Shadow Slave/// Oldest Dream

The man with storm-grey eyes and raven-black hair collapsed to his knees, breath ragged, muscles trembling. Yet his expression remained unyielding, carved from sheer defiance. His eyes, wild and storming, carried the unmistakable madness of a man who had nothing left—nothing to return to, nothing to lose.

Before him, standing in the heart of a death zone so twisted and unholy that the very air seemed to scream in agony, were four figures. The boundary between life and death had blurred here, and these beings stood on the precipice, gazing down at him as if they were gods deciding the fate of a mere mortal.

The first was a man—tall, broad-shouldered, and carved from steel. His posture was as straight and unyielding as a blade, his presence exuding raw, disciplined power. A long vermilion cloak billowed behind him like a war banner drenched in blood, and around him, swords danced—a thousand shimmering blades, moving as though they had wills of their own. The mere sight of him spoke of carnage, of battlefields soaked in red, of an executioner who needed no axe—only his will.

The second was a woman, hauntingly beautiful in a way that defied mortal comprehension. Her skin was as pale as the dead, cold and perfect like sculpted ivory. Long, lustrous black hair cascaded down her back, framing a face both mesmerizing and terrifying. She wore a gown as red as fresh blood, the fabric spilling onto the ground in a river of crimson.

The third was a man—gaunt, wiry, and utterly unsettling. His presence was the kind that made the air feel wrong, like reality itself rejected him. He wore a cheerful smile, but it was too wide, too knowing, too amused—like he found something hilarious that no one else could perceive. His eyes flickered with something ancient and dangerous, as if he were studying the kneeling man, curious to see how long he would last.

And then, there was the last one.

A boy. No older than a teenager, his face a blank, unreadable canvas. But that emptiness—that terrifying, abyssal indifference—was worse than any rage or malice. His long, silk-like black hair framed a face too calm, too devoid of emotion, yet his deep amethyst eyes burned with something... unnatural.

They glowed in the suffocating darkness, radiating an eerie, impossible light. A light that twisted space itself, warping reality in ways that defied logic. The air around him was wrong—screaming in silent agony as if the world itself was rejecting his existence. His very presence carried a profound, maddening sense of wrongness, as though he was an error, a flaw in creation that should not exist.

Yet he did.

And his gaze—cold, divine, merciless—held the weight of a being who was not here to fight, not here to negotiate.

The man on his knees didn't waste a single glance at the others. His gaze was fixed solely on the boy before him. He studied him, his eyes as stormy as ever, not a hint of emotion breaking through his steely resolve. No anger. No curses. No pointless words. Just one question, raw and simple.

"You're the one who told them... the one who orchestrated all of this... Why, Icarus?"

Icarus's gaze fell to him, his amethyst eyes dark, unblinking. His voice, when it came, was eerily calm but carried a sharp distortion, like the sound of a thousand shards of glass tearing through the air, or the high-pitched scrape of metal on metal.

"Why?" he mused, his voice so smooth it almost sounded detached, as if this were all an elaborate game. "Now that's the fun part, isn't it?"

He took a slow step forward, the world around him seeming to tremble with each movement. "Earth, as the Realm of the War God, was never meant to have Awakened individuals or wielders of sorcery. When the Nightmare Spell crossed its borders, it pushed humanity toward Ascension—toward a state that contradicted the realm's natural laws. The higher one climbs on the path to divinity, the more they become repelled by those very laws. It feels like the world itself is rejecting them. But you, father, you should understand now... you are Supreme."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. His gaze hardened, his next words sharp and cutting. "If you become sacred, if you climb any further, what do you think will happen? Do you think this world, this realm, will just accept it? No. It will burn, father. And how many lives will you sacrifice for your obsession? How many will die? Maybe... all of us."

Broken Sword's face contorted, fury and confusion mixing into a maelstrom of emotion. His hands clenched into fists, his eyes wide with an unhinged madness.

