Chapter 8
3143words
tied gently to Leoran’s pinky.
The other end looped softly
around his mother’s hand.
That hand…
pale, worn, but warm.
It trembled. A memory of too much love.
Of too many goodbyes.
It kept brushing against his cheek —
like it was memorizing him.
A pair of hands,
folding his small face into silence.
Into a whispered farewell.
She smiled.
The kind of smile that lights up
someone else’s misery,
just in a blink.
She laughed. A soft chime.
“Leoran… I have to go.”
The voice was calm,
a gentle breeze,
but her eyes whispered a regret
her lips refused to say.
A silent sigh for a future unseen.
“Where are you going?”
He grabbed her wrist —
tight, small fingers
that didn’t want to let go.
“See? I’m big now!”
He puffed out his chest, a tiny warrior.
“I can protect you from anything.
I even got muscles!”
He smiled. Proud. Innocent.
That kind of hope that only breaks harder.
She knelt down — still smiling,
still fading.
A wisp in the wind.
“No, Leoran… I have to go.”
Her voice, a fading echo.
“Eat a lot. Grow a lot.”
The white thread between them
A fragile pulse.
“Protect your friends.”
“Even if you feel left behind.”
A whisper of prophecy.
A gap opened.
Abrupt. Absolute.
Like the hand was never there.
Just a sudden, empty space.
His breath caught.
A gasp of nothingness.
His chest tightened —
not with fear,
but with the crushing silence
that follows someone
who doesn’t return.
“Mom,” he whispered,
a sound lost in the vastness,
“Take me with you.
I’m strong now.
"The smile while grinning didn’t match the flow, first corner of the eyes then it goes while touching his cheeks to dripping from the Chin"
Only the hollow ache where laughter had been.
Just the echo of a soft touch
still lingering,
a ghostly caress,
on his cheek.
He stood there, small.
Eyes glassy, filled with unshed tears.
Teeth tight, biting back screams.
“Don’t go…”
He didn’t scream.
He just stood.
A tiny figure
made of shaking hands and bitten lips.
The last spark of her giving spirit
still curled, stubbornly warm,
around his pinky.
Until the thread
A soundless, final severing.
A heavy silence descended. Not merely quiet, but thick, suffocating. The soft, familiar light of his mother’s fading presence was torn away, replaced by an endless void dimension that swallowed everything.
Where am I? Leoran's small frame shivered, a tremor that ran deeper than cold, born of the sudden, alien vastness. What is this place? The dream wasn't dissolving into nothingness; it was sharpening, twisting into a terrifying vividness, feeling more like stark reality than any waking moment. The air itself seemed to hum, alive with an unseen, predatory presence.
Then, a giggle.
Not his mother’s soft chime, but a chilling, distorted sound. Thin and sharp. It came from every single direction at once, echoing, rebounding, multiplying, pressing in on him from the impossible emptiness. It tasted of rusted iron and bitter frost.
“Who are you?” Leoran’s voice was a reedy whisper, barely a breath, swallowed effortlessly by the engulfing void.
No one showed themselves. Not yet.
But then, a shadow. A formless smear in the formless dark. Disoriented, rippling at the edges, it appeared behind him. He slowly began to turn, his muscles locking, heavy with dread, as if unseen hands were pushing against his back. As he finally faced it, the figure jolted, distorting, then abruptly morphed into twin girls.Their faces were a blank, chilling white, devoid of eyes or mouths, just smooth, pale surfaces. And then, with another snap, a soundless tear in the fabric of that silent void, they twisted, collapsed, and reformed.
Before him stood a crippled, masked face. Its surface was grotesque, a patchwork of sickly, grey flesh, but the stitching… the crude, angry stitching was agonizingly familiar. It was his face, Leoran's own face, crudely sewn onto the mask. His eyes, his nose, his lips—all twisted into a permanent, agonizing rictus.
The sight jolted him, a shockwave that ripple through the false reality, pulling him back, slowly, relentlessly, towards his own waking senses. He felt a distant pressure on his chest, a soft, clean smell of rain. His clothes seemed to shift, fabric against skin. He was waking. Not fully. Not yet.
The distorted face on the mask—his own tormented features—leaned closer. The giggles intensified, now a singular, mocking sound that resonated not in the air, but deep inside him, shaking his very core.
