Kiboden awoke, clarity of mind and body overflowing his senses. Cold sweat ran down his back, his body aching all over. A constant throbbing pummeled his head, accompanied by a soft ringing, and, when he tried to stand, a searing pain coursing through his leg. He fell on his back, ragged breaths taking in the stagnant thin air that surrounded him. Everything could be felt: the way the inside of his fingers and toes outstretched, the palpable air that filled and expanded his chest, the musty taste than lingered on his tongue, the trail of blood that weighed heavily on his ears, the opening on his leg that throbbed with each beat of his heart, and, most importantly, the clear conscience with which he experienced it all. Staring upwards at the hole he had fallen through, he took a moment to process his surroundings.

Thin strands of moonlight came through the hole, enough to give him visibility of the small room he now lay in. Dust and other unruly particles drifted in the air, experiencing the first draft in ages. Old unlit candles ran along on stands against three walls, the fourth covered instead by a beautiful mural depicting an old lonely city; a pyramid of purple fire in the center.

Kiboden craned his head to look at the image, at the city he had walked through. It was only now that he questioned the impossibility he had experienced, the sudden expectation, the magnitude and size of the place. He sat up, swung his legs in one motion to face the mural. His leg stung but he was more focused on ruffling his hair between both hands. More and more thought was given until he let his hands drop to the ground.

“Alison will explain it. Alison will explain it, right? Ghouls? Dane? Anjande?” The ghoul spoke to himself, shivered uncertainly, until warmth spread up his chest and stretched his mouth. “Kiboden.”

He tightened his arms around him and pushed his knees inwards. He trembled, finding himself unable to close the smile that spread his lips. Such a deep comfort, he basked in his triumph. But he wondered what led to his current state.

“I must have fallen and hit my head, the painting the last—” Kiboden stops talking, only then realizing just how faint his voice sounded.

He carefully takes a finger and picks at an ear, coming away with bloody truth at the tip. Warm liquid came dripping, the spreading gushing sensation mirroring his panic. He filled his chest and hurled the loudest most grating scream, but it was just as faint as before. His throat had certainly trembled under the strain, however, he heard nothing of the effort. He stroked his leg, blood there too. The pain in his leg stung quite a bit, an open cut above his ankle that seemed insignificant now. Skin could heal given time. But his ears? He wasn’t so sure.

It was under the pressure of his soundless future that he found himself staring at the city, the painting on the wall, remembering the visions shown to him. Dreams amid dreams with more clarity than the dream before. Reality seemed fragile, ready to disappear to show a more clear, real, plane of existence. Just the thought left him feeling light, his head numbing at the thought that his surroundings may be false, physical objects that could warp and disappear into darkness at any moment. He had no way to be sure. His life had begun only a night ago.

He pulled those expanding thoughts inward, solidifying his mind, keeping his reality stable, and focused on the memories that occurred in the painting. The purple smoke that had closed a wound, the smoke that had taken people’s breath away, the skin that resisted the sword only to swiftly separate under one cloaked in blue. The memories were unreasonable, impossible, but they had felt as real as memories could ever feel. So he focused on the three lines on his marked hand.

The black puffed out in response and he grasped at it with both hands. He shuddered, it was not air for he could feel it writhing under his fingertips, a soft solid that felt alive. But it had saved his life before. When flames were burning his whole body, it was these smoke-like tendrils of darkness that had enwrapped his body to cool him—heal. Urged by the dream of the woman who used her own purple smoke, he placed his hands next to his ears and waited.

His spine arched as he felt the cool lick of the tendrils enter his ears and then warmth and the end of silence as the tendrils of darkness dissipated.

The wind was blowing overhead, rustling the dirt and leaves in the ruin above. It creaked and groaned around him as any wooden support shifted in its age. His breath was not just a vibration but rhythmic relief that resounded in his ears. He gave a cry of glee. And a shriek responded in turn.

He looked at the opening above where it had come from and followed the stairs upwards. They paled in comparison to those in his dream, these only took ten of his steps before his head came above the floor.

He could see the remains of the door he had plunged into. Hiding behind the wreckage, he looked out to where the screeching had come from. The sounds of metal and shuffling could be made. His mouth dropped.

The clearing embedded with swords had become a disorder of earth, metal, and cloth. The land was uneven. Piles of earth, bone, clothing, and broken blades served as the ground for a figure of darkness that struggled amongst it all. It was made of fresh earth and grass, a few bones, and a purple material that held it all together.

Kiboden could see now that the figure was kneeling on another of the same kind. It struggled, trashing its arms around, punching at the one on top of it, but the ghoul drew a sharp breath as a black sword was raised above and slammed into the skull of the one below. A dying shriek to signal an end.

It was the black blade that had mesmerized him. And now it’s wielder, made of earth, bone and purple, shattered the sword of the one he defeated and began pacing around the clearing. As it drew closer to the ruin, Kiboden could see that it wore a form of black leather armor and the purple was rotting flesh that glowed with energy. As for the reason it paced, the earth underneath it moved to combine with bone, flesh and cloth, to form another figure. But the black blade rained down upon the moving earth that shrieked in pain.

Kiboden thought he could wait. But the dead swordsman, as he named, kept pacing and he finally decided.

“I think I can sneak past him.”

And just as he thought that, a figure from inside the ruin tackled him through the door and out into the clearing, a fixed point of pain in his back. A moment of surprise for the dead swordsman that the defeated took advantage of as multiple earthen hands formed to latch onto its feet, holding it in place.

And earthen hands formed to hold Kiboden’s arms and back against the ground. Atop his waist sat another dead warrior. This one formed of the stone found inside the ruin, the purple holding it together a stronger tint. A red cloth was wrapped around its head as a headband but none of that mattered as the dead warrior, failing to penetrate Kiboden’s skin with his sword, now plunged his thumbs into Kiboden’s throat.

Hands pushed out and latched on to the limbs and pulled their bodies out of the earth for Kiboden to see. He was surrounded by figures of earth and purple dying flesh, all melding together as they tried to grasp on to him. It was enough, his fear condensed in his right hand and released.

The dead swordsmen had just released itself when it suddenly lowered its stance and faced the clump of dead warriors piling on Kiboden.

A plume of black smoke suddenly expanded outward. Dead warriors flew into the air and became fragments, whatever held them together weakening and undoing. The earthen bone hands that tried to push their bodies out from the earth crumbled away.

But the dead swordsmen held his ground and brought down his black blade in a peerless slice that let the black smoke rush past him. Even then, its shoulders and elbows felt a crumble as earth fell away.

Kiboden pushed himself to a strained stand and he haphazardly pointed his right hand covered in black tendrils at the dead swordsman.

“Come.”

The dead swordsman looked about, sheathed its swords, turned and walked into the forest. Soon it was gone.

Kiboden let out a sigh of relief as he fell to his knees, face, and then to sleep.