Shadow Slave/// Oldest Dream

Icarus's life was simple.

He would wake up at the same time every morning. He would train with his sword, repeating each form thousands of times. His muscles burned, his hands blistered, but he never stopped. Repetition brought perfection. Perfection brought understanding.

After hours of training, he would study. The Dream Realm, its explored regions and death zones, its gods and Daemons. He learned about history—both of the waking world and the Dream Realm. He memorized dead languages, studied abominations that lurked in the shadows, traced the outlines of forgotten maps. Wilderness survival, flora and fauna, the behaviors of beasts and men alike. Each day followed the same cycle. Wake, train, study, eat, sleep. There was no need to change what worked.

His father often watched in silence, sometimes with pride, sometimes with concern. Icarus knew his father cared. He just didn't understand him.

To others, Icarus was strange. He was too quiet, too focused, too logical for a boy his age. He didn't throw tantrums like other children. He didn't play or get distracted. He rarely laughed or cried. His mind was different. His father called it an illness. Others called it special, but their voices always carried an edge of unease, as if they weren't sure whether they were complimenting him or pitying him.

Emotions confused him. He felt them, but they never made sense. People cried when they were sad, but sometimes they also cried when they were happy. People said they wanted honesty, but got angry when they heard the truth. They made decisions that contradicted their own survival. They acted against logic.

Icarus didn't.

That was why, when Asterion came for them, Icarus didn't struggle. Didn't resist. He could let his father fight. Could have tried to run. But what would be the point?

Asterion wanted them because of their bloodlines. Sun and War. Fire and Glory.

. Icarus had simply chosen to follow. It was the logical choice—if he went willingly, no one had to die.

And so, he walked into the unknown.

Time blurred. Days stretched into weeks, into months, into years. The Dream Realm changed them. It stripped away everything unnecessary.

Icarus became ruthless—not because he wanted to, but because it made sense. If something tried to kill you, you killed it first. That was the rule. There was no guilt, no hesitation. It was a simple equation.

Mordret, though… Mordret wasn't like him.

He wanted to be normal. Icarus could tell. He longed for friends, for childhood, for a sense of belonging. But something inside him was breaking. He was growing nihilistic, more practical by the day and less human.

Icarus understood. He saw those same traits in himself. He watched people die, but never mourned them. He watched beasts fall, but felt nothing. He understood what loss was, what grief meant. But he could not express it.

And Asterion?

Asterion was sick. A lunatic. That much was clear. But to him, Icarus and Mordret weren't people. They were subjects to experiment on.

Now, they walked.

The desert stretched endlessly before them, an ocean of white sand beneath a pale sky. The pyramid stood in the distance, but no matter how long they walked, it never got closer.

Icarus licked his cracked lips. He was thirsty. His body ached. He was tired.

He glanced at Mordret, then at Asterion.

"This isn't scientifically possible," he said, his voice flat.

Asterion chuckled. "Oh, my dear boy. When has that ever mattered?"

___

Awakening wasn't just about unlocking power. It was the first step on a path—a foundation that needed to be built carefully, refined, and strengthened over time. Klaus had come to understand this early on.

The first thing he learned was that the more one altered fate within a Nightmare, the greater the reward. The second was something even more profound—Attributes weren't exclusive to those born with them. If someone left a deep enough mark on the world, if they accomplished something truly significant, the world would respond.

That was why his siblings were so powerful. He had told them this truth, and with that knowledge, they had approached their Nightmares differently, overcoming them rather than merely surviving. Their rewards had been immense.

But Klus chose a different approach.

He had given them the means to challenge their Second Nightmares—Nightmare Seed he had found. And yet, he had never taken that step himself.

Not because he wasn't ready.

Because his path demanded patience.

His abilities revolved around space-time. But it wasn't just about mastering them through practice—it required understanding. And understanding wasn't the same as knowledge.

Knowing how something worked was one thing.

Truly grasping its essence was another.

That was why he had waited. Why he had chosen to build foundation instead of rushing forward like so many others. His growth wasn't just about immediate strength—it was about building something unshakable.

Another reason was sorcery.

Sorcery was a tool—a way to expand what was possible. So, he had studied it deeply. Runic sorcery, divine miracles, the sorcery of names, weaving sorcery—anything that could be useful.

His Divine Eyes of the Void allowed him to see more than most. He could observe the weave of memories, the intricate patterns that made up memories. Few in history had ever managed to perceive such things. Even fewer had learned to weave.

At first, he had been fascinated by the mere ability to see these weaves. But that wasn't enough.He wanted to create something of his own.

