The fault of one's characters

Nemo awoke curled into a fetal position, heart pounding. The familiar weight of the green book, Guide to Tripping, lay beside him. The last dream still clung to him like residue from a storm.

With a racing breath, he instinctively checked his feet. Whole. No blood. No wounds. He exhaled slowly in relief; though the ghost of pain still haunted his memory, its lesson still reverberated in his being.

Sitting upright, he retrieved the book and reopened the section on the dream of metal. The words made more sense now, as if the pain he'd experienced had translated the text into a new language—one written in sweat and suffering.

He realized then that, unlike the more chaotic, formless dream, the dream of metal had structure. It was a crucible. A harsh teacher. The text seemed almost stern in tone. Those who dreamed in metal, it said, often bore roots that demanded structure, discipline, and understanding.

To teach them, the world shaped a lesson so clear, so brutal, that forgetting was not an option. Pain, like metal, could be forged into strength—if one survived the heat. 

At the end of the passage, Nemo saw a quote that struck him deeply.

'The Path of Metal does not cut to wound—it cuts to reveal. Only what chooses to endure its own forging may become more than it once was'

- Jaques Netreyan, aka The Lord of Chains

So the Lord of Chains had a name, and he was a person rooted in metal, like Nemo. He felt somewhat better about himself as he thought of the respect Xeras had had in his voice when he had thought of the Lord of Chains.

With a sigh, Nemo noticed his stomach and looked toward the table. As expected, it was already laden with food. He ate without speaking, ravenously consuming everything before him. When he began asking questions again, he was surprised to hear not one voice, but several. Each answered a different question. None overlapped, yet somehow it felt orchestrated—intentional.

Though perplexed, Nemo let the matter slide. His curiosity was shifting. He picked up the last remaining book: The Fault of One's Character. The title alone had intrigued him, but now it pulled him in like a magnet.

As he read, he forgot what he had wanted to ask. He didn't even need to. The book answered questions he hadn't yet articulated, questions buried deep since his awakening began. The text explained that each root bore a fault. Not just a flaw in behavior, but a core imbalance of character—a metaphysical wound.

Some faults were emotional: pride, cowardice, and rage. Others were mental: overthinking, apathy, and doubt. Still others were instinctual, bound to the primal nature of the root—like hunger. These faults, the book said, were not temporary. They were permanent. Lifelong. In some cases, eternal.

And yet, they were not curses in the way people often assumed. Each fault was a binding—a tether to the soul's most vulnerable truths. And through understanding them, one could sometimes uncover an unexpected power. Faults demanded sacrifice, but they could also offer insight. Like knots in a great rope, they were weaknesses—but also points of tension that could carry great weight.

Nemo paused, setting the book in his lap. He remembered the incessant questions in his mind—the stream of chaotic thoughts that never seemed to quiet. He now understood that his curiosity wasn't just a trait. It was a fault. A root-bound impulse that flooded him with need. Need to ask. To know.

Then there was the hunger. He had dismissed it before as the natural toll of awakening—high energy, high metabolism. But that explanation had never sat right. The way he devoured the offerings, the overwhelming need to feed—it was something deeper. Something insatiable. The dream of metal had forced him to accept pain. Perhaps the next dream would ask him to accept hunger.

Two faults, he thought. Curiosity and hunger. But what's the third?

There was no answer. Not yet.

He closed the book gently, feeling its teachings settle deep inside him like stones dropping into a lake. He would carry these thoughts with him into the next dream.

With nothing else left to read and no desire to reread anything, Nemo lay back on the bed and waited. And waited.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

He frowned and sat up. "What time is it?" he asked aloud.

"3 p.m.," came the crisp response.

Too early, he thought, groaning. He flopped back onto the bed. The stillness irritated him. He had nothing left to distract him. No books, no answers, no questions worth asking. He hummed an old tune—one often sung on the docks during hard labor.

The melody triggered a memory. The city sings. It was true. In Atlantis, sailors' songs filled the air like drifting pollen. Everyone knew them—dockworkers, shopkeepers, even children. When someone began to hum, others joined, no matter where you were. It was as common as breathing.

A singing city, he mused. Then, chuckling, he remembered a phrase from an old book he'd read in the orphanage. A city of sirens. The idea struck him as hilarious.

"The sirens," he said aloud, giggling. "The Sirens of Atlantis."

"What sirens?" asked a voice—curious, perhaps amused.

Nemo grinned up at the light. "Sirens lure sailors with their songs, right? But here, we all sing together. I thought—maybe we're the sirens. But then I imagined the captains, the dockhands, the Awakened... and, well... let's just say none of us are exactly mythical beauties."

He laughed harder, unable to stop. Tears ran down his cheeks as the absurdity overwhelmed him. The release was unexpected, long overdue. It was the first time he'd laughed since arriving.

But the laughter ended as quickly as it began.

One breath. One blink.

And he was no longer in his room.

The third trip had begun.

This time, there was no transition. No mist. No journey. Just a sudden, jarring arrival.

And as Nemo looked around at his new surroundings, his heart sank.

It seems I was wrong then. The last trip was paradise, because this has to be definitely, one hundred percent, positively confirmed—hell.