The night hung heavy over the city, a suffocating darkness pierced only by the dim glow of flickering lanterns. The streets were alive with the shuffle of countless feet, a sea of people draped in black robes, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. Silent and solemn, they moved as one, their destination clear—the cathedral.

Zen was among them, his legs carrying him forward against his will. He wasn’t walking; he was being pulled. Every muscle in his body strained against the unseen force, but it was futile. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t even turn his head.

His breath came in shallow bursts as the cathedral loomed into view. Its towering spires pierced the starless sky, jagged and malevolent. The structure seemed alive, its blackened stone crawling with intricate carvings of anguished faces and twisting shadows. The immense doors stood open, spilling an unnatural glow.

Zen’s heart hammered in his chest. Fuck! Let me go! But his body did not obey. His mind screamed as his legs carried him closer, through the massive archway, into the cathedral’s yawning interior.

The air inside was cold and heavy, pressing down on him like a weight. Shadows flickered on the tall stained-glass windows, showing strange, twisted shapes. At the center of the cathedral, everyone knelt on the floor, bowing toward a huge mural on the far wall.

Zen’s body knelt, mimicking the others, though his mind raged against it. He could feel the cold stone bite into his knees as his head lowered involuntarily. He tried with every ounce of strength to lift it, to look at the mural, but his body refused to comply.

Then, something shifted. Zen’s vision no longer felt like his own. It was as if he was inhabiting another’s body—someone who could look where he could not. This new figure lifted its head, and through its eyes, Zen finally saw the mural.

The mural depicted a towering figure cloaked entirely in shadow, its form shrouded in swirling darkness that seemed alive. The figure’s hood obscured any trace of a face, leaving only an impenetrable void where its features should have been. In its right hand, it clutched a blinding sword of pure, radiant light, its edges shimmering with a brilliance so intense that it seemed to pierce the gloom surrounding it. In its left hand, a sphere of glowing light pulsated, faintly illuminating the swirling chaos around the figure.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The contrast was stark and haunting—the brilliance of the light waged a silent war against the oppressive shadow enveloping the figure, yet the two seemed inseparable. Around the figure, streaks of white light slashed through the darkness like cracks in reality itself, adding to the mural’s otherworldly, foreboding atmosphere. 

The moment his eyes met the mural, an unbearable pain exploded in his head, sharp and blinding, as if his mind was being torn apart. His body shook violently, his knees giving way under the weight of the agony. 

" Aaaaaaaah ! STOP!” The scream echoed in his head, but no sound escaped his lips. His body quivered uncontrollably, the pain reaching heights he didn’t think possible. It was as if the figure in the mural had reached into his soul and was tearing it apart, piece by piece.

It felt like his very being was unraveling, each fragment of himself fading into nothingness. The figure’s light burned into his vision, searing away everything until only the pain remained. Then, just as the torment reached its peak, everything went black.

Then, he woke.

Zen bolted upright, gasping for air, his breath ragged and uneven. Sweat drenched his body, soaking the thin blanket beneath him. He ran a trembling hand over his face, trying to steady himself. The cold steel of the plate he’d been sleeping on pressed against his back.

“This again,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly as his pulse slowly began to settle. This nightmare had been haunting him for as long as he could remember. But this one was different.

The nightmares always began the same—outside the city. The first time, he’d been standing at its gates, staring up at its looming walls. In the next, he’d been climbing its labyrinthine stairways. Each dream brought him closer to the cathedral. And tonight, for the first time, he had entered its doors.

The memory of the mural lingered in his mind, vivid and unrelenting. The shadowed figure, the light, the sword—it all felt so real. Too real.

He let out a shaky breath, running his fingers through his damp hair. The metallic clang of distant footsteps echoed faintly, reminding him of where he was. He glanced around the dim, cramped room—a makeshift shelter in the heart of the slum.

“What the hell ” Zen whispered to the empty room, his voice trembling. There was no answer, only the faint hum of the city beyond his walls, and the lingering chill of a nightmare that refused to fade.

Restlessness gnawed at him, and the stifling air of the room became unbearable. Zen swung his legs off the steel plate and stood, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He grabbed his tattered jacket and stepped outside into the morning air.

The slum was alive with its usual chaos, a cacophony of distant arguments, laughter, and the clatter of pots and pans. The alleys smelled of damp stone, rust, and something sour he didn’t care to identify. Zen stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, his breath visible in the cold air.

He wandered aimlessly, trying to shake the lingering unease. But before long, voice cut through the din, sharp and angry.

“There he is! Lugo boy was right”