World of Mist

As his soul traveled toward an unknown destination, Nemo watched the night sky race past him at dizzying speeds. Stars blurred into streaks of silver and gold, wrapping him in ribbons of cosmic light. Oddly, despite the tremendous speed, he felt perfectly still. It was as though the universe itself was moving around him, revolving around his fragile essence.

Nemo preferred that idea. Calmly, he settled into this surreal journey, marveling at the infinite cosmos streaming past. A peculiar tugging sensation resonated within him, subtly guiding his focus toward one distinct point on the horizon.

He turned his gaze, narrowing his eyes. Far away, barely visible at the edge of eternity, a single, delicate cloud lingered. It seemed insignificant at first, but as moments passed, it grew larger and larger, soon dominating his entire field of vision.

In moments, it engulfed him—or perhaps he entered it. He couldn't tell which. Reality had long since abandoned conventional rules. Now immersed in a swirling, endless mist, stars vanished, replaced by turbulent clouds shifting rapidly, chaotically. White tendrils twisted around him, occasionally illuminating in brilliant flashes or booming deeply with thunderous roars.

Sounds drifted through the mist, distant yet clear—a rolling ocean, the mournful cry of a child—each fleeting noise hauntingly familiar, yet frustratingly ungraspable. Gradually, Nemo's journey slowed, as though the mist itself sensed his arrival.

Everything matched perfectly with the descriptions from Lyla's guide. The trip of the Formless Mist was documented extensively—at least, as extensively as any mysterious, soul-rending phenomenon could be. Yet Nemo couldn't shake the rising anxiety churning within him.

Ahead loomed a colossal tree formed entirely from mist, every leaf uniquely distinct—shimmering, burning, crackling, whispering with energy. Each seemed incompatible with its neighbors, their clashing forces sending ripples of unease through Nemo's soul.

He waited a moment, breath held tight. No sound could be heard. Remembering the guide's reassurance that silence indicated a favorable start, he tentatively stepped forward.

Around him, the mist never ceased its wonderful and incomprehensible transformations. Incredible, disturbing, mesmerizing visions appeared and vanished in rapid succession.

A plant viciously devouring another, an ethereal butterfly wreathed in floating earth, a nightmarish creature caged by lightning—every glimpse rattled him, etching deeply into his memory before disappearing.

Finally, he reached the base of the towering mist tree, bewildered by the persistent emptiness around him. The guide mentioned that in rare cases, dreamers found themselves completely alone—an ambiguous omen, encountered only by three who survived.

Anxiety clenched Nemo's chest, tightening painfully. Drawing a deep breath, he steadied himself, extending his hand towards the misty tree.

Instantly, excruciating pain exploded through him as his formless root started to violently burrow out of his soul, into his flesh. The tree responded in kind and sent his own essence into Nemo's hand, meeting the root inside his body.

Agony sent him crumpling to his knees, gasping desperately as though drowning. Only when his root and the mist tree finally connected did the torment subside slightly. A fragile sense of relief washed over him, tempered by lingering apprehension.

According to survivors, establishing the connection guaranteed eventual survival—but Nemo knew the worst was still ahead. He had to maintain this delicate bond through an impending ritual capable of shattering his very soul.

Almost on cue, the ritual commenced, vibrations erupting from the mist tree. They resonated through Nemo's soul, threatening to unravel his very essence.

His root answered, sending back its own vibration. A brief silence settled—a momentary reprieve. But Nemo braced himself, recognizing the quiet as merely the calm before the storm.

Then, relentlessly, the tree vibrated again—this time not as communication, but as an assault, testing or perhaps challenging Nemo's soul.

Pain rippled through him as his spiritual integrity began to fracture, unraveling dangerously.

I think... I think this dream isn't rare at all, Nemo realized, horror rising within him. Maybe quite a lot of rooted experience it, but only a handful survive.

Blood began streaming from his eyes, ears, and nose, mingling with sweat as the intensity escalated unbearably. Yet, through the searing agony, Nemo perceived a subtle shift.

The tree's vibration was gradually aligning with his own root's frequency, amplifying and broadcasting it powerfully outward.

"Like a beacon," Nemo murmured weakly, forcing a trembling smile through the pain. Time stretched painfully, each moment feeling like an eternity, until abruptly, the vibration ceased.

Nemo collapsed beside the tree, coughing and shivering violently, utterly spent. He lay on the misty ground, fragile, his soul delicate as glass. One harsh breath might shatter him completely.

But no breath, no wind, no disturbance came. Even the restless mist around him paused, stilling in gentle repose. Exhaustion claimed him swiftly, pulling him into comforting oblivion.

Suddenly, Nemo jolted awake, heart racing. He was back in his cell, lying on the bed beside the green book. His first trip completed. Confusion and dread pulsed sharply within him. "What the hell just happened? I don't understand it at all," he whispered hoarsely.

Desperately, he snatched the guide, flipping urgently through the pages until finding the section on formless dreams. Frantically, he reread every line, hunting for clarity. Then he spotted a footnote previously overlooked:

"I suspect that while this dream appears deceptively gentle, it is, in truth, among the most punishing for the soul. Only individuals carefully trained or supported by a soul-enhancing Imprint or Verdant Gift stand a genuine chance at survival."

His blood froze, his hands trembling violently. He had neither training nor gifts—nothing to fortify his soul against what he'd just endured, at least as far as he knew. A creeping dread settled deep within him, realization dawning horribly clear:

He had survived, yes, but barely—and two more trips awaited him, each likely more terrifying, more deadly, and more unforgiving than the last.

Yes, he had conquered one, but even that seemed more like a fluke than his own accomplishment now. He looked back at his bed, sweat breaking out all over his body.

And deep inside, a chilling, undeniable truth settled heavily in his gut:

He wasn't ready. Not even close.