The nightmare comes to Kalakuta like a black tide.
In his dream, he stands alone on a field of corpses—brothers and sisters of the cause, their bodies twisted and broken. The sky above bleeds crimson, and the sand beneath his feet turns to ash with every step he takes.
He searches for survivors, calling out names of those he holds dear.
No one answers.
Then, from the darkness, a familiar figure emerges.
His brother.
The one he trusts above all others.
The man walks toward him with that characteristic smile, the one that has guided Kalakuta through his darkest moments.
But something is wrong.
The smile twists at the edges, becoming grotesque. Kalakuta's brother raises his hand, and in it appears a blade—black as midnight, dripping with fresh blood.
"I'm sorry, Kalakuta," his brother whispers, though his voice echoes as if spoken by a thousand mouths. "But your dream ends here."
The blade plunges forward.
Kalakuta jolts awake, his body drenched in cold sweat.