"Everything I've done," he growled through clenched teeth, his voice shaking with fury, "everything I've sacrificed... it's for her! You are standing against me now—against your own blood! You're willing to throw away the chance to save her—your own mother! You, and that boy… both of you have become Abominations... But what did I expect? Those raised by beasts will only become beasts." His words dripped with venom, the madness consuming him.

The three other Supremes stood motionless, silent spectators to the father-son confrontation. Anvil was his usual indomitable self, eyes cold and emotionless. Ki Song wore a tired, almost resigned expression, as though she didn't want any of this but knew it had to be done. And Asterion—he was the only one who watched with something like amusement, his gaze curious, even a little intrigued, as though he were witnessing a particularly interesting show.

Icarus didn't flinch. He didn't rise to the bait. He simply continued speaking with an air of certainty, as if he'd already come to terms with everything. "I've already made up my mind," he said softly, his voice unwavering. "I do love her, but..." His eyes narrowed, his words cold as ice. "I can't risk the lives of billions for one. You're too far gone, father. You not only neglected Neph, but now you're willing to unleash Abominations upon this world—things beyond our understanding or our ability to face. All in the name of saving her. But when someone else dies, we turn a blind eye. We don't realize how much sin we've committed until it's too late. I've seen evil people walk among us, indifferent to the destruction they've caused. And you're one of them."

He took another step forward, his presence growing heavier, like the air itself had thickened with his words. His eyes gleamed with an unsettling calmness. "Only I can walk the path of Ascension without endangering mankind. I am a traveler of the vast cosmos, My authority cannot be restricted by the laws of Realms. A love, sacrifice, kindness... You all walked path to the divine... Yet, forgot what made us... Humans. You tell me i am liar? You tell me i am wrong? Abomination... You call me Abomination! Have i not been faithful?! Have i not fought?! Obeyed?! Kept my promises!? Have i not done as you all demanded of me?!... Now i do realise one thing... I am that i am..."

And with that, Icarus acted.

Icarus' hand moved in a blur, his strike aimed at the fabric of space itself, his hand glowing with eerie purple light. The atmosphere trembled as if the world itself was recoiling, bracing for the impact. The air around his fist seemed to warp, distorting with unnatural force, a single shockwave erupted. The air cracked open like brittle glass. unleashing the all the essence of his seven cores in a single burst.

In the wake of his punch, the distortion rippled outward—like the tremors of a great earthquake, but contained within a single point.

The resulting shockwave cracked the air, sending Broken Sword careening into the depths of the Underworld. Broken Sword, a Supreme, had been battered by the relentless strikes of the other three Supremes—Anvil, Ki Song, and Asterion—his body and spirit broken, but his will remained unbroken.

Waking World.

The Waking World was quiet, a calm that seemed to mock the chaos Icarus had just left behind. Asterion walked beside him, his grin wide and unsettling, eyes gleaming with the same dangerous curiosity that always lingered.

"You've made right—"

Icarus cut him off, voice flat and disinterested. "Enough of that bullshit. I don't have autism anymore to miss things... My flaw put everything into perspective... You'll protect my sister. You'll fulfill that until she becomes infected by spell. That's the deal."

Asterion chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Of course. You're so cautious. Wouldn't trust me without using that memory, huh? Forcing me, how amusing. She's... how old now? Eight? Nine?"

Icarus didn't dignify the mockery with a response, instead chewing on an ice cream like any normal thirteen-year-old would, face impassive.

"Forget that. You still planning to visit the moon?"

Asterion's smile widened, eyes twinkling with dark amusement. "Yes, such a fascinating place. Can't help but visit it for… Touristic reasons, hmm?"

Icarus raised an eyebrow, his tone wry. "Good luck. I hope we never see each other again."

Asterion's expression twisted, mouth curling up in a sickening grin. "We see... Thanks to you, I connected with Anvil and made it to the Waking World. Pleasant place, really. No nightmare creatures, no corruption… Yet."

