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A middle-aged man.
A middle-aged man who, within the dream, was incomparably successful, building a commercial empire rivaling the Interastral Peace Corporation in an astonishingly short span of time.
He looked at all the beauty around him, scrutinizing every bit of it.
Wealth and fame flowed to him like water; beauties of every race came when summoned and left when dismissed.
This was the paradise he had once yearned for, the dream he had wished to realize.
But what if this was just a false dream?
The middle-aged man began to reexamine everything, reminded by that line of small golden text.
His rise had been far too smooth—decades of unbelievable business miracles had forged a cosmic giant on par with the Interastral Peace Corporation.
Yet something was wrong. Here, the Interastral Peace Corporation had attempted to curb his ascent and failed, their methods perfectly aligned with his expectations, and even the occasional unexpected tactic ended in failure.
It was too easy. This was a dream.
Only in dreams could the universe-dreaded violence of the Market Development Department be dealt with so easily. Only in dreams could those lofty Pathstriders and even Emanators be defeated one after another by his subordinates.
The middle-aged man's mind wavered as he stared at the fame, wealth, and pleasures around him, locked in struggle.
Even if this was a dream, it was a dream that satisfied everything he desired. He knew that as long as he forgot that golden line of text, he would remain a universe-dominating overlord.
I choose to leave.
The middle-aged man silently recited the words in his heart, his gaze growing resolute as he responded to the golden text: "I choose to leave."
He had already enjoyed the dream. Now it was time to steel himself and face reality. Those who awaited him, those who despised him—he would face them again, rested and fully prepared.
At the very moment he made this decision, he was not transported away, but instead saw a vision.
A sacred colossus wielded a conductor's baton, unleashing immense power while sustaining the dream itself.
Opposing the colossus stood a group of people.
Two gigantic cosmic mechas, along with several strange yet unmistakably powerful figures.
For example, Himeko, the navigator of the Astral Express Crew, a galaxy-renowned paragon who had appeared on interstellar news multiple times.
For example, Aventurine, a senior executive of the Interastral Peace Corporation who had recently carried high-energy items and caused the "Golden Hour" lockdown.
For example, Robin, the galactic songstress whose fame shone across the universe, as well as the Stellaron Hunters—criminals steeped in infamy, notorious terrorists of the cosmos.
The middle-aged man could hardly believe his eyes. These were all famous and formidable figures of the universe, yet even united, they were no match beneath that colossus.
Somehow, he understood—only by defeating the sacred colossus could he be freed from the dream.
But if even these powerhouses together could not prevail, what could he possibly do?
"Lend them a hand—with the power of hope."
Sol's voice echoed through the dream, reaching the ears of all who had chosen to awaken.
"The power of hope?"
The middle-aged man could not help but feel stunned.
Was hope merely a belief, or did it truly possess real power?
"The light of hope once saved you and merged into your bodies. It planted a seed in every heart, and when it is truly needed, the power of hope will awaken."
"You will become light. Together with all wills of hope, you will coalesce into a giant and accomplish salvation."
From the outside world, Sol guided them, chanting: "The Aeon of Order seeks to bestow an eternal dream that never end—both as a sanctuary and a prison. Let the light of hope bloom, and let the Aeon behold the will of the awakened!"
"O children of humanity, destiny is yours to command. The power of hope shall ever walk beside you!"
At this moment, he was not playing the role of savior, but that of a prophet guiding people toward the light.
What Sol needed was a light of hope of extreme purity—born from the heart itself and entrusted to pure divinity made manifest as light.
This light had to be utterly pure. Until it was formed, even his own will would count as contamination.
Only those who had endured Sunday's dream and chosen awakening amid boundless bliss possessed the soil from which this hope could be born.
In truth, such light could originally be drawn only from pure children, untouched by corruption and thus especially faithful to hope.
But Sunday's dream created another possibility—those who awakened by leaving behind ultimate bliss.
Those who, having experienced the pain of reality and the beauty of dreams, still chose to return to reality—under such extreme contrast—their light of hope shone even brighter and more solid than that of children.
I will become light?
The middle-aged man murmured to himself, his expression turning unexpectedly excited. I will become light!
How glorious—to fight for his own tomorrow!
How magnificent—to battle against the Aeon of Order!
How free—to fight for the will of his hope!
He did not know how to become light. He only exerted his utmost effort, anchoring all his lifelong convictions in a single point.
And so, a point of light appeared.
Then, more convictions pierced through the dream, and more points of light emerged.
Countless brilliant sparks shimmered within the dream. In the vast dreamscape, they were but scattered stars, unable to compare with the will to sink into bliss.
Indeed—even with the golden reminder, even knowing the dream was ultimately empty, those willing to devote themselves to a real future were always a minority.
They were like sparks—faint and fragile.
They were unbreakable—piercing all darkness!
The lights converged into a beam, piercing layer after layer of dreams as it reached Sol: "The first light of hope—seeing through illusory bliss, fighting for the hope of returning to reality."
Even he could not help but marvel at the light's pure beauty. Though the awakened were few, their will was firm, and the quality of this hope far exceeded his expectations.
Black Swan appeared beside Sol at some unknown moment, chanting devoutly: "Praise be to the noble Light of Hope!"
"Magnificent! The light that awakens the world!"
"Radiant! The light that vanquishes foes and dispels evil!"
"Sublime! The truest Light of Hope!"
She was utterly mesmerized, committing the brilliance of this light to memory with all her strength.
Among the countless memories she had witnessed, this light still held a place of absolute truth and beauty.
No words could describe her exhilaration. To behold this light was like beholding Fuli, the Aeon of Remembrance itself!
"This is the Light of Hope," Acheron said, visibly moved, her composure rarely shaken. "It is also the light that cleaves through Nihility."
Under that fleeting illumination, the five senses she had lost to Nihility began to return.
The darkness of Nihility that devoured all was carved open by this small beam of light, forming a pure and tranquil zone.
"What a dazzling radiance."
From the moment the beam appeared beside Sol, Septimus had already ceased fighting the others.
Enemies on both sides stopped in perfect unison, together paying homage to that single light.
Kafka's wine-red eyes grew faintly intoxicated as she murmured with admiration, "So this was his objective. Truly a breathtaking beauty."
She had long known Sol harbored another goal, but she never imagined that Penacony was not only a cradle of Order, but also the soil from which hope could be born.
A sudden, impulsive thought arose within her.
Perhaps the path to the future they desired was not limited to Elio's script. Perhaps the dazzling Light of Hope before them held even greater possibility.
"This sense of déjà vu…"
Welt Yang stared at Sol, falling silent.
Oh—so after all this, it was Ultraman Tiga who would deliver the finishing blow.
Those scenes of offering light within the dream—weren't they eerily similar to the prelude of Glitter Tiga's transformation?
"So, this is Mr. Sol's trump card."
Robin looked at Sol holding the light and smiled with relief.
A power of this nature would never be one meant to harm.
Under such salvation, the people within the dream would surely not be hurt.
And to be defeated by such a power—even her brother would feel no regret.
"This is the choice of the people themselves…"
Sunday's will rippled within the colossal divine form.
He felt no disappointment—if anything, he felt glad.
This was the defeat he longed for: a truer path denying his own, hope born within an ordered dream, rising upon his shoulders.
Perhaps if it were someone else, he would not have been able to savor such a sweet defeat.
Yes—he had already seen his own loss.
Even if it was only a single, simple beam of light, even if for now that light held little power beyond warmth.
===BREAK===
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