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"So, have you ever sewn anything before?" Alfonse asked, leading the trio deeper into his workshop.

The workspace was divided into three distinct rooms: the central chamber, where his large oak desk sat surrounded by scattered sketches and half-finished patterns; the materials room; and finally, the sewing room. At present, he guided them into the materials room, a well-lit space lined with bins brimming with ethereal white thread and fabrics of all hues and textures. Along the side wall stood several display cases housing finished suits—each piece pristine, clearly meant to serve as both inspiration and reference for beginners.

"No, not really," Caspian replied, his eyes wandering over the bins of materials. While the fabrics appeared normal, the thread immediately caught his attention. It twitched softly within its container, each strand emitting a faint, otherworldly glow.

"What's wrong with the string?" Camael asked, noticing it too.

"Ah," Alfonse said with a smile, walking over to the bin. "That's glowworm string—harvested from the cocoons of glowworms. Incredibly rare. In fact, it's valued not only for its extraordinary strength, but also for how impossibly light it is—both in weight and appearance."

He scooped a handful of the thread into his palm. As it touched his skin, it began to shimmer more brightly and gently levitated into the air. Caspian watched closely. He saw no sign of Alfonse's usual lavender-hued energy, indicating this effect was no act of magic—at least, not one he understood.

"One of the unique traits of the glowworm," Alfonse continued, "is that its cocoon remains suspended in the air indefinitely. The string behaves the same. And depending on how it's woven, it can grant a variety of effects—self-repairing fabric, impact absorption, even temporary invisibility."

He let the thread slip from his hand back into the bin, its glow dimming once more.

"That's why our suits are so highly sought after," he said proudly. "No one makes them quite like we do."

"Alright!" he clapped his hands together, eyes gleaming. "Let's make you a suit!"

"Okay… let's… go—" Caspian began, but before he could finish, his legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor.

Where the hell am I? Caspian wondered as his eyes swept across an endless graveyard stretched over rolling grey hills, each stone identical, unmarked, and cold. A blood-red sun hung low in the sky, casting long, eerie shadows over the landscape and painting the air with an ominous hue. He remembered collapsing in Alfonse's workshop—and now, somehow, he was here.

As he scanned the terrain, something shifted in the periphery of his vision: a lone ash-grey tree had appeared, gnarled and leafless, where there had been nothing moments before. Perched lazily on one of its twisted branches, legs dangling, sat a boy—spiky orange hair catching the sun like fire, a black jacket and pants making him almost blend into the tree's bark.

The moment the boy noticed Caspian looking, he sprang down with surprising grace, landing among the gravestones. He strolled casually toward him, hands in his pockets.

Caspian immediately rose, adopting a fighting stance, muscles tensed, eyes narrowed.

"Relax, I'm not here to fight you," the boy said, still approaching.

"Because if I were…" He vanished from sight in a blink.

"…you'd already be dead." His voice came from behind.

Caspian felt the cold press of a gun barrel against the back of his skull.

The boy stepped around and sat on a nearby grave, flipping the gun lazily in his hand before tucking it away.

"So if you're not here to kill me," Caspian asked, still on edge, "then explain what the hell you're doing here."

"Well, first things first—name's Zach," the boy replied with theatrical flair. "And this?" He spread his arms dramatically. "This is your dream!"

"But why are you in my dream?" Caspian asked, warily.

"Because this is your ability!" Zach beamed, throwing his arms into the air and leaning back against the gravestone like it was a lounge chair.

"Huh?" Caspian frowned. "I thought abilities were supposed to reflect personality. This is only the second time someone's even shown up in my dreams."

"Really?" Zach asked with exaggerated intrigue. "I'm not the first? Ooooh, was it a girl? Was she pretty?"

Caspian's gaze darkened. "Out of every woman in the world, I hate that one the most."

"Oof. Toxic relationship. I can work with that," Zach said, still grinning like a devil in a candy shop.

"But anyway," he said, straightening up, "I'm here to explain what you're about to become."

He stood and extended a hand with a flourish. "You, my dear master, are the new Devourer of Dreams!"

Caspian blinked, unimpressed. "Could you please be less cryptic? You're making zero sense."

"But none of that is important right now," Zach waved off, undeterred. "All you need to understand is what the Devourer of Dreams is. An administrator of chaos. A hitman, if you will—but on a global, metaphysical scale."

He began to pace between the gravestones, voice growing more animated.

"Previous employers include the likes of Hitler, Genghis Khan, Stalin… even Nero, that mad Roman emperor. Big names. Bloody legacies. You're next in line, and I'm here to train you."

Caspian's expression shifted from confusion to alarm. "Train me to what?"

"As the Devourer of Dreams," Zach explained, "you control the dream realm—yours, and others'. You can use it to influence, manipulate, even kill in the waking world. Send me, for example, to wipe out a country. Or hijack someone's dream and turn them into your puppet."

He poked Caspian in the chest. "It's all up to you."

"But… why me?" Caspian asked quietly.

Zach spread his arms again, eyes gleaming. "Just look around!"

Caspian did. And for the first time, the scale of the graveyard began to sink in.

"You're practically a legend here," Zach said, proud as if bragging about his own student. "The dream world's buzzing about you. Best candidate in centuries."

Still seeing confusion on Caspian's face, he clarified, "We choose the Devourer by kill count. The job is about mass death. Each one of these graves represents the people you've killed."

Caspian stepped back, stunned.

"And not even one per grave," Zach added cheerfully. "We didn't have the space. Each marker holds about ten souls."

