Alone in my room, a profound thought fully consumed me, and accepting my fate crystallized with startling clarity. Nothing regarding my sheltered aristocratic life up to this point had given me even the faintest reason to believe I would be venturing into this unknown world of the supernatural. The very idea seemed as foreign as the Gypsy caravans that had haunted my childhood dreams—distant, mysterious, utterly removed from the brass and steam of my father's industrial empire.
Yet here I stood at the threshold of something immense, something that made the thundering machinery of Braxmond's factories seem like mere whispers in comparison.
"I choose to learn," I declared, feeling the words reshape my very soul as they left my lips.
Reality shifted like sand through an hourglass. Golden grains spiraled upward around me, each mote catching light that seemed to emanate from within rather than from any earthly source. The particles carried me into a dreamscape more vivid and substantial than waking life itself—not the hazy, half-remembered visions of ordinary sleep, but something concrete, architectural, deliberately constructed. I stood in the ruins of Braxmond, yet this was not merely a dream but a teaching ground where cosmic truths revealed themselves in stark detail.
The broken factories stretched endlessly before me, their smokestacks twisted into impossible spirals that vanished into a sky painted with aurora-like veils of green and gold. Steam hissed from fractured pipes, but instead of scalding vapor, the escaping mist formed intricate patterns that reminded me of the mystical diagrams Professor Deyric had shown me in his ancient texts.
Like a switch flicking on for the first time in my life, I could feel my unconscious mind awakening fully in this realm. Unlike the passive drift into ordinary dreams, where I was merely a passenger carried along by my sleeping thoughts, my power to build this door and open it was pure magical force—controlled, directed, intentional. The sensation was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
The luminous figure approached first through the dreamscape's shifting architecture, his robes of blue and gold rippling like captured starlight given form. Each fold of fabric seemed to contain entire constellations, and when he moved, sand of pure starlight drifted upward around him, forming intricate patterns of cosmic geometry that spoke to something deep within my newly awakened consciousness. He maintained a respectful distance, perhaps fifty paces away, yet his voice reached me as clearly as if we stood mere inches apart—a phenomenon that would have seemed impossible in the waking world but felt perfectly natural here.
"You have taken the first step," he said, and the warmth in his tone penetrated my bones, settling there like a hearth fire on the coldest winter night. "The Goddess of Augury has accepted your bond, and this acceptance allows you to see me in my entirety." In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he moved—not walking or running, but simply existing beside me where he had not been before. His radiance was so intense that my eyes began to weep slightly, tears that tasted of salt and starlight. "Do you know, Rhylorin, what dreams truly are? What dreams can become? And most importantly—who you are destined to be to those who dream?"
I considered his words carefully, sensing that this was not merely conversation but examination. The weight of his question pressed against my thoughts like a physical thing. "Windows into something deeper than conscious thought?" I ventured, drawing upon half-remembered philosophy lessons and the strange new awareness that pulsed within me.
"They are reality's foundation," the divine voice echoed, and I could hear layers within layers—as if a thousand voices spoke in perfect harmony. "Every waking moment springs from the unconscious realm where possibilities take shape before they dare manifest in flesh and stone. To walk in dreams is to touch creation's very source, to stand where the universe first learned to imagine itself into being."
The chained shadow materialized beside him with a sound like grinding metal and distant thunder. Where the luminous figure brought comfort and warmth, this presence radiated raw, uncompromising truth—the kind that strips away illusions and leaves only harsh reality in its wake. His form was wreathed in chains that seemed forged from some dark metal I had never seen, links that writhed and twisted with an unholy life of their own. Between the gaps in his bindings, I caught glimpses of fangs that gleamed like tarnished silver.
"Creation and destruction are siblings born from the same cosmic womb," it rasped, voice scraping across my consciousness like rusted metal against stone. The chains around him writhed more violently as he spoke, twisting in patterns that hurt to look at directly. "The same power that births stars in brilliant fusion can devour them in an instant. Reality is but a plaything to beings such as ourselves, and we are the scales upon which all existence is weighed and measured."
I found myself nodding with surprising certainty, as if knowledge I had never possessed was suddenly blossoming within my mind like a flower opening to impossible sunlight. "I understand," I answered, my voice carrying a conviction that startled me. "Balance requires both of you to bind this realm in stability. Without one or the other—without both creation and destruction working in harmony—reality would tear itself apart. No soul could progress without the counterweight of fear to give courage meaning, and universal destruction would result if everyone dwelt in despair without hope's guiding light."
The chained figure's grin revealed the full display of his eroded metal fangs, and I sensed approval in that terrible smile. "Wisdom beyond your mortal years," he acknowledged. "The builders of the great Citadel of Convergence forgot this fundamental truth in their hubris. They sought only to dwell within their tranquil dreams, refusing to acknowledge the nightmares that slowly festered in the shadows of their consciousness. Those neglected terrors eventually consumed them, transforming their paradise into the ruins that haunt reality still."
"Who are the two of you, if I'm truly destined to become the Sandman?" I began, then stopped, realizing the question contained its own answer.
