How disconcerting!

As Marcellus's vision cleared, an unexpected sight unfolded before his eyes. His gaze was met by a strange, white-blue filament that suffused the entire atmosphere, casting an otherworldly glow over everything and lending a fantasy-like quality to the world around him. The unfamiliar scenery had taken on an ethereal, almost illusory aspect.

But what truly captivated his attention was the sky above.

Astonishingly, it was graced by not one, but two suns. They hung suspended in the azure expanse, their presence both majestic and bewildering. The sky was devoid of clouds, yet the sight did nothing to dispel Marcellus's growing confusion.

Contrary to what one might expect with two suns overhead, the heat was not oppressive or scorching. Instead, Marcellus was enveloped in a peculiar sensation, one that was difficult to pinpoint. It was an uncomfortable mix of feelings—a hint of nausea, a touch of suffocation, and a vague sense of faintness. Yet, none of these symptoms seemed to fully assert themselves.

I can't move!

Why can't I move?

Unable to avert his eyes from the enigmatic celestial scene, Marcellus absorbed the surreal ambience that pervaded this unfamiliar realm. The atmosphere itself appeared to possess a sombre quality, distinct from the bright radiance of the sun he was familiar with. Rather than the customary golden hue, both suns emitted a damped pinkish-purple glow, casting an otherworldly palette across the landscape.

Intriguing as it was, Marcellus's rational mind wrestled with his surroundings, attempting to rationalize the bewildering phenomenon.

I must be dreaming, he concluded.

Seeking solace in the realm of the subconscious, where such extraordinary occurrences often found their home. Yet, a lingering doubt gnawed at the back of his mind, teasing him.

How is it so detailed? My past dreams were never this detailed. Did I die? Maybe I reincarnated as grass, he pondered.

A surge of restlessness surged through his mind, fueled by an insatiable thirst for logic and reason. Each element of this strange dreamscape demanded scrutiny, every detail a potential clue to unlock the puzzle that held his consciousness captive.

Could it be that I have transcended the realm of dreams altogether?

The possibility of his demise, followed by an enigmatic reincarnation, tugged at the edges of his thoughts, a haunting notion that refused to be dismissed.

The dead do not dream, I could be very dead.

However, in the midst of Marcellus's reverie, a sudden interruption invaded the silence. It was not an external sound but a voice that resonated within his mind, as if a hidden presence sought to communicate with him. The voice, soft yet distinct, felt ancient, like it spoke to his soul and cleared its throat with an ethereal "Hmmm."

Marcellus's thoughts jolted to attention, his focus shifting from the enigmatic dreamscape to this unexpected internal encounter. A mixture of curiosity and caution coursed through him, as he grappled with the realization that he was not alone in this realm of his own creation.

Was it a figment of my imagination, a manifestation of my subconscious... Or was it something more, a mysterious entity reaching out across the boundaries of his mind?

"I am Lancel," the presence introduced himself with a hint of weariness in his voice. "For the next one thousand four hundred sixty-one days, you will remain here. Unfortunately, you may not leave before then."

Marcellus's confusion deepened as he struggled to comprehend Lancel's words. Lancel? Who is he, and for what purpose am I here? And where exactly were they?

Seeking to clarify the lingering doubts, Lancel's voice took on a sombre tone. "I understand that some of you may feel as though you are caught in a dream or that you have departed from the realm of the living. However, I must inform you that neither of those assumptions holds. The truth is both complex and unsettling."

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

He paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. "Your presence here serves a purpose far greater than any personal ambition." Lancel's voice seemed to permeate Marcellus's soul with bitterness as he explained further, "The skills you develop and the strength you gain here are crucial, not just for you, but for a much larger tapestry."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to hang in the air. "Forget your past. Here, new lives etch themselves in stone. This is your reality now. Find your purpose, or it will consume you."

Marcellus's heart sank, weighed down by the profound implications of Lancel's revelations. Sure enough, there was a gap in the explanation—from talking about the purpose we serve here to talking about skill.

Hiss! He's hiding something!

Marcellus was no stranger to gaps in explanation. Unknowingly, he had come to expect them; He had grown up with a talented warrior, no more than five years older than him, who introduced him to the concept of learning with your body rather than your head—mostly through an ungodly amount of head whacks with a wooden stick.