He flashed a grin, sharp and gleaming.

"In total, you've killed two million, seven hundred eighty-nine thousand, four hundred twelve people."

Caspian's heart pounded in his chest as the number echoed in his mind.

Zach just laughed softly, eyes glowing with dangerous admiration.

"Not bad, huh?"

"Hey, hey, look, Andrew—he's opening his eyes!" Camael said, perched lightly on Andrew's broad shoulder as Caspian stirred awake, his eyelids fluttering open against the sterile white light of the hospital room.

Caspian found himself lying in a firm hospital bed, sunlight pouring in through a large window to his left. Outside, the city skyline glittered beneath a clear sky, busy and undisturbed by the storm of thoughts whirling in his head. Beside his bed sat Andrew, arms crossed and back straight, and Camael, who swung his legs casually as he balanced like a child on a ledge.

"How you doing, kid?" Andrew asked, his tone calm but concerned.

"Yeah, what happened?" Camael added, tilting his head.

"I honestly don't know," Caspian lied smoothly, his expression unreadable.

For their sake—and his own—he wasn't about to tell them about the graveyard, the endless headstones, or the twisted figure named Zach who claimed he was destined for mass slaughter. That secret would stay buried. At least, for now.

"But I feel perfectly fine," he added, this time telling the truth. Physically, he felt untouched. Refreshed, even.

"That's good news," Andrew said, standing from his chair and cracking his knuckles. "Because we need to get moving. Like, right now."

"Hold up! Let the kid breathe, would you? He literally just passed out!" Camael snapped, clearly offended on Caspian's behalf.

"No, it's fine," Caspian said as he slowly swung his legs over the bed's edge. His muscles moved without hesitation—no soreness, no fatigue.

"Oh, and Alfonse sent these along," Andrew added, retrieving two neatly folded suits from a nearby chair. He handed Caspian a finely tailored dark blue suit—sleek, modern, and undeniably stylish. Andrew himself carried an identical design, only in dark brown, with subtle metallic threading glinting across the seams.

He also handed Caspian a handwritten note, elegantly folded and smelling faintly of lavender. Caspian opened it and read aloud:

Dear Caspian,

I hope you are doing well—though our last encounter ended with you unconscious on my floor. I trust the suits I've prepared will meet your expectations. Regrettably, I wasn't able to teach you how to make them yourself, as Andrew insisted on rushing off somewhere as usual, and I have other clients who demand my talents. Perhaps another time.

That said, I offer you a word of caution regarding the Blackwood family. They are notoriously protective of their only daughter, Layla Blackwood. I suggest you exercise your utmost restraint and ensure that neither Camael nor Andrew does anything irretrievably stupid around her.

Sincerely,

Your friend, Alfonse Featherworth

"How thoughtful," Caspian muttered, folding the note carefully and sliding it into his coat pocket.

"The nerve of this guy," Camael said indignantly, arms crossed. "As if I would ever do something idiotic—especially in front of a girl like that."

"What makes her so special?" Caspian asked, puzzled.

"Well," Andrew began, adjusting the collar of his coat, "she's only a little older than you, but since she's the heir to the Blackwood estate, people fall over themselves to win her favor. Her family's influence runs deep."

"And she's pretty hot, too," Camael added with a mischievous grin.

Andrew immediately elbowed him hard in the ribs. "She's fourteen," he muttered, horrified.

Camael coughed, clearly having forgotten that detail. "R-Right. My bad..."

"So this is it. The Blackwood Auction House" Andrew declared as the trio arrived in front of the towering windowed skyscraper.

The Blackwood skyscraper towered over the city like a giant shadow, made of dark glass and polished steel. Its design mixed sharp, modern lines with older gothic details—arched windows, pointed spires, and even metal gargoyles near the top. At night, red lights ran up its sides in glowing lines, making the building look alive. The main entrance was grand, with huge black columns and metal gates shaped like wings, marked with the Blackwood family symbol: a serpent coiled around a burning rose.

Inside, the building was just as impressive. The entrance hall stretched up ten stories, with floating platforms and glass elevators sliding up the walls. The floors were made of smooth black stone with streaks of gold, and the furniture was rich and dark—deep red velvet chairs, tall portraits of serious-looking ancestors, and large glowing chandeliers. It felt powerful, quiet, and a little cold—more like a monument than a place to relax and to have auctions.

"Ah, Andrew, there you are!" a deep voice called from the grand staircase, belonging to an older yet impressively muscular man descending alongside a young man and a small girl.

"How have you been, Alexander?" Andrew asked, rising to shake his hand with familiarity.

"I've been better, but I can't complain," Alexander replied with a hearty chuckle.

He turned to the others. "Hello to you too, Camael. And who might this be?" he asked, his gaze settling curiously on Caspian.

"This is my adopted son, Caspian Sinclair," Andrew introduced.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Caspian said politely, offering a respectful nod.

"The pleasure is mine, Caspian," Alexander said warmly, his tone full of genuine welcome.

"And this is my son, John," Alexander continued, gesturing to a man in his early twenties, whose black hair and kind brown eyes bore a striking resemblance to his father. His easy smile radiated calm confidence.

"And this is my daughter, Layla," he added, indicating the girl standing quietly behind him. She appeared just slightly older than Caspian, dressed in an elegant dark red gown. Her posture was refined, yet her expression was distant, a look of practiced boredom etched across her pale face like an old habit.

"Told you," Camael whispered to Caspian with a smug grin.