“What do you want from me? Why are you tormenting me?!” Leoran finally demanded, his voice ringing with a strength he didn't know he possessed, defiant even as he remained caught in the dream's horrifying grip. After countless nights facing these nightmares, he had gradually, bitterly, grown used to them. No longer the silent, whimpering little boy. He was giving answers back now. He was pushing.
And a voice, childish and full of cruel amusement, replied from the stitched mask, echoing his defiance back at him: "little boy, is now grown up. He is giving answers back." A sickening laugh followed, seeming to tear the void apart.
This was it. This was the void space of dream inversion, and its host-a demon a thousand centuries old-was born from the clash between two time zones.”
He was groaning in pain, breathing heavily. The raw, strangled sound of his agony tore through the silence, reaching Mosu, who was sleeping beside him.
Mosu stirred, roused by the unfamiliar urgency. He blinked awake, eyes heavy with sleep. Nightmare, he thought, at first with only a familiar, mild concern. He nudged Leoran's shoulder. "Hey, sleepyhead, just a dream, c'mon." His voice, though groggy, was soft, reassuring.
But Leoran’s groans deepened, his breath hitched in desperate gasps, and his words tangled into incoherent, heartbreaking pleas. Mosu watched, a knot of unease tightening in his gut. This wasn't a regular nightmare. The air around Leoran felt heavy, strangely cold, like pressing through thick, unseen water. Mosu placed a hand on Leoran's forehead – it was clammy, despite the sweat that beaded on his skin. He felt Leoran's pulse beneath his fingertips, quick and thready, then strangely… fading.
What is this? Mosu’s own attempts to speak felt swallowed by the strange, suffocating atmosphere. He tried to shake Leoran harder, a desperate, clumsy effort. "Leoran! Wake up! This isn't real!" But his voice felt distant, weak, as if it couldn't penetrate the dark abyss Leoran was trapped in. A cold dread, sharp and insistent, began to prickle his skin. Why can’t my voice reach him? This wasn't just a bad dream; it was real, bleeding out into the room. Leoran's heartbeat was not just fading, it was struggling, frantic, like a dying bird fluttering against unseen bars.
Then, a low, dark hum began to vibrate. Not from Leoran, but from somewhere distant, then closer, seeping into the very walls. A sound that wasn't merely audible, but a feeling of profound wrongness, vibrating in Mosu's bones. Mosu’s head snapped up, eyes wide, searching the dark room, his breath catching. Where is that coming from? He leaned closer to Leoran’s chest, frantic, and then he heard them—faint, terrifying giggles. They were so delicate, so childlike, yet they scraped against his soul like broken glass.
Mosu’s face, moments before etched with simple worry, twisted into something else—pure, unadulterated fear. His eyes darted around, pupils dilated, mirroring the unseen terror.
He instinctively recoiled, stumbling two steps away from Leoran, tripping over his own feet in the dark. No. This isn’t… this isn’t right. This is too much. He spun, propelled by raw panic, and quickly rushed to Kenran’s room, hammering on the door with frantic fists. “Gramp!!!” He flung the door open, but the room was empty. Kenran wasn’t there.
Where did he go…? A fresh, colder wave of absolute panic seized him, twisting his gut. He rushed back to Leoran’s side, his own eyes starting to water from sheer, overwhelming terror. But these weren't just tears—they were turning a sickly crimson, dripping like tiny blood-drops onto Leoran’s pale cheek. The oppressive magic in the air, twisted by Elunir's touch, was bleeding into their very reality, tainting everything.
“Why is this happening to me… why me?!” Mosu yelled, a frantic whisper directed at himself, his voice cracking, his mind reeling from the unadulterated terror of it all.
“I’m sorry, Leoran…” he choked out, his voice trembling, as if apologizing for his brief moment of helplessness.
A shimmering formation erupted around Mosu, a violent, beautiful energy flow blossoming from his heart, following the deep, ancient pulse of the earth itself—the "Land of Roots." This was Rain Breathing Technique, Second Form. The room filled with the fresh, clean, almost holy smell of after-rain, washing away the stench of fear and blood.
Mosu placed his hand firmly on Leoran’s chest, a powerful lavender light erupting from his palm, pushing back against the encroaching darkness. The shimmering glow pulsed, casting ethereal shadows that danced and whispered, not in torment, but with gentle, healing whispers that seeped into Leoran's ears. The light permeated Leoran's body, a living current, pushing back the encroaching void, gripping him, pulling him back, back to his own soul.
