"Awakened Titan," Silias muttered, more to himself than anything. The name wasn't from a book. It was his own, born out of disgust and dread.
He didn't know what it truly was. Only that the moment he felt it — that vast, insurmountable presence radiating through the hollow valley — he knew hiding had been the right choice… back then.
But not now.
The sensation was suffocating. Like something ancient and wrong breathing through the trees, coiling around the bones of the land. It didn't move, but it was aware. The grove it haunted had grown silent. Too silent.
And despite every nerve in his body screaming to run, Silias found himself walking forward instead — slow, sure steps, weapon drawn. No grand strategy, no borrowed knowledge.
Just a strange calm…
Too calm for someone who had never fought a true nightmare before.
It was almost funny, in a cruel way.
Out of all the places to stumble into, he'd ended up in a harrowing valley carved into the bones of God grave itself—deep within the Hollow Wastes. A stretch of nightmare so thick and bleak that even Sovereigns were said to skirt its edges. A death zone where the air itself held its breath, where stars did not shine.
Unlucky? No. This was worse than misfortune.
This was deliberate.
He wrapped sap-soaked cloth around his blade—Essence-Fed Thornpiercer, the gift torn from the enthralling sapling—and tied it with strands of glimmering vine he'd harvested days prior. The sword shimmered faintly, its pulse weak, but real.
He smeared crushed glow-fruit over his body—masking his scent and dulling his heat. A crude trick. A desperate one. But the best he could manage.
The pulp was strangely cool on his skin, almost soothing despite the sharp, tangy aroma. It clung like sap and shimmered faintly in the dark, painting him in ghostly hues. For a second, he paused—blinking at the soft bioluminescence across his hands.
It would've been beautiful.
If it hadn't reeked of survival.
Still, a tiny part of him smiled. There was something oddly sweet about it—like the world hadn't yet decided whether to kill him or cradle him.
He had found the glow-fruit by accident, half-buried under twisted roots in a hollow alcove—just hours earlier, while hiding from the thing.
The Awakened Titan's shadow had passed not far from where he lay curled, heart pounding like a war drum. In the hush that followed, when even the wind seemed to hold its breath, Silias had noticed the faint glimmer of bioluminescence pulsing under the moss.
He had torn the fruit free in silence, its skin warm and sticky. A soft, sickly-sweet aroma had filled the space, and he'd almost gagged. But the way it dulled his scent when smeared across his skin... that had kept him alive.
Now, crouching in the dying twilight, he crushed more of it into his palms and dragged it down his arms, his chest, his face. The pulp clung like sap, cold and glowing. It wasn't just camouflage—it felt like armor.
For a moment, the sickly light danced on his fingers. It was oddly beautiful, a lullaby in color. He stared.
It would've been comforting, if it didn't smell so much like fear.
Then, he waited.
And when the beast turned its gaze away... he moved.
His first strike was clean.
A downward slash to the hind leg—bark cracked; greenish-black sap hissed like acid.
The Harrowfang shrieked. Not a roar. A wail—like branches torn in a storm.
It spun, faster than something that size should move. Its claws swept a wide arc—Silias ducked, rolled, came up gasping. His hand bled from a grazed strike. The Memory in his sword flared dimly, resisting the corrosion in the air.
He attacked again. And again. Each cut felt too shallow. Each dodge, too close. He was fighting like a mortal boy—not a Nightmare fighter.
But his mind—his mind was calm.
Too calm.
He predicted its movements. Not by skill—by instinct. Or perhaps some flicker of something inherited. A ghost in his bones.
The Harrowfang struck the ground—roots erupted, trying to grab him. He leapt back, then forward—vaulted off a rising root, plunged his blade into the beast's eye.
It shrieked again—tore the blade out along with its own black ichor.
Silias fell. Landed wrong. His leg burned. He couldn't stand right. The Titan closed in.
As it loomed, he did the unthinkable—he screamed and charged. No strategy. No trick.
Just hate. And clarity.
He rammed the sword into its throat—where the wooden plates had split from earlier blows.
The beast staggered. Gurgled. Collapsed like a falling tree.
Spell resounded the air.
[You have slain an Awakened Titan– Verdant Harrowfang]
[You have received: Memory – Hollowroot Mantle]
Silias collapsed beside it. Shaking. Breathing shallow.
He bled. But he lived.
But then… his hopes were crushed.
The faint light in his eyes dimmed. He fell to his knees beside the carcass of the slain horror. Its blood still steamed, soaking into the dirt.
Tears streamed down silently.
There was no way back. No path forward. No strength left to move.
He pressed his forehead to the ground, shaking.
He had survived—but he couldn't win. Not here. Not like this.
"I can't go back." he whispered.
And in the hollow quiet of Godgrave, the truth settled like a weight across his soul:
He wouldn't live long. No way he could.
The Spell wouldn't say it.
He wasn't in a Nightmare.
This wasn't some twisted illusion born of fear.
No… this was the Dream Realm.
And yet—he wasn't a Dreamspawn.
He didn't belong here.
He didn't belong anywhere.
These thoughts spiraled in his mind as he sat silently, tears trailing down his face, body trembling beside the carcass of the slain horror.
The stench of its blood clung to the air. It should have smelled like victory.
It didn't.
It smelled like failure.
"…Why?" he whispered aloud.
'Why?'
'Why?'
'Why?'
'Why?'
'Why?'
'Why?'
Each echo rang in his mind—colder, emptier, hollower than the last.
They didn't demand an answer.
They just existed.
Like everything else in Godgrave.