Icarus didn't respond, instead turning his back to the fading figure. As Asterion disappeared from the streets, Icarus' lips pulled into a wicked smile.

"I butchered all your sick followers… Enjoy life on the moon, Dreamspawn."

With a shake of his head, he vanished from the street, appearing in the sterile, quiet hospital room. There, a beautiful woman lay motionless, her eyes dull and vacant. He reached for the withered flowers by her side, gently removing them, and replacing them with fresh sunflowers, their bright petals a stark contrast to the sterile white room.

He sat beside her, his gaze softening. A bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he stared at the woman he had once called mother.

"Hey, Mom... It's been a while," he whispered, voice small in the empty room. "I don't know what you'd think of me now... After everything I've done... Why? Why couldn't you stay alive? If you were here... none of this would've happened. I wouldn't have killed him... I've killed my own father... I've committed Patricide to avoid war between great clan which would've doomed our world... So i could have avoided death of millions or perhaps billions... But Maybe everything I've done will just lead to ruin. I don't know... All I can do is try my best. But... damn it, doing the impossible is the one thing I enjoy... right? But I'm scared... I'm hurt and exhausted... I... I—"

His voice cracked, the words catching in his throat. The tears came, unbidden, rolling down his face before he even realized it. He wiped his eyes quickly, but the warmth on his cheeks didn't stop, his chest heaving as sobs threatened to break free.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry, Mom..."

He stared at her, his breath shaky, not sure if she could hear him or even understand. His chest ached, a weight that no amount of apologies could shift, but still, he kept speaking. His tears fell in silence, as if he was trying to make amends with a past that could never be fixed.

Children who were raised in war will be never understood by children who were raised in peace.

___

Klaus opened his eyes, pulling himself back from the depths of the Dream Realm. The sudden shift felt like a weight lifting from his chest, but there was no time to dwell on it. He sighed heavily, the air thick with a musty scent as he adjusted himself on the makeshift boat he'd assembled.

The Dnieper River stretched wide before him, its powerful current a force of nature that didn't care about the man drifting upstream. He wasn't lucky enough to find a working boat, so he'd had to scavenge what he could—patching together broken hulls, using the outboard motor to power his crude vessel. It wasn't ideal for travel; the motor was meant for fishing, not navigating these waters. But that was how Klaus operated—adapt and survive. No room for luxury in a world like this.

The river, in all its vastness, flowed with a dangerous grace. The Dnieper was no ordinary waterway—it was tainted, the heavy hand of history pressing down upon it. Radioactive, a direct legacy of the 1986 Chernobyl disaster. The very waters he floated on carried the remnants of an accident so catastrophic, it still haunted the land over a century later. His PPE, a full-face air purifying respirator with a P-100 filter, was a constant reminder of the unseen dangers lurking just beneath the surface. He could already feel the faint sting in the back of his throat, the subtle burn of contamination, even through his protective gear. Not to mention, this place was full of nightmare creatures.

The radiation was inescapable. The Chernobyl disaster had sent its toxic pulse across the region, and the Dnieper had absorbed it, flowing with the poison all the way to the Black Sea. It made sense. The Black Sea, a body of water now tainted with the same dark legacy, had been carrying the radioactive waste for decades, feeding it into the depths of the earth. Klaus couldn't help but marvel at how something so toxic could persist for so long. The disaster had occurred long before the Dark Ages had even begun, but the remnants—both physical and spiritual—remained.

The War God's realm, survived stories of devastation, war, and a land left to rot. A place so broken that even time seemed to hesitate before it, leaving scars in the very soil. Klaus chuckled bitterly, his mind working through the layers of history like peeling back the layers of an onion. The war between Russia and Ukraine, fought in the dark ages done worse than Chernobyl's disaster.

It had left the region barre. No vegetation, no life to speak of, just ruins and the echoes of battles long past. He couldn't help but think how ironic it was that this radioactive river, once a lifeblood for civilizations, now carried death.