He didn't want to mimic the sorceries of others—whether they belonged to daemons, gods, or ancient beings. It felt like waste... To be cheap copy of someone else. He wanted a system that was uniquely his. A reflection of his own mind, his own philosophy and individuality.

That was how Ritualistic Magic was born.

A sorcery crafted from the principles of others, but built with his own vision.

With it, he could create prophecies, ritualistic circles, sacrificial rites. He could forge relics imbued with the characteristics of the beings they were created from. He was still at the earliest stages, but he knew that, given time, this would evolve into something far greater.

This was why he had remained Awakened for nearly a decade.

And because of that, no one at his level could match him.

It wasn't just about raw power. It was about the depth of his foundation, the precision of his understanding.

That wouldn't change when he became a Master, Saint or Sovereign... Even beyond that.

Klaus exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift into the night.

Strength wasn't just about advancement.

It was about how well you built the path before stepping forward.

Klaus's gaze lingered on the runes. His attributes... Attributes were very essence of

Every creature, their characteristics.

Attributes:

Flame of Divinity: Your soul is aflame with the light of divinity.

Mentor of Deceit: A master of lies and illusions, you weave falsehoods with such skill that even the truth becomes irrelevant in your wake.

Wisdom of Uriel: You analyze information at an unparalleled speed and possess a photographic memory, making you a walking library of forgotten knowledge.

Law of Original Sin: You are the embodiment of defiance itself, the Original Sin of rebellion that questions the very foundations of existence.

Cold-blooded: You act without hesitation, free from fear, lament, or worry.

He stopped at the Law of Original Sin.

Klaus's lips curled into a wry smile, but there was no warmth in it. That attribute had shaped his life, woven into his very being. Fate had never favored him. No divine hand had ever guided his steps, no benevolent force had smoothed his path. No, he had built everything on his own. Every achievement, every success—it was because he had taken it. By force, by cunning, or by relentless determination, but he had taken it.

None of it was given to him.

Fate was a vile thing. It played favorites.

Take his sister, Nephis, for instance.

Klaus exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he thought of her. She had survived the Forgotten Shore—a place where the strong were broken, and the weak were erased. She had overcome impossible odds. But it wasn't because she was some great strategist, some brilliant mind calculating every move. No. Nephis was awkward, naïve even. Easily misled. Easily manipulated. Her escape from that hell should have been impossible. A death sentence.

And yet, she had succeeded.

Klaus had analyzed it, broken it down to its core. She had the right people around her—Cassia, the seer, always a step ahead with her visions. Athena, with her knowledge of forgotten places and secret routes. Kai, the perfect scout, able to fly and read people like open books. Even Sunless, the bitter boy who seemed useless on the surface had aspect connected to Shadows... Shadow God... Klaus suspected Sunless was like him, Mordret and Nephis. Someone with divine aspect. Wasn't it all a little too convenient?

And yet, despite the odds, she had succeeded.

Why her and not all those who came before her?

It was because she was fated to. Fate had already decided.

Klaus's mind churned over the absurdity of it all. Why hadn't Gunlaug crushed her before she could rise? Why had fate allowed her to escape, to grow into a threat? He had heard stories of the First Lord, the man who had nothing. No divine favor, no aspect, no powerful seer or guide. Just a man with a cause, determined to make a difference. He had almost succeeded in his own way, sacrificing everything for the future.

Klaus respected that. It was a path marked by sacrifice, but still, it wasn't enough. The First Lord had been discarded, his life nothing more than a stepping stone for the next. That was the reality. Fate didn't care about effort. Fate didn't care about strength or determination. It cared only about who it favored.

Klaus scoffed at the thought, bitterness curling at the edges of his mind. Fate was a joke.

It favored the few. Gave them strength, talent, a path leading to greatness. And then, it discarded the others, those who bled, who fought, who suffered for nothing.

No one could say Klaus was fortunate. No one could say he was fated to rise. He had chosen his own path. He had ripped everything from the world with his own hands, and no one could take that from him.

He loved Nephis, yes. That was true. But still, he couldn't help but feel pity for the forgotten. For the discarded.

It was a resentment that had festered inside him since his first nightmare.

Perhaps that was why his Law of Original Sin had manifested in the first place. Maybe it was the consequence of his relentless defiance. He had read about the story of Adam once—the first man, who tasted the forbidden fruit. He defied the divine command, and in doing so, he brought about the first sin, the Original Sin that damned humanity.

Klaus couldn't help but see the parallels. Adam sought knowledge and awareness. He sought independence, to be like god, and so he ate the fruit.

Klaus sought godhood.

And the path to godhood was paved with defiance.

A smirk twisted at Klaus's lips as he flicked the cigarette, the ember glowing in the dark of the night.

Sinners, huh?

It was fitting, really.