That night in Smyrna, after the furious storm had dissipated, leaving behind a leaden sky and air thick with the scent of sea salt mingled with the ashes of extinguished campfires, I—Ealdred, Count of Jerusalem, the man who had already vanquished two demonic dukes—finally sought sleep with a body exhausted and a soul fractured.
The Byzantine encampment lay silent beneath the hazy moonlight, broken only by the soft whinnying of horses in the night wind, the distant crash of waves against the shore, and the lingering smoke entwined with the damp breath of the earth. The soldiers had sunk into deep slumber, unaware that darkness lurked, ready to swallow everything whole.
I sat alone in the large tent, the flickering light of a single candle casting shadows upon Lucifer—the holy sword I had used to fell monstrous foes before—propped beside my crude bed of animal hides and lined cloth. Its cold steel seemed to tremble, as if the souls of those it had claimed whispered demands for justice. The sea wind slipped through the tent flaps, carrying a strange rustling, like a demonic lullaby from the depths of hell, both alluring and terrifying.
"Ealdred…"—a voice echoed, not from any flesh-and-blood throat, but threading directly into my mind, like invisible needles piercing my brain.
I lifted my head slightly, weary eyes scanning the cramped space. The candle flame suddenly danced wildly, then snuffed out, plunging everything into enveloping darkness. The surrounding space contracted as if squeezed by a gigantic hand, the air growing so dense it choked my breath. I tried to stand, but my legs were leaden, sinking deep into that living shadow, as though it were a black mire forged from blood and accumulated fear. When I opened my mouth to invoke the Lord's name, the prayer dissolved instantly, swallowed into the void, leaving my throat parched and hopeless.
Then I fell. Plummeting freely into the endless abyss of shattered memories: screams echoing from ancient battlefields, the acrid stench of blood mixed with mud, the distorted faces of enemies and allies who had died by my hand—their eyes bulging, mouths agape in final agony. This was no ordinary dream. This was the nightmare realm of Beleth—the Ruler in Dreams, the third demonic duke, master of the mind who twisted the deepest fears into lethal weapons.
I awoke—or rather, was hurled—into the midst of a colossal, boundless city, not the familiar Smyrna with its sturdy stone walls, nor the sacred Jerusalem with its ancient temples, but a grotesque metropolis constructed from the fragments of my own memories and those of thousands of other souls. The cobblestone streets looped endlessly like an invisible labyrinth, twisting and intersecting in illogical ways that would drive any intruder mad for lack of escape. The houses were warped and leaning, as if built from rotting bones and flesh, their empty windows like the sockets of corpses, from which emanated the pained groans of trapped spirits. Towering spires jutted upside-down from the ground toward the ashen sky, resembling the jagged, broken teeth of some ancient god who had died in agony, drenched in gore.
High above, the moon was cleaved in two by a massive gash, from which fresh red blood poured like a torrential rain, staining the ground crimson and turning the streets into sluggish rivers of blood. The sharp tang of fresh blood mingled with the putrid stench of decaying corpses permeated everything, twisting my stomach into knots. And from the center of that rift emerged Beleth—a horrifying entity, half-human, half-abstract concept, so towering that his shadow engulfed the entire vast square, transforming it into a black hole with no exit. He had no true face, only a shattered mask of glittering mirror, reflecting hundreds of the most terrifying images from the depths of my psyche: Matilda—the woman I loved—weeping in despair, blood streaming from her eyes; Lucien—my little son—screaming in hellfire; and myself, aged, my body rotting, my soul hollow, eyes protruding in torment.
"Welcome, knight," he said in a voice woven from the thousands of victims I had slain—husky male tones, shrill female cries, innocent childish whimpers—resounding like wind howling through a graveyard. "You are lost in your own dream. Here, words are razor-sharp swords, memories are scalding blood, and fear reigns as sovereign over all."
I bowed my head, my trembling hand seeking the familiar hilt, but Lucifer was gone. I was left with only my naked soul, frail and vulnerable, fear gripping my heart like a cold iron fist, freezing my blood and stuttering my breath.
Beleth drew closer, each heavy footfall shaking the ground violently, cracking it into deep fissures from which erupted gleaming mirrors reflecting countless versions of myself: the murderer with blood-soaked hands, the traitor with a sly grin, the falsely saintly with a counterfeit halo, and the madman with bloodshot eyes. Each face screamed, demanding I confront my sins, blood pouring from their mouths, dripping to the ground and pooling into crimson mires.
