Time , time , why don’t you take a stop?

Sip a tea or have a meal ,

Life’s long , nowhere to go ,

Time , time , who are you?

Beneath the mask of days passing by.

The familiar melody repeats this lullaby that still remains unnamed , it sings many times , in the sleepless nights , in the sadness that exhausts the tears.

Acryl opened his eyes , pages of his sketchbook flew through the air as the lullaby echoed.

He looks around , wondering where he is. He feels the pain of his realm-arts , weird , he thinks to himself.

Out of caution , he counts the thirty minute countdown.

The surrounding white wall is somehow familiar. The nameless wind keeps blowing the papers away. Acryl reaches to one page and catches it.

‘‘Wait , no , the lines…it is…wrong? …No , not wrong , it's just… , something is not right with this page.’’

This isn’t my sketchbook , Acryl thinks to himself.

The lullaby that came out of nowhere keeps repeating itself , but the voice goes weirder and weirder , from a heavenly symphony to the song of praise for the unspeakables , the lyrics begin to become more and more wicked as it was going to corrupt reality itself.

The portrait’s faces flow and shift , their eyes open wide and the pupil shrinks down to a single , unnoticeable dot. Acryl drops the paper as if it is a burning piece of iron. He melts down a piece of wall into the acrylic-like matter and hangs it around him.

The wind keeps whistling its bloodstained lullaby.

Like it isn’t ever going to stop. Acryl walks around , the walls are hung full of paintings and drawings. As he walks with the fleeing paper , Acryl notices how the subject of the paintings starts to change.

At first it was portraits of different people in different places , the light and shapes are soft , vibrant with flat shadows. Acryl knows this kind of method , sometimes his teacher uses it near deadlines. Then the portraits are gone. The walls are framed full of drawings of rooms and houses with some kind of lack of main subject , as if the artist is laughing while scraping the model off the painting.

So the frames and canvases repeat.

The clock in his heart ticked faster and faster. There is no other way to turn , only forward into the deeper unknown hallway.

Twenty minutes til the end of realm-arts.

Acryl eventually sees the end of the paintings. And the end of the gallery.

Acryl didn't know who could have their artwork exhibition in such a place.

The chamber has nothing but four white walls and the same white floor. Due to the respect for his fellow artists , he walks extra quietly. The strings that hang from the above catches Acryl’s attention , he looks up to it. The strings seem to extend infinitely.

Acryl has a bad feeling , he quickly turns back to the side where he came from.

The unnamed wind blows even harder , carrying a distant hellish smell that flicks the most ancient lever in his heart. Acryl couldn't care less about the respect for other artists , his realm-arts wicks the surrounding , even the air starts to flow like autumn leaves.

Acryl looks deep into the hallway.

He stands still , not moving a millimeter. The mass he had converted with his absurd power guards by his sides. Making him the storm eye of the colored typhoon.

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Acryl starts to hear cracking sounds around. He looks back to the stretching strings. The strings are covered in something foul. The black was never seen before , deeper than the abyss itself.

The darkness keeps slithering down. His head went crescendos , the moment his eyes touch the slithering strangeness , Acryl sees it.

Acryl felt that unvarying and careless waves of sights from the elder , ever existing being. He felt that his head is about to collapse into its center like a dead star.

He starts to see highlighting metal shards that grow out of nothing. Blending the borderline of reality and imagination. Flesh bubbles in air. silver spikes start to grow out of their deep-colored veins. The creation of them sprouts in an unamable silver. A color that coul barely be called a color.

In the never ending madness , Acryl sees him. He is well sure that the person is not a hallucination. At least , he wishes that.

The man in white hood still hums that familiar confusing lullabye. Dressed in the same acrylic stained white hood that has its cloth hung to the ground. Right before Acryl could figure out what was going on , he noticed something.

Hounds. Throning the fabric of reality , devastating to shred him into pieces.

Acryl wants to yell it out. But the words are stuck. The familiar white hallucination turns around like he hears Acryl. The man puts a finger in front of his lips. Like saying “I got this.”

Acryl can’t tell if this man is still the open-hearted , sometimes silly yet helpful Canvas he knew. The stereotypical artist impression on him was no more. Acryl can tell that his teacher became someone else in three years.

Ten minutes left.

So the molten mass of colors splattered across the white room.

The marks of graphite pencil flow through the air and are covered by the Acryl’s colors. The bridge of sketches crashes down to the hounds. Acryl sees the new realm-arts of his teacher. The uncountable objects he launched and the giant white clock that sends the horrors back to where they were.

A hound’s claw almost struck Acryl. He slams the colorful mass and the things he created with his drawings onto it.

“Your strikes are strong , but uncentered.” Canvas shakes his head , “still a long way to go , but this time you’ll go alone , Acryl.”

“But we met at a bad time , see you around the Grand dome.” he continued.

“Wait-”

In the crowds of splashed doodles , a blank spot devours Acryl. The last thing he saw was the growing silver branches and a white paper talisman. And a farewell from his closest person

“I’ll help you out later.”

…..

His foot reaches the slimy ground and an unpleasant never-smelled smell invades his nose. His legs are still sore , but he could see how much worse the scenario is.If the previous madness was a bowl of water , then the terror here is an unending river , river straight to the deep.

And the center of this horror storm is that ‘‘tree’’. Acryl senses no joy or sorrow from that tree’s sight. Only the most primordial , prolonged boredom and depersonalizing look.

He could feel his body being torn apart from inside. His ribs and spines growing infinitely and the silver plants replacing his mortal flesh.

With another blink , the unworldly strangeness is gone. Only the pain that Acryl doubts to exist and the howling twisted madness beyond reminding him the being of that Existence.

Acryl sees the absurd unimaginable things emerging around Nameless as the reality around her torn apart and quickly bursts out the things of silvers. He couldn’t care less about why Fosfor and Nameless are here.

‘‘Why are you here?’’ Says Nameless , surrounded by the unnamed entities and silver structures.

‘‘Umm…ah…’’ He tries to describe the weirdness he encounters , but his words just won’t jump out.

Nameless did not say anything, she slightly moved her head, showing Acryl to not move.

“Fosfor , lend me a hand , keep him away from here.”

Acryl is quite impressed how they can even form a logical sentence with the sanity rending being right next to them.

“Got it ma’am.”

Acryl felt a claw catched him from the back , pulling his entire body back to a wall.

“Fosfor , you said I was holding back.”

“Can you help me if-”

“Say no more bud.”

Acryl’s instinct tells him something bad is about to happen.

Realm-arts: ▮▮▮▮

Then his vision turned black.

…

He had that same dream. The same man reaching out , the same thing in his hand. And the same confusion. Then a half-familiar voice pulls him back.

“Acryl!”

“Damn , I thought you got neutralized.” Fosfor continues.

Acryl’s mind is all foggy. He can barely see anything.

“Neu…tralized?”

“Basically dying for Barricades.”

“...But , I am not one…”

“Speaking of gettin’ neutralized,” Fosfor points her finger at Nameless “she’s in big trouble now.”