Chapter 6

The Dream That Bled

Another man sat beside Azael, his silky brown hair shining under the dim lights. His green eyes were so bright it hurt to look at him directly. "Azael, maybe hold off on the gambling for now. You can't even sit straight." His voice held a note of concern as he studied his friend’s swaying posture.

"Oh, what would you know? You’re not like me," Azael slurred, his voice trembling as he clutched his mug.

“Raian’s the best arm wrestler in the world, after all.” Raian grinned smugly, short blonde hair falling slightly over his dull gray eyes. He looked toward Kairon, laughing. “You know I never lose.”

Across from Raian stood a towering opponent bald, his musclebound frame almost comically disproportionate, like someone had swapped his limbs with mountains. His dull green eyes stared ahead with focus. “Adrian, you trained for years!” someone in the crowd shouted, hyping the faceoff.

The tavern roared for both contestants, but Azael sat back, confident, already grinning. He glanced toward the man he’d bet against, a wider grin forming. “You know you’re not going to win, right? Raian hasn’t lost once he’s my go-to pick, Lancer.”

Lancer ignored him. “Your loss.”

But Azael didn’t waver.

Raian and Adrian took their places at a scratched, dull wooden table, sitting on equally battered brown chairs. They locked hands, forearms taut with tension, sweat already beading at their temples as the ref counted down.

“Three… two… one-”

CRACK.

The sound of wood splitting and bone snapping exploded through the room. Raian’s world flipped. His vision blurred. A white-hot pain shot up his arm. Regaining focus, he stared at his broken limb in horror his forearm twisted backward at the elbow, fingers bent at grotesque angles, bone jutting from the skin. Blood splattered across the table.

Raian was defeated.

Azael’s grin vanished. Teeth clenched, eyes twitching, he stared at Lancer. The man coolly held out his hand.

“Pay up,” he said, smiling.

Azael didn't move. His defeated blue eyes, shadowed by strands of dull red hair, burned with disbelief. The room grew still. The tension shifted. People turned to stare not at the winner, but at Azael.

His presence changed.

The air thickened, heavy with something wrong. Something dangerous. Lancer’s confident expression faltered. His smile froze.

“I am Azael,” came a low, dark voice, almost inhuman. “I control the nerves in your body. I control the very blood that runs through you. I don’t surrender to defeat. Defeat surrenders to me.”

Lancer’s breath hitched. Sweat dripped from his brow. Azael’s eyes locked onto him, cold and piercing. Lancer didn’t wait he vanished in a blink, teleporting outside the bar.

But Azael wasn’t done.

The building exploded behind Lancer, blood and debris flying outward as if something had burst from within.

Lancer bolted, heart racing, nearly tripping over his own feet. Behind him, Azael emerged. Veins tore through his skin, writhing like tentacles. Blood poured freely, pooling at his feet.

From the open wound on his forearm, a long, red, blood-forged katana formed veins lashing out, pulling him toward his target. Azael launched through the air like a spear.

Lancer turned just in time to summon a weapon of his own a massive great axe, longer than a stop sign post, with twin blades the size of doors.

The clash was violent. Azael’s katana met Lancer’s axe mid-swing, the force triggering a sonic boom. Buildings cracked. Some collapsed outright. The ground beneath them splintered. Any nearby civilians would’ve gone deaf.

Before they could strike again, someone appeared between them, Kairon.

He caught both weapons with his bare hands. Sweat dripped down his face. His arms shook as he struggled to contain the power of two gods.

“STOP THIS.”

Both Azael and Lancer froze, staring at him.

“You two know better than to fight in the main world,” Kairon growled. “If you’re going to do this, I’ll summon you to another universe one were The Observer hasn’t taken interest in.”

His voice trembled, but his will held firm.

Azael slowly smiled, then nodded. Kairon took both their arms. In an instant, they vanished.

They reappeared in a strange world.

The sky wasn’t gray but a deep, dark blue. Carriages floated in the air without wheels or horses. White buildings stretched into the heavens, their windows glowing a dim yellow. Blue translucent screens flickered across the cityscape.

A man in white clothes walked past. Azael, puzzled, stopped him. “What year is it?”

The man blinked, taken aback by Azael’s ragged, centuries-old attire. “It’s the year 3184, sir.”

Azael’s eyes widened. “3184?” he repeated, grinning wildly. “So this is the year 3184…”

He glanced around and paused.

In the crowd, he saw someone. A man with dull red hair and blue eyes.

Their eyes met.

Azael’s veins burst from his forearms again. Blood poured down his hands, a long katana forming from twisted muscle and gore. Azael grinned ear to ear.

Shiro gasped, sitting up beneath a pink ceiling.

Azael? What a weird dream…

He rubbed his eyes, turning to his right.

Aeris was lying beside him, glued to her phone.

“Why are you on my bed?” he asked, still groggy.

“This is my bed, dumbass,” she said flatly.

Shiro blinked, the memory hitting him right, Aeris had treated him after training. He sat up, stretching, and mumbled a thank-you.

Just one more day before class starts again, he thought. As he brushed his teeth, he replayed the dream in his head. It had felt too real.

Brushing the thought aside, he changed into his uniform.

“I’m going out,” he told Aeris.

“Where?”

“Food. I feel like I haven’t eaten in years.”