Elena found herself continuing to scribble notes on papers strewn across her walls well after the sun had already set, the lamp on her desk readjusted to beam light over her new workspace. At least for now, she couldn’t let herself fall asleep just yet. After all, she already tried that in futility.

“I had the shape all wrong.”

She had already torn down her previous core model—a cylindrical structure that suggested a perfectly even spread of Possibility throughout the entire height of the Realm of Possibility. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to crumple it up and toss it away, though, so it now lay folded up on a corner of her desk, atop the pile of other older drafts.

“If I’m to integrate what Irin said…”

She stepped down from the stool she had set out to reach the highest papers, stepping back to take in everything at once.

A vaguely conical structure. Without knowing exactly how the worlds of the Realm of Possibility occupied space, she could only make a general estimate of relative size in her models.

Bordering the circumference of the cone’s base—the Outer Realms. Moving one layer inwards—the Wild Ring. And at its center—the First Frontier. From there, regions moved upwards—the Central Realms, and whatever unknowns lay further beyond.

“But… Is it really a matter of space…?”

She approached the wall, sketching a light cylinder circumscribed about the cone, before stepping back again.

“If the term ‘Possibility Density’ has greater implications… What if worlds are set by density? The cylindrical shape could be maintained if the Outer Realms were more dense than the layers above…”

She sighed, setting the pen down beside her.

“I guess I’ll have to figure this out later. But now…”

She turned to the right, facing the remainder of her work—vague sketches of graphs and endless bullet points in messy handwriting.

“The ‘energy’ of the Realm of Possibility is Possibility itself. Humans are capable of wielding it, and those that do are called ‘Shapers,’ while there also exists a higher classification of individuals known as ‘Dreamers.’”

Glancing at the lamp, a thought crossed through her mind as she promptly turned it off, plunging the room into darkness save for the lights filtering in from outside her window.

“What happens if a circuit of Possibility is cut off? Emptiness? Or ‘impossibility?’”

Coming from the street outside, she could hear the muffled anger of a car’s horn, to which several other vehicles argued in response.

“Possibility acts as the fuel to trigger phenomena of the user’s will… Pressure like Waker’s, creation like my spear, presence like the Seer’s, and so on… Moreover, they have categories for techniques—the commands—but supposedly, you need the prior to wield the next…”

She flicked the lamp back on.

“I want to learn all seven, but… that’s a matter of experience first. I can’t do much other than theorize here…”

She crossed and uncrossed her arms several times, closing her eyes before suddenly snapping into motion, flinging one of the desk’s drawers open.

A fresh piece of paper and a fresh array of drawing utensils.

“The first command—the ability to create tangible items, such as that spear. The second command—the ability to augment things forged from Possibility with more of it. I haven’t gotten to try it yet, but I’d assume it enhances potency.”

Five left.

“Nothing. It all starts from nothing. Concepts build off of their predecessors.”

A blank canvas.

“Birth. From nothing, we create ideas, and make those ideas reality.”

A sketch.

“Improvement. We refine our ideas and their manifestations.”

A line art.

“It only makes sense for ‘color’ to come next…”

She stood staring at those scratches on paper for several minutes.

“Gah! This metaphor made sense at first, but what does ‘color’ even mean in this case?” her voice broke the tranquility of the night, lingering like an echo in her ear. At last, she threw her arms up in resignation, returning to her chair that she had turned away from the desk to face the wall.

“But… I must admit, Aster,” she started, turning towards the familiar photograph atop her shelf, “you were right… I’ve found it—the dream I want to chase.”

Leaning back, she closed her eyes again, retracing her journey alongside Irin—a blanketing silence washing over the stillness of her room.

Finally, she started to chuckle softly, still maintaining her relaxed posture.

“That’s just it… if ‘reality’ is the outline in black and white, then the dream of what can be… Possibility… is ‘color.’”

Hurrying back over to the unfinished drawing, she began to quickly scrawl out her revelation.