"We are all one consciousness, but different chapters in a cycle older than mortal memory itself," the luminous figure explained, his voice carrying the weight of eons. His face, I realized with a start, reflected my own features—yet where my eyes were iron-grey flecked with gold, his held depths that contained entire universes. "The Dream Walker appears each millennium, when the Veil of Slumber begins to erode away from creation's innocence or when it starts to slip away from the natural laws that reality must obey to maintain its coherence."
Understanding crashed over me like liquid starlight poured directly into my soul. These weren't separate entities at all—they were echoes of what I might become, reflections of the divine consciousness that had walked this path countless times across the turning of ages. The luminous figure was hope fulfilled, potential realized in service to others. The chained shadow was that same potential corrupted, turned inward, consumed by the very power it had sought to master.
"I am not the first," I whispered, the words falling from my lips like stones into a deep well.
"You are the continuation," the shadow confirmed, his chains rattling with what might have been regret. "Each incarnation faces the same fundamental choice—will you guard mortals' dreams with selfless devotion, or will you consume them to feed your own divine hunger? Will you heal the wounds between worlds, or will you tear reality apart in pursuit of absolute power over the realm of sleep?"
The luminous figure stepped closer, and I saw his eyes more clearly—ancient beyond all measure, holding memories of civilizations that had risen to glory and fallen to dust while consciousness itself slept between lives. In those depths, I glimpsed fragments of other Dream Walkers: a woman with skin like polished obsidian who had guided an empire of scholar-priests; a man whose dreams had literally reshaped mountains to protect his people from invading armies; a child whose nightmares had accidentally torn holes in reality itself before he learned control.
"The Citadel's destruction wasn't recent history as mortals measure time," he explained, his voice taking on the cadence of a teacher imparting crucial lessons. "It was this age's first crack in reality's foundation, a festering wound that has spread across millennia while mortals rebuilt their civilizations in ignorance of the growing corruption beneath."
"Then the workers' nightmares I witnessed, Oliver's death in that horrific vision—"
"Are symptoms of an infection that began when the first drop of blood magic was spilled in that accursed place," the shadow finished, his voice heavy with ancient sorrow. "The corruption spreads like poison through dream and reality alike, seeking always to claim the next Dream Walker before he can awaken to his full potential and stand against it."
The ruined dreamscape around us shimmered with new meaning as this revelation settled into my consciousness. I wasn't simply Rhylorin Kuznetsov, heir to an industrial fortune, sheltered son of Braxmond's aristocracy. I was the latest vessel for a cosmic force that had guided the boundary between dream and reality since time's very beginning, part of an eternal cycle of guardianship that stretched back to creation's first morning.
Professor Deyric's voice echoed from the waking world, distant but urgent: "My boy, Rhylorin. You need to wake up from your slumber. It is paramount that you not dwell longer than permitted in the beginning stages of this journey."
The chained shadow's metallic laugh scraped across my consciousness like fingernails on slate. "Ego is the mortal coil that does not easily leave us, even in transcendence," he observed with bitter humor. "Corruption takes many forms, as you will soon discover. Sometimes it wears the face of righteousness itself."
"What kind of corruption?" I asked, watching the sand patterns around us shift between radiant gold and obsidian black, as if responding to the very question.
"Corruption that originates from Erua'vem itself," the luminous figure confirmed with grave solemnity. "The realm where transcended beings dwell is no paradise—it is a battleground of divine wills where power corrupts even the most noble intentions. The Demon of Purpose rules there, ancient beyond mortal comprehension, poisoning the very air with toxic influences designed specifically to corrupt ascending souls."
The chained figure's bonds rattled more violently as memories clearly pained him. "She feeds on corrupted transcendence like a parasite, growing stronger with each soul that falls to her whispered promises. Her name is Demon Queen Ariel, and she has transcended even divine power at this point, becoming something that exists beyond the normal categories of good and evil."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with temperature. "Then the path to transcendence itself is a trap?"
"All power carries inherent risk," the luminous figure replied, his tone both warning and reassuring. "But understanding corruption's true source allows you to guard against its influence. The Demon of Purpose whispers that dreams should be controlled rather than guided, that mortals require strict dominion rather than gentle protection. She offers shortcuts that seem benevolent on the surface but inevitably lead to tyranny over the very souls you're meant to serve."
The shadow nodded with profound sorrow. "I am not evil incarnate by nature—I am what remains when corruption overwhelms divine purpose. These chains that bind me were forged from my own choices, each link representing a moment when I chose expedience over wisdom, control over service."
"Then you were once..." I began, hardly daring to voice the implication.
"A Dream Walker, precisely as yourself," the shade confirmed, his tone bearing the weight of boundless regret. "I attempted to shield mortals by governing their slumber absolutely, convinced in my growing arrogance that I alone understood which visions ought to inhabit their resting consciousness. The Demon of Purpose nourished that hubris with carefully crafted whispers until the deception reached its inevitable completion. Terror became all I could guide to the sleeping minds, and finally, my strength was twisted so that any dread experienced by those who glimpse me now sustains and empowers my corrupted form."
