
Helga's eyes widened in surprise, then softened with quiet pride.
The God of Dreams spoke once more, voice carrying the weight of judgment.
"Loyalty to the Dream family… is pleasing."
He placed his hand beneath his eyes his gaze fixed on me, not out of joy, but pride on my words , the lord had granted a small measure of favour.
Then Aron's voice deepened.
"But even if you choose loyalty… you need to pick an academy."
The words landed like a decree. The crowd murmured in confusion.
I stayed calm.
The vice-principals exchanged glances, respect, greed, caution, filled there faces as they waited on my final decision.