The world was wrong.
The sky strained beneath unnatural clouds. Not storm. Not smoke. Something heavier. A weight pressing from above, as if the heavens were choking on a secret too terrible to speak.
The land twisted. Trees bent at impossible angles. Roots split stone and soil. Life endured not through beauty, but through mutation and madness.
I wandered a forest that should have thrived with green. Now it whispered with teeth. Beasts of twisted form prowled the shadows, too many eyes, limbs stitched by chaos. Creatures born not of this world, but of something far beyond it.
Echoes of a greater madness. Dreams made real.
I reached beyond what was visible. Beyond space and time, into the raw weave of the world's soul.
And I saw it.
Behind the structure of reality, beyond the mortal grasp of dimensions, there existed others. Countless. Infinite. So vast, and yet, even so, my perception could reach their edge. Each dwelled in realms far outside the verse I created.
Cosmic entities.
The same radiant beings I once saw circling the central light before my first descent. Brilliant. Massive. Unaware.
They were not gods. Not demons. Not spirits. They were beings whose dreams gave rise to multiverses of their own. But their creation was different from mine.
Their minds dreamed endlessly, forming layers of unreality. Though they existed in dimensions far beyond the boundaries of causality, their dreams rippled downward, touching the fragile threads of my creation.
Their slumber wove a mesh through the multiverse. And this world was caught in it.
Here, the veil was thin. Too thin.
Their thoughts leaked through. Their madness warped space and bent logic. Their dreams rewrote memory, reshaped form. They did not see, nor act with intent.
They simply were. And through their presence, they changed everything.
This forest, this ruined world, it was not alone. It was simply close to the source.
I pulled at time, unraveling memory like cloth. History reversed.
The world had once been beautiful.
Dragons ruled the skies. Elves lived in towers of wind and song. Dwarves carved deep into mountains. Humans painted legacy with fire and steel. Even demons lived by balance.
Yes, there was war. Endless war. But there was meaning.
Then, the dreamers stirred. Not from will, but from existence. Their influence descended, unbound by logic. Not as prophecy. Not as divine punishment. Just... presence. Slow. Silent. Poison.
Reality unraveled. Magic decayed. Creatures dreamed of things that had never existed. Nightmares became memories. Nature bent and twisted under alien emotions.
All without purpose. All without design.
The outer beings did not target this world. It simply listened too closely.
The scars remain. Carved into the trees, the ruins, the wind, the silence.
Even now, I feel the residue.
The dreamers still sleep. And the world still listens.