Dream of Futility. Part 2

The darkness of the dream didn't release Wild at once—it clung to him like a web, sticky and bitter. The image of the bloodied, mutilated god faded slowly, leaving behind a taste of deceit—or truth masked as deceit. "Write it yourself. Or burn." Those words tolled in his mind like a bell, each peal steeped in doubt. What could he write? A weakling, a freak, a shadow—his quill had been broken in his past life, and here, in this new world, it merely smoldered with sparks of mana. Bitterness flooded him, acrid as bile seeping from the god's wounds. He wanted to believe he could be more, but faith was fragile, and lies—so familiar, so comforting.

In this dream, he saw not only the god but himself—shattered like a mirror, each crack reflecting his choices. Past life: hide, write, die alone. New life: hide, wait, fear. Both were futile, yet the latter taunted him with magic, a possibility that felt both gift and curse. The philosophy of his existence boiled down to a simple question: was it worth fighting if the struggle was merely an illusion of meaning? Sartre might call it the nausea of being, Nietzsche a challenge to the übermensch, but Wild was neither philosopher nor hero. He was an experiment tossed into chaos, and his bitterness grew from realizing that even the god, this Author of the Apocalypse, offered no answer—only a quill, only a choice.

And that choice weighed heavily. Mercantile desires squirmed within him, like worms in rotting flesh. He craved power—not for glory, but for survival. He wanted magic—not for beauty, but to prove he wasn't worthless. He sought a teacher—not for knowledge, but so someone else could take his futility and forge it into something of value. Yet in that desire lay a lie resembling truth: he knew everything had a price. His past life had taught him—free cheese in a mousetrap, free hope in a void. Here, in this world of swords and sorcery, the cost could be steeper: his freedom, his soul, his Tekra. He shuddered, picturing her face—the sole light in his darkness. Lose her for power? That was a choice he didn't want to make, yet it loomed before him like an executioner's shadow.

The darkness quivered, and he felt something heavy pressing on his chest. The dream released him, but not gently—it expelled him into reality like a child from the womb, with pain and blood. Wild awoke, his eyes snapping open, and the first sensation was weight. Something pinned him to the ground. He tried to breathe, but the air was thick, laced with a strange scent—not mere breath, but something more, magical, heavy as lead. He heard a sound—not normal breathing, but a rhythmic exhalation, as if someone expelled magic with each breath, sustaining themselves like a machine with steam.

His gaze darted upward, and he saw her—the figure in the black cloak, the one who'd felled him. The cloak hung open now, revealing her fully. She wasn't a woman in the usual sense, but a puppet—alive yet dead, pieced together from mismatched materials. Her body was a patchwork: gleaming metal polished to a mirror sheen in places, rotting wood coated with mold in others, and grotesque flesh stitched with crude thread elsewhere. The goggles, perched crookedly on her face, hid her eyes, but he felt her stare—sharp, piercing, like a needle. Her mouth, carved into a wooden mask, stretched into a grin, baring teeth like rusted nails.

"Need a teacher?" she asked, her voice creaky yet deep, laced with mockery. Wild froze, his raspy inhale catching in his throat. He wanted to answer, but words wouldn't come—only the pain in his back and the weight of her form pressed down on him. She leaned closer, her breath-magic brushing his face, cold and hot at once. "I see you do," she continued, not waiting for a reply. Her hand—metallic, with joints squeaking like old hinges—reached toward him. Between her fingers dangled an amulet: small, dark, etched with a symbol resembling a quill.

"Want to become what you wish?" she said, her grin widening. "Just squeeze it in your hand, and you'll be by my side." She tossed the amulet onto his chest, where it landed with a dull thud, cold and heavy as a fragment of fate. Then she rose, her body creaking and trembling, buoyed by the magic spilling from her with each motion. She said nothing more, only turned and shuffled away, leaving him sprawled on the ground.

Wild stared at the amulet, his trembling fingers inching toward it. The bitterness of the dream still seared him—the god's lie, the truth of his futility, the choice between struggle and surrender. This was a chance. But what kind? Mercantile—power for a price he didn't yet know? Philosophical—a step toward meaning or another illusion? His mind split like an atom under impact, releasing a surge of doubt. To grip the amulet was to risk everything: Tekra, himself, his freedom. To leave it was to remain nothing, as in his past life, as in this one.

He clenched it in his fist—not fully, but enough to feel the metal's chill. His heart raced, the mana within him quivering, echoing the god's words: "Write it yourself." He didn't know what he'd choose, but he knew one thing: he no longer wanted to be useless. Even if it was a lie masquerading as truth.