Leoran jolted, breath catching in his throat. His face was soaked with sweat and tears, a silent testament to the nightmare's lingering terror. He blinked, pushing past the fading lavender light that still seemed to cling to the edges of his vision, a beautiful, ghostly afterimage. He was back. A long, shuddering sigh of profound relief escaped him, deflating his chest.
Mosu, his own face streaked with tears—some still crimson—felt the abrupt cessation of the terrifying pressure. Relief, so profound it buckled his knees, washed over him, a warm wave. He slowly folded, sinking to the floor beside the bed, leaning against the frame, gasping for breath, his heart still hammering.
"Dude… what was that?" Mosu managed, his voice shaky, a raw edge of fear still clinging to it.
Leoran didn't reply immediately. He was collecting his thoughts, piecing together the fractured reality of the dream from the raw sensations that still clung to him like cold ash. His fingers found their way to his wet hair, tucking it back, his eyes still distant, unfocused. Blank. As ever.
Mosu, ever impatient, ever needing a distraction, waved a hand frantically in front of Leoran's face. "Hey! You okay?! How many fingers am I holding?"
Leoran knew exactly what Mosu was doing—a classic panic-check, a ridiculous test to ground them both. He played along, his voice flat, his gaze seemingly fixed on nothing. "Six."
"Six?! What do you mean, six?!" Mosu squawked, genuinely confused, lowering his hand to check his own fingers. "It's five! Where did six come from? Usually it's like, double, right? So you should say ten if you're seeing double… Wait a second." Mosu froze mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing, a glimmer of suspicion replacing confusion. "You're messing with me, aren't you?"
Leoran finally rolled his eyes, a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture, but it was there, a flicker of his usual dry amusement. "Tsk. I got caught." He said it to the opposite wall, not even bothering to look at Mosu.
"Hey! You ignored me again!" Mosu whined, pulling his knees to his chest and pouting dramatically at the wall, his voice a low grumble. "Even though I helped you with the incredible power of friendship… and you're making fun of me…" He muttered, trying to console himself, a small, sad sniffle escaping him.
A faint, clean scent wafted through the air. Sniff, sniff. Leoran inhaled deeply, a surprising calm settling over him. The smell of rain… it’s the same smell that pulled me back in my dream… He slowly turned his head, watching Mosu’s back as his friend continued to pout and mumble, curling his whole body into a disgruntled ball against the wall.
A small, genuine smile, subtle as a shadow, touched Leoran’s lips. An incredible sense of profound relief, a warmth he hadn't felt in years, washed over him, filling him from the inside out. Even Leoran didn't know why.
Idiot, the word formed clearly in Leoran’s mind, not uttered, but it somehow reached Mosu’s ear with the speed of light.
Mosu instantly uncurled from his sulk, snapping his head around, eyes wide with astonishment. "Hey! You called me an idiot! Hey, how the hell did you know?! I didn’t even utter fully!”
Even Leoran was shocked.
A sudden, sharp whoosh of air, followed by a thunderous SLAM! that rattled the small house. The door to Leoran’s room flew wide open, revealing Kenran, huffing, eyes wide and breath ragged, a stark picture of petrified alarm.
Both Leoran and Mosu, still half-kneeling, startled so violently they shrieked, instantly clinging to each other like startled pandas, a tangled heap of limbs and panicked whispers. Then, the realization hit them, slow and dawning, as they slowly turned their heads to face each other.
"Uwhhah!" A silent scream, a shared expression of utter horror at their own accidental embrace. They untangled themselves with exaggerated haste, scrambling to opposite sides of the bed.
“Hey, old man! You scared the crap out of us!” Leoran’s voice, though still edged with the lingering shock of the nightmare, was flat, accusing. He squinted at Kenran. “And why are you so sweating? Did you see a ghost or something? It’s the middle of the night, and our house is the only one with candles lit, making loud noises in the whole mountain!”
Kenran, surprisingly, was calm. Too calm. It wasn't his usual explosive entrance. He stood there, chest heaving slightly, but a wave of profound relief washed over his face. Thank the lords, nothing happened. This was his silent, secret thought. Only Kenran truly knew why he had rushed back like that, why he was so unbalanced. But the sight of Leoran, safe, had made him feel light, as if a great burden had lifted.
“Gramp! You know what hap—!” Mosu began, still a little hysterical, but Leoran’s palm, delivered with surprising force, smacked him across the mouth.