The luminous figure extended his hand toward me, sand flowing around his fingers like liquid light made manifest. "Your choice, when it comes, will not be between good and evil in any simple sense—it will be between service and supremacy, between guarding dreams with humble dedication and claiming ownership over the realm of sleep itself."
Around us, the ethereal dreamscape began to shimmer and dissolve, its crystalline edges softening like watercolors bleeding into wet parchment. The luminous figure grew increasingly translucent, his golden robes becoming wisps of cloud that caught the fading light. The chained shadow's bindings clinked once more before fading to whispered echoes that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Transcendence follows nine distinct stages," the luminous figure began, his voice taking on the weight of ancient wisdom being passed from teacher to student. "Each level demands its own form of sacrifice, each mystical rite strips away another layer of mortal limitation and attachment. To become the true Sandman—the God of Dreams in his full power—you must be prepared to surrender everything you currently believe yourself to be and give yourself completely to this sacred path."
He paused, and I could feel the gravity of what he was telling me settling into my bones like winter cold.
"This is where the two of us must depart from you for now," he continued. "Only when you have reached a significantly higher level of magical mastery will we return to guide you further along the path. Until then, trust in your training, remember the lessons we have shared, and above all—guard your heart against the whispers of corruption that will surely come."
Through the dissolving veil of the dreamscape, Professor Deyric's voice reached me like an anchor thrown to a drowning man, calling my name with increasing urgency and drawing me back toward the realm where breath had rhythm and hearts beat with mortal weight.
I gasped, my eyes snapping open to find Professor Deyric's concerned face hovering above mine. The familiar library had returned in all its mundane detail—leather-bound volumes standing in neat rows, mahogany shelves gleaming with polish, the comfortable scent of parchment and ink filling my nostrils. Yet everything felt fundamentally different, as though I now viewed this ordinary world through glass that had been cracked and reformed, showing me truths that had always been there but hidden from normal sight.
"How long was I..." I began, my voice coming out hoarse and strange, as if I hadn't spoken aloud in hours rather than minutes.
"Three minutes in this realm," Deyric replied, his hands steady and reassuring as he helped me sit upright in the leather chair. "Though time flows according to entirely different laws in the spaces between worlds. What felt like hours of conversation to you was mere moments here."
My hands trembled as I examined them—still flesh, still undeniably mortal, yet I could feel something vast and powerful stirring beneath the surface of my skin like a second heartbeat. The pocket watch lay open on the carpet where it had fallen, its face now permanently displaying an hourglass filled with flowing sand that seemed to move independent of any earthly gravity.
"I thought I was simply experiencing an unusually vivid dream from last night," I whispered, understanding flooding through me like dawn breaking over a landscape I had never seen before. "But I must have lost some time somewhere, slipped into that other realm without realizing it."
"My fellow student," Deyric's eyes held both warning and compassion, "it is imperative that you understand time itself becomes elusive when you begin walking between worlds. Three minutes here could indeed be a whole day in the dream realm, or conversely, it could stretch into what feels like an eternity of experience compressed into heartbeats."
He gestured toward the fallen timepiece with obvious concern.
"It is absolutely essential that you learn to slip into these transcendent states with some type of anchor holding you to consensus reality—something like this pocket watch that can serve as a tether to prevent you from becoming completely lost in the otherworldly experiences."
"What do you mean exactly?" I asked, uncertainty creeping into my voice as I rose unsteadily from my seat and bent to retrieve the timepiece from the carpet. The metal felt warm against my palm, almost alive. "Like keeping it actively in my mind during the experience, or something more specific?"
"Use this object as your anchor, my boy," he proclaimed with stern emphasis that brooked no argument. "Practice during your natural sleep to consciously shape it into your personal hourglass symbol while in the dream realm, but remember to leave it as an ordinary pocket watch while you remain awake in this world. The distinction is crucial—it will serve as both gateway and lifeline."
Professor Deyric began gathering his mystical instruments with practiced efficiency, each item shrinking and folding into impossible geometric configurations before disappearing completely into the seemingly ordinary pockets of his coat. The library gradually returned to its completely mundane state around us—brass lamps replacing the floating orbs of light, ordinary bookshelves standing where volcanic stone walls had towered moments before.
"Tomorrow, we begin your formal training in earnest," he announced, adjusting his robes with the air of a man preparing to depart. "Tonight, you must rest and allow today's revelations to settle into your consciousness before we disturb them further with new knowledge. The mind requires time to integrate such profound experiences."
As he moved toward the door, I called after him, "Professor—what I saw, what they told me about corruption and the Demon Queen Ariel—how much of it was real?"
He paused, his hand on the doorframe, and when he turned back his expression was grave.
"Every word, I'm afraid," he said quietly. "The path ahead of you is more perilous than you can yet imagine. But remember this above all else—knowledge is your greatest weapon against corruption, and humility is your strongest shield. Sleep well, young Sandman. Tomorrow, your true education begins."