Heat hits you first. Before the sound, before the pain, there's just a wall of orange fire.
Anvar shouted at the scientist, his voice raw. "It's gonna blast!" But the door was already sealed. He saw the flash reflected in the scientist's terrified eyes—a mirror of the end. Then, silence. Absolute, heavy silence. The kind that swallows a room after a catastrophe.
The emergency team dragged him out, but the ringing in his ears drowned them out. Darkness took over.
Then, sensation returned. Not the sterile cold of a hospital, but the rough scratch of grass against his cheek. Anvar pushed himself up, his body groaning in protest. He stretched, expecting the stiff sheets of a recovery bed. Instead, he touched dirt.
"Amazing morning," he muttered, blinking. "Wait. I was just asleep. Or dead. Definitely dead."
It felt like a dream. You know that feeling—where reality is slightly bent, but you accept it because your brain is too tired to argue. The sky was a perfect, piercing blue. Mountains framed the horizon. A river cut through the valley like a silver scar. It looked exactly like Earth.
Until he looked up.
Two suns burned in the sky. Not one. Two.
Anvar froze. A question nagged at him, the kind that scratches at the back of your mind: How can a person know they are dreaming while they are dreaming?
The Ticking Clock
Before he could spiral into an existential crisis, a white envelope materialized in front of him. Red wax seal. Heavy paper. It was addressed simply: To Anvar (Earth to Proxima 2).
He tore it open. Inside wasn't a letter, but a watch. It looked expensive, heavy, and complicated. He lifted the paper underneath it.
Your Mission:
Find the missing piece.Complete the puzzle.Time Limit: 8 Hours.
The fine print was worse. Fail, and he loses eight hours of his life. Succeed, and he returns. It sounded like a bad video game plot, but the air smelled too much like ozone and pine to be fake.
He strapped the watch on.
Click.
7:59:59
The countdown began immediately. The numbers ran backward in glowing red. Panic flared in his chest—tight and hot. He didn't know the rules, but he knew time was the one thing you couldn't bargain with. He turned the crown of the watch. The face shifted from numbers to a compass, a black needle spinning and locking onto North.
He started walking.
The Monster Truck and the Dragon
The landscape was a paradox. Beautiful greenery stretched for miles, but the peaks of the mountains were wreathed in fire. It was like standing in a football stadium where the nosebleed seats were ablaze.
Anvar felt small. Exposed.
"What is this place?"
He nearly jumped out of his skin. An old man, wrapped in a heavy shawl, was jogging toward him.
"Dragon fight," the villager said, breathless. "Event in the mountains."
Anvar pulled out the paper from the envelope—a diagram of a puzzle with a jagged hole in the center. "Where can I get this?"
The old man squinted at the paper, then dug into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled flyer. It showed a trophy. The missing piece on Anvar's paper matched the centerpiece of the trophy perfectly. The villager pointed a gnarled finger toward the burning mountains.
"Are you a trainer?" the old man asked.
"I've never seen a dragon in my life." Anvar turned to leave. He didn't have time for small talk.
"Wait!" The villager shouted. "It's too far. I have a truck."
Anvar paused. A ride beat walking, even if this whole situation felt like a fever dream. The truck was a beast—vintage, blue, lifted on tires taller than a man. The engine roared to life, loud enough to rattle teeth.
They bounced along the uneven road. The villager chattered about traditions and local lore, but Anvar tuned him out. His mind was racing.
How the hell am I supposed to get a dragon and train it in under eight hours?
"What are you thinking?" the villager yelled over the engine.
"I'm thinking about how I'm supposed to find a dragon!" Anvar snapped.
The truck skidded to a halt. The old man grinned, a look of pure mischief. "I knew you were a trainer."
Suddenly, the sky darkened. A shadow, massive and sweeping, blotted out the twin suns.
"Stone jump!" the villager screamed.
They bailed out the doors, hitting the grass hard. A split second later—CRUNCH.
A brown dragon, the size of a house, landed directly on the truck. Metal shrieked and flattened. Anvar scrambled backward, heart hammering against his ribs. This was it. Game over.
But the beast didn't attack. It lowered its massive head, bowing to him.
The watch buzzed against Anvar's wrist.
STATUS UPDATE:
Dragon Spawned Successfully.Magic Completed.Unit: Tyco.Stats: Well-trained. Good for beginners. Do not use in advanced combat.
"Anvar!" the villager yelled, pointing up. "Sword!"
He looked up just in time to see a glint of steel plummeting from the clouds. Survival instinct kicked in. He dove sideways. The sword slammed into the earth exactly where he had been standing, quivering like a tuning fork.
"Let's go, man!" The villager was already climbing up the dragon's side. "I'll sit with you. I've trained this one."
The Arena
Flying isn't like the movies. It's violent.
Anvar gripped the scales as Tyco launched upward. The force pinned him down, gravity trying to peel him off the dragon's back. His stomach did a backflip.
"Don't look down!" the villager roared against the wind. "Look straight!"
They broke through the cloud layer. Below them, other dragons were streaks of color against the grey rock, all heading toward the natural stadium carved into the mountain peaks. It was a massive bowl of stone and fire.
Announcement:Registration closes in 5 minutes.
They hit the ground running. Tyco landed with a heavy thud, kicking up dust. Anvar and the villager sprinted toward the council desk. The crowd parted, but not out of respect.
"Is that him?"
"The retired guy?"
"Who's the kid with him?"
Anvar ignored the whispers. He slammed his hand on the counter.
"Contestant 101," the Council official droned. "Anvar with Tyco."
The watch vibrated again. A new message scrolled across the screen.
YOU HAVE FOUND THE PIECE. COME BACK AND OBTAIN IT.
The world tilted. The sounds of the arena—the roaring dragons, the shouting crowd—stretched and warped. Darkness rushed in from the edges of his vision.
The Awakening
Anvar gasped, bolting upright.
He was in his bed. Sheets tangled around his legs. Sweat soaked through his shirt. He grabbed the jug of water from his nightstand and drank frantically, water spilling down his chin and chest. He didn't care.
He sat there, chest heaving, staring at the familiar walls of his room. The silence of the house was deafening.
"Was it a dream?" he whispered. "Just a messed up dream?"
He looked at his wrist. It was bare. But the words from the watch burned in his mind, clearer than memory.
Come back and obtain it.