"Do you think yourself a hero?" he asked, his voice blending with the whistling wind, the wretched cries of children, the agonized neighs of dying horses. "You are merely a pitiful puppet of an ancient prophecy, Ealdred. A tiny shard in God's frenzied dream, where everything can be bent and torn asunder."
I retreated, but every step dragged behind me hundreds of shades of those who had perished by my hand—allies, enemies, innocent civilians—crawling on the ground, their forms not flesh and bone but mere concepts of guilt, drenched in blood, entrails spilling, eyes bulging with hatred. They clung to my legs, clawing at my soul's flesh, inflicting real pain as if knives were slicing me.
"This is your punishment, you self-proclaimed savior."
Beleth raised his enormous hand, claws glinting sharply. The sky tore open with a cataclysmic roar, black clouds churning like congealed blood. From that rift cascaded millions of blood-written letters like a flood—ancient curses from Sumer with burning cuneiform symbols, from Egypt with enigmatic hieroglyphs, from Greece with swirling alpha-beta letters—all merging into a maddened symphony, echoing the shrieks of millions of souls.
They plunged into my flesh like living blades, carving fiery runes deep into my soul, causing soul-blood to gush from every pore, the agony so intense I screamed, feeling my body ripped apart from within. This was no longer a dream. This was a ferocious battle within my very essence, where the soul was tortured and blood flowed in rivers.
I tried to summon prayer, murmuring familiar Bible verses to draw strength from God, but every word shattered upon leaving my lips, turning to black ash that drifted down, leaving the taste of blood in my throat.
Beleth laughed thunderously, his laughter warping the surrounding space, fracturing time like broken bones, the sound booming like hell's thunder, shaking the entire city. "Your faith does not belong to God. It is merely a thin veneer masking your profound fear of loss, Ealdred. You dread losing Matilda, dread Lucien dying in vain, dread becoming a monster yourself."
And as he spoke, horrific visions appeared before me: Matilda and Lucien bound to stakes, hellfire erupting from below, their skin sizzling, blood boiling, their agonized screams resounding. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, making me retch. I roared, charging toward them in frenzy, but my hands passed through their bodies like smoke, and flames exploded from my own palms, spreading to scorch my soul, pain like thousands of needles piercing every cell.
Beleth raised high a scepter forged from the white bones of thousands of victims, from its tip emitting waves of shaped sound—writhing like venomous serpents, black and glistening—hurtling into my mind at light speed. They pierced my brain, causing my head to explode in sensation, soul-blood flooding from ears, nose, mouth like a deluge, the torment dropping me to my knees, my body convulsing in my own blood pool.
"You will submit," he growled, his voice like grinding metal, "or I will turn this dream into your eternal grave, where your soul rots in blood and pain."
But from the depths of that agony, I heard a faint whisper—the innocent laughter of Lucien as I lulled him to sleep on long battlefield nights. And I remembered why I had survived hundreds of battles: not God, not prophecy, but primal survival instinct, pure fury.
I rose, eyes blazing with hellfire, body trembling yet surging with rage-fueled power. Soul-blood still streamed from my wounds, but pain only strengthened me. "You should not have mentioned them, Beleth. That was your fatal mistake."
From my body erupted a pitch-black gale, not arcane magic but the raw energy of primal wrath—survival instinct honed across hundreds of blood-drenched battlefields, where I had torn enemies apart bare-handed, amid gore and screams. It swept away the surrounding guilt-shades, reducing them to crimson ash.
No God, no Lucifer—only me, primal man with rage like hellfire. Needing no sword, I charged him with bare hands, muscles taut, speed like a hunting leopard. My hands seized the shattered mirror mask, nails raking, black blood oozing from it, dripping to the ground and igniting. From the mask, hundreds of his memories flooded my mind like a torrent: he had once been an angel guarding humanity's dreams, with shimmering white wings and divine aura, but exiled for daring to dream for himself, twisted into a monster devouring thousands of souls, blood and pain his sustenance.
"I understand now," I snarled, voice hoarse with blood in my throat. "You are merely a forsaken dream, a pitiful wretch lost in your own hell."
He shrieked in terror, the cry shaking the world, the city exploding into thousands of fragments, blood erupting from cracks like volcanoes.
The sky shattered into thousands of razor-sharp pieces, each a separate dream—children playing on lush meadows now ripped by fire, mothers wailing over dead children drenched in gore, heroic warriors dying unnamed, their bodies rotting in blood pools. The destruction's scale was immense: the city collapsed like an ancient empire, towers crashing with thunderous booms, pulverizing thousands of soul-shades, blood and ash choking the air.