Klaus looked ahead, his eyes scanning the vast expanse of water, still calculating. The seeds from the nightmares he had been hunting for were out there, somewhere, in this toxic current or beyond that. The river was alive, not with life, but with something far worse—a pervasive, creeping corruption that seemed to warp everything it touched.

His fingers brushed the controls of the boat, adjusting the throttle slightly, maintaining his course against the current. The hum of the engine was the only sound, a low, mechanical buzz in the otherwise quiet world. He thought about the Dark Ages—how the remnants of the Chernobyl disaster, the wars, and the fall of nations had all led to this point. It was all interconnected. Time had shaped this land. History is used as reminders of humanity's failures. To know it, is to understand how to avoid it. He needed to understand the past—its failures and its lessons so he could create better future.

A flicker of something caught his eye on the river's surface. A faint ripple, too consistent to be a random movement. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. The nightmare seed. He was close.

A flicker of movement caught Klaus's eye, a ripple in the murky depths of the river. Instinct kicked in, and he leaned forward, peering into the swirling darkness below. And then—his breath hitched.

The nightmare seed.

Not just one. Eleven.

His brain stalled. Category Four gates? That wasn't just bad—that was cataclysmic. A single one of these gates could spew out Great-rank nightmare creatures—walking calamities, the kind that turned entire cities into graveyards. But eleven?

His pulse pounded in his ears as the river came alive. The water churned violently as something stirred beneath it—thousands of nightmare creatures, their grotesque forms writhing beneath the surface like a seething, abyssal horde.

And leading them…

A colossal abomination, easily a hundred feet tall, rose from the river like a biblical plague given form. A horror of writhing tentacles, its grotesque face split open vertically, revealing rows upon rows of jagged, serrated fangs. Its soulless gaze locked onto him, recognizing prey.

Klaus blinked once. Then twice.

"...Well. I'm fucked."

The thought had barely formed before one of the monster's massive tentacles whipped down—his cue to leave.

He was gone before the impact even landed, his body vanishing in a blur of motion just as the ship exploded into splinters beneath the creature's strike. He reappeared ten miles away in an instant, his breath coming in sharp gasps, his body buzzing with the aftershock of pure terror.

He turned back.

The massive horror loomed over the river, tentacles writhing. A deep, guttural roar rattled the very air, shaking his bones, making his stomach twist. And yet… a grin pulled at his lips.

A broken, utterly misplaced grin.

Oh, not again.

Ever since he got his flaw, panic didn't come alone anymore—it brought laughter along for the ride. The bigger the crisis, the harder the urge to cackle like a lunatic.

"For fuck's sake…" He wheezed, shaking his head, still grinning like a madman. "I'm just an Awakened, man! I'm not built for this! Time to get the fuck outta here—"

The ground rumbled as the horde surged forward, thousands of nightmare creatures spilling from the gates like a flood of death.

His grin widened.

"Yup. Nope. Time to go."

He vanished again, sprinting across the ruined landscape at full speed, his body blurring with sheer desperation. His lungs burned, his legs screamed, but fear had a funny way of making you faster than you had any right to be.

"Mission's over! Europe's officially fucked, time to pack up—holy shit, this place gets deadlier every damn day! This is suicide! Fucking diabolical!"

His laughter bubbled up, breaking free despite himself.

"If I didn't have the Key of Light, I'd be so royally fucked—like, bend-over-and-accept-your-fate fucked!"

A tentacle whipped past, missing him by inches, leveling an entire row of ruined buildings in the distance.

"HehehehehehAHAHAHA! How's that old song go again? Run like a girl?" He cackled, leaping over a crumbling overpass as debris rained down behind him.

" missed me, sucker!... I don't know about running like a girl, but I'm running like a goddamn DOG!"

His manic laughter echoed through the desolate wasteland as he disappeared into the horizon.