Leoran glared at Mosu, a silent, pointed command. Nothing happened. The look was enough. Mosu, though some brain parts were perpetually missing, knew how to read the room. He clammed up instantly, pouting.
Kenran observed them, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. He knew they were hiding something. They always were. But he chose to believe them for now, sensing the residual tension in the air. "So," he said, his voice even, "what exactly are you two doing?"
“Oh,” Leoran said, deadpan, looking at the ceiling. “We’re just playing pillow fight.”
“Uh?” Kenran’s brow furrowed. Mosu’s eyes widened, mirroring Kenran’s disbelief. A child. A human with an allergy to affection, allergic to even a gentle touch, had just uttered those words.
“What a liar,” Kenran muttered, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“What a liar!” Mosu screeched in his head, an echo of Kenran's thought, though only Mosu heard his own internal protest.
Kenran stroked his long beard, looking thoughtful. “If you said you were just… playing, I might believe you. But pillow fight?” He shook his head. “I have my doubts, boy.”
Suddenly, with a graceful twirl in the air, a faint, almost ethereal neon light shimmered into existence, gathering in the small space around Leoran. Then, with a soft snap! like a twig breaking, Leoran vanished. He had teleported.
“Woahhh!?” Mosu’s jaw dropped. His eyes gleamed with pure amusement and disbelief. “What was that?! Did he just… teleport?!”
“Where did he go?” Mosu asked, already bouncing on his toes, eager.
“On the rooftop.” Kenran replied, unfazed.
“Eh? Heh? Did he just use teleportation… for this?” Mosu asked, a nervous smile stretching his face, trying to comprehend the absurdity. His humor, Leoran's peculiar sense of humor, truly was something else.
“Yes, he does things that sometimes surprise even me,” Kenran mused, a faint warmth in his voice.
Then, Kenran turned, making to walk towards his own room.
“Oh, hey!” Mosu called out, a sudden thought striking him. “And why were you sweating earlier, Gramp?”
Kenran stopped dead. His back stiffened, but his voice remained perfectly level. “What do you mean? I was in my room. Now go to your room and sleep. It’s late already.”
A faint, unsettling smell wafted from Kenran – the subtle odor of something rotten, sour, like stagnant water mixed with stale iron. Leoran didn’t notice, still lost in his own processing, but Mosu, with his unique sensitivity to smells, immediately picked it up. He could tell right away the reason behind any change in someone's natural scent, or any new, unwelcome one.
“Then where were you earlier?” Mosu pressed, genuinely concerned. “I looked for you but you weren't in your room.”
Kenran stopped again, his patience visibly thinning. That kid really questions a lot, he thought, irritation flickering beneath his calm facade. “What do you mean, where was I? I was in my room! And why are you investigating me? Are you police or some secret agent of the Officials?”
Kenran reached out, intending to give Mosu a dismissive pat on the head, but Mosu gently, carefully, intercepted his hand mid-way, taking Kenran’s wrist. His bright, innocent eyes held a disarming seriousness. “Okay, Gramp, I believe what you said. But what about the rotten smell that’s screaming behind you? What’s that doing, Gramp?”
He spoke these words because he was genuinely concerned about the smell, a pure, unadulterated worry. It wasn't that he felt suspicious of where Kenran went, or why.
This sentence truly shocked Kenran to his core. Did that demon’s trace cling to me? he thought, a cold dread twisting in his gut, though he expertly kept his expression perfectly composed, maintaining his cool presence. I knew he wasn’t an ordinary kid, but his sense of smell is something else…
“Ar…” Kenran paused, feigning a cough, then launched into his performance. “Are you a dog or something? How can you say I smell rotten?” His voice rose, tinged with mock offense, his eyes brimming with theatrical tears as he dramatically hid behind his robe. “I just took a bath with the essence of peach!”
Mosu, guileless, immediately felt guilty. “Oh! I’m sorry, Gramp! I didn’t mean it, it’s just… I smell… so…” He slapped himself lightly on the cheek. “Maybe the peach you used was rotten? That’s why I smell it!”
He believed it, Kenran thought, a tiny sigh of relief escaping him.
“Okay, okay, I’m going to sleep,” Kenran said, waving a hand.
“Sleep tight, Gramp!” Mosu called out cheerfully.
They exchanged one last glance—Leoran’s unreadable, Mosu’s innocent, Kenran’s subtly relieved—and headed to their respective ways.
What is that child…? Kenran mused silently, a new layer of puzzle added to his thoughts as he walked away.