“I’m sure of it. The third command is the ability to control raw Possibility.”

Her pen froze mid-stroke.

“Hah… I should’ve known all along. Back then… this was the first thing I ever did with Possibility, wasn’t it?”

Conceptual presence. That was how she had understood it back then.

With a sigh of satisfaction, she smiled to herself and removed her glasses, gently laying them atop the nightstand before slipping into bed.

“Sweet dreams…” she mumbled, her consciousness fading to the allure of rest.

But that night, she didn’t dream.

***

“I’ll reach it…”

Irin repeated those words to himself, world after world.

The Seer had been correct in identifying the counterproductiveness of his journey. After all, the Brink was the farthest a person could travel away from the center of the Outer Realms. That ‘shore’ marking the boundary between what is and what wasn’t was only composed of a thin ring, one world in ‘width’ that bordered the Hollow Tide.

Despite his early life being dislocated by that omnipotent phenomenon, Irin himself had never directly seen for himself what it actually looked like. Some said it was as if existence ceased to be—an irrefutable end with no other side, while others claimed they could peer into it like an unending abyss.

He wondered what would happen if he were to greet those waves once more. Would they swallow him up as they were supposed to, like they did to his hometown? Or would they acknowledge him as one who defied his end?

He winced as pain seared through his back—the injuries he sustained from the guards still lingering. 

How many days and nights had it been? He didn’t know for sure. He didn’t even know how many worlds he had traversed in total, thanks to his ability to redirect the destinations of Doorways to previously explored worlds. Normally, he could’ve quickly travelled to the Outpost—the outermost crossroads city sharing the same purpose as the Confluence—but for whatever reason, his system no longer listed it as a destination.

Hunger, thirst, fatigue. Each burden continued to weigh on him, but he knew that taking the time to search for a proper place to recharge would lead to too long of a detour. After all, ever since the historic establishment of zones for coexistence between worlds, many home worlds were abandoned in favor of locations more ‘beneficial.’

 Over time, the Hollow Tide would take care of those worlds in its own way, but some were unlucky, being sentenced to an eternity of desolation—but maybe survival was a blessing in and of itself. Or, at least, that was what everyone assumed of the worlds they no longer saw.

The place he currently trekked through was one such world, with ruins of forgotten cities and rampant wildlife.

“I don’t know how soon Elena can return… or if she can even return at all… Regardless, I need to be ready.”

 《[Skill], [Tenacity], urges you to rest.》

“I’m fine. I can keep going—”

But, before he could finish his reply, his body gave out, tumbling onto the grass below his feet. 

“...I can still… keep going…”

And despite his silent protest, his eyes shut out the world.

In the darkness, he could’ve sworn he saw a dream—one in which he and Elena had reached the First Frontier. But, something about that vision felt wrong. He felt wrong, and the last thing he could see was a her that wasn’t quite her, walking away into an incomprehensible light with her back towards him.

He jolted upright, silently mouthing, “Don’t leave me…”

His surroundings came to him next. He seemed to have been laying atop a brown bed inside a patchy building made from stone and wood—a desk in the opposite corner of the room, a window on the wall to his right, and a door to his left.

Before he could swing his feet onto the floor, a voice from the door called out to him.

“You might not want to move just yet. I’ve taken care of your back, but please give yourself time to recover.”

His eyes swiveled to the person that had just entered—a tall man dressed in a flowing robe, his wine red hair trailing down to his ankles, and a gentle smile on his lips.

“Were you the one who brought me here?”

“Yes, I found you passed out in the woods. Now, I assume you made it this far in search of the Outpost?”

Irin inched backwards towards the wall, one tensed hand hidden behind his body as he warily scanned the room.

“What gives you that idea?”

The man closed his eyes and nodded knowingly, setting the woven basket of herbs in his hands down beside the door.

“That makes you the 153rd.” 

Irin froze.

“You likely haven’t heard, but the Outpost has been overtaken by Dream Hunters.”