Beleth and I tumbled into the chaotic vortex of countless parallel realities, where time and space merged into a blood whirlwind. I seized a large mirror shard, willing it into a makeshift blade—gleaming, sharp as the true Lucifer—and attacked with clear strategy: direct assault to shatter his illusory defenses, denying him regeneration. I thrust hard into his chest, the blade piercing conceptual skin, black blood gushing like a waterfall, falling to sprout grotesque flowers with bulging human eyes, mouths gaping in screams.
He laughed savagely, black blood splattering, staining me. "Do you think you've won, Ealdred? This is merely hell's beginning!"
He raised his hand, summoning all shards to fuse into a colossal transparent dragon, its body of fragmented memories—scales torn Bible pages soaked in blood; vast wings tortured soul-fragments; maw spewing crimson hellfire. The dragon charged with terrifying speed, claws raking, tearing my soul-flesh, blood pouring from deep gashes. I dodged nimbly, warrior instinct propelling me onto its back, gripping sharp scales that sliced my hands, blood dripping. With a fatal strike, I plunged through its luminous skull, blade twisting deep, the dragon roaring, exploding into thousands of gore fragments, and in that instant, the entire dream realm collapsed utterly—booms like doomsday, annihilating everything into nothingness.
I awoke in vast nothingness, no Beleth, no earth or sky, only my own pounding heart echoing like war drums. Soul-blood still seeped from wounds, but I felt newfound power.
A whisper rose from the depths: "You have won, but part of your soul died there, steeped in blood and shadow."
I looked at my hands—glimmering pitch-black, the dream's blood runes still etched deep, burning like eternal scars. Then I understood: Beleth was not fully dead. He had merged with me, becoming my soul's dark aspect, dwelling in remaining dreams, awaiting weak moments to rise.
I chuckled softly, voice rasping with pain. "Perhaps that's for the best. A demonic part will help me grasp humanity deeper—blood, sin, true redemption."
I jolted awake in the tent, body soaked in sweat and blood from illusory wounds now real, breath ragged as if swimming through a hell-sea of corpses. Lucifer remained, glowing faintly, but its blade now reflected crimson like fresh blood, as if absorbing Beleth's power.
Outside, dawn broke with feeble light, the reveille trumpet blaring sharply, signaling a new march through dusty deserts and hot winds. I washed my face with cold water from a skin flask, the chill spreading, then peered into the tarnished bronze mirror. In it, my eyes flashed eerie purple, and Beleth whispered in my mind: "You borrow my power; I will borrow your dreams, twisting them into blood nightmares."
I smiled coldly, silently fastening heavy armor straps, sensing new strength from that shadow. "Then I'll let you dream of good things—and if needed, I'll rip those dreams apart bare-handed."
Stepping from the tent, Byzantine soldiers bustled preparing to march: horses saddled, weapons sharpened, laughter mixing with commands. They knew nothing of the nightmare mere breaths away last night, capable of swallowing the camp into a sea of blood and rot.
Alexios I, the Byzantine emperor with silver beard and piercing gaze, stood afar, giving me a puzzled, suspicious look. "Dreaming again, knight? You look fresh from hell."
I replied curtly, voice calm but inwardly turbulent: "Just a small dream, Your Majesty. But in war, every dream is a battle."
Yet deep inside, I knew better than ever: no dream was trivial. From that night, I was not merely Ealdred, Count of Jerusalem, but Ealdred—the Awakened in Dreams, bearer of Beleth's shadow, ready for greater nightmares.
That evening, amid the quiet camp under a starry sky, I sat writing my journal by flickering candlelight. Ink bled on rough paper, letters distorting into grotesque images—blood and darkness. I detailed Beleth: once an angel safeguarding humanity's peaceful dreams, tasked with serene slumber, but pride led him to dream for himself, resulting in corruption, becoming a monster consuming thousands of souls in blood and agony.
I pondered deeply: Does God too have dark dreams, ruled by blood and ruin, and am I merely a fragment therein, a warrior lost between good and evil? Night wind through the tent carried distant childish laughter—Lucien's memory, innocent amid shadows.
I smiled, feeling the soul-scar throb. The dream had passed, but its relics endured—like deep gashes on the soul, like Lucifer's blood-red gleam, reminding that the war never ends.
I blew out the candle. Darkness flooded in, dense yet no longer fearsome. And for the first time in years, I slept truly—without fear, without illusions, just a man in the endless night, ready for more bloody battles to come.