As he absorbed the weight of the information, a strange sense of urgency coursed through him to prove himself. Mysteriously, it became clear to Marcellus that his fight for survival and the reclamation of his fate hung precariously in the balance. The pieces of the puzzle were gradually falling into place, revealing a grander purpose behind his presence in this enigmatic realm.

However, there was just silence, unadulterated silence. Marcellus did not know for how long; he seemed to lose all concept of time.

Just as he began to wonder if he had imagined it all and questioned his sanity, the voice returned, as enigmatic and ethereal as before. Its arrival brought a renewed surge of energy, and Marcellus felt a strange sensation ripple through his body. A subtle yet noticeable change washed over him as if a dormant power within him had been awakened.

"Your bodies should feel a little better now, so get up!" the voice commanded, its tone filled with an authority that brooked no argument.

Marcellus's limbs responded almost automatically, as if he were a mere puppet controlled. He pushed himself up from the ground, his muscles responding with newfound vigor. The weariness that had burdened him moments ago seemed to dissipate, replaced by a surge of vitality.

Confusion mingled with a tinge of awe as Marcellus realized that there was more to his current situation than he had initially comprehended. The voice, the transformations within his body—it all pointed to a deeper reality, one that defied the boundaries of his previous understanding.

Marcellus's eyes widened in awe and disbelief as he took in the sight of the vast floating island, stretching out as far as his eyes could see. It was a desolate flat landmass, teeming with thousands of people who seemed to have found their place within this surreal 'dream.'

A shiver tickled his spine as he scanned the impossible islands rising around him. Before he could fully process his thoughts, Lancel's voice resounded once again, this time out loud, emanating from a towering rock, dark and obsidian-like in its appearance.

Marcellus's eyes traced the impossible curves of the towering rock in the shape of a ship, his mind reeling. Every instinct screamed that this shouldn't be possible, yet here he stood, dwarfed by the whim of some unseen architect. Who wielded such power? And did they know who he was? Tiny ants crawling through their monstrous creation, unaware of the purpose they might serve—or of the fate that awaited them.

Lancel's voice, devoid of warmth or inflection, hung heavy in the air. "Many have been culled, but the worthy remain scarce. Heed this well, for the path ahead demands ironclad resolve and unwavering focus. Those who stumble will find swift correction from the instruments of my Lord's judgment."

Marcellus's heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. He realized that he stood among a vast assembly of individuals, all chosen for an extraordinary purpose, with the opportunity to receive guidance from a mysterious and powerful figure.

Fear-pricked heart hammering, Marcellus scanned the darkening sky. Thousands of "black rocks" defied gravity, swarming like alien moths. Then, a colossal spaceship, defying logic, materialized mid-air. Awe battled dread.

His mortal limitations mocked by this fantastical spectacle, Marcellus watched as ships arrived and departed, ferrying a diverse collection to this mysterious island. Observations deepened curiosity: who controlled these vessels? Who were these strangers? Was it the man named Lancel?

Suddenly, a collective shift. Following the crowd's silent gaze, Marcellus saw two more ships. Hope flared. These vessels, gateways to the unknown, promised answers.

As Marcellus neared the edge, three breathtaking figures caught his eye. A captivating woman, dark blade singing of untold power, held his gaze. Regret stung as her ship departed, a missed chance echoing in his heart.

Then, three more figures materialized—a trio of knights with eyes that shimmered with an ethereal glint. At the heart of this assembly stood a divine-looking man, his countenance a masterpiece of enduring strength and wisdom.

Marcellus couldn't help but fixate on the face sculpted from unyielding granite, etched with the indelible marks of time. Yet, beneath the chiselled lines, a hint of youthful defiance flickered—a spark of rebellion against the implacable march of years. His hair, a tapestry woven from strands of moonlight, formed a radiant crown, while his eyes held the weight of countless moons. As his lips, sculpted and cruel, moved in a barely audible "Welcome," this divine-looking man embodied a ruler—an amalgamation of age and rebellion, a tempest concealed beneath an outward calm.

Amid all this, Marcellus had completely forgotten about the gap in the explanation—thankfully with no whacks to his head.

Marcellus, adrift in a dreamlike realm, boarded, enthralled and wary, a moth drawn to an unknown flame.