Dream Log (Property of Cheng Nan) (Not a diary. Don't look if not Cheng Nan. Lest your story be unwoven, and the woods consume what remains.)
The sea of blood has changed. No longer does it flow aimlessly—it now moves with purpose, churning as though something beneath it is guiding the currents. Rising from the depths are not the spires of bone I once saw, but great structures of flesh and sinew, twisting and growing like monstrous trees fed by the blood itself.
These new forms, born of flesh, pulse with a rhythm I can feel in my chest. They writhe and coil, their tendrils reaching into the sea to draw up more blood, shaping it into grotesque figures that shamble and crawl across the landscape. They are crude, half-formed, incomplete—like the creature I made—but they move with a strange life, drawn toward the ever-growing forms above.
I watched as the figures of flesh, some barely recognizable as creatures, were drawn into the heart of one of the larger structures. It devoured them whole, its sinewy limbs twisting and contorting as it absorbed the life they still held. The blood, thick and dark, ran down its sides like sap from a great tree, pooling at its base and feeding yet more of the shapeless things that crawled below.
The sight didn't disturb me. Instead, I felt... connected to it. The flesh, the blood—it was all part of something greater, something I was becoming. This wasn't destruction—it was transformation. The blood that fed these strange growths was the same that flowed in me.
The forms, though grotesque, were alive. Their movements, though slow and stumbling, were purposeful. The landscape, once chaotic, now seemed to follow a rhythm—a cycle of consumption and creation. I felt my own flesh stir in response, as though it too recognized the pattern unfolding before me.
At the edges of the dream, shadows watched, more active now than before. They no longer just hovered in the background but moved within the blood and flesh, guiding the malformed creatures toward their final place. There was no voice, but I could sense an intent. The dream was shifting from chaos to order, and I was at the center of it.
I placed my hand upon one of the great structures, feeling its pulse match my own heartbeat. The connection was undeniable. It wasn't just feeding on the blood—it was growing, building, transforming the entire dreamscape into something new, something that could be harnessed and controlled.
The dream was no longer just a chaotic sea of blood and bone. It had become something else—a realm where flesh could be shaped, where blood could give life, and where I could direct the flow of both. I could feel the power growing in me, the dream pulling me deeper into its rhythm, its purpose.
When I woke, I still felt the pulse of the flesh beneath my skin. The blood in my veins echoed the dream's cycle of creation and transformation. My path was now clear: the dream could be shaped, molded into something far more powerful than before. Flesh, blood, life itself—all could be controlled, and I was the one to wield that power.
So, to put it simply, breaking through did not solve my nightmares at all. In fact, it seems to be worse. Onto notes! Apparently gods don't like heartfelt handmade gifts. The more you know. A little hurtful, in fact. They also held a funeral for the thief. Rude. First of all, disrespectful to their path, second of all, can't mourn someone who isn't dead. It's bad luck. That's all that's been going on that I've noticed. The tournament is getting into swing, so I need to figure out how to scam honorably make trade with the disciples using my skills before it starts in truth.
