Water ripped at Leon's arms and legs as he clawed toward the shore he had once tried to avoid. He hauled himself onto the bank with wide eyes, coughing.
When he rose from the sand, he saw shadows moving just beyond the edge of the trees. Then, to be sure it wasn't a trick his eyes were playing on him, he moved forward a bit.
The moment he took three steps, he froze as he saw slim grey aliens with eyes that looked like voids of absolute blackness.
They weren't the chittering creatures from the Shattered Lands; these ones looked like something older and intelligent.
Just as he began to move back one step at a time, the featureless faces of the creatures all turned toward him, with a raised long finger pointing.
Leon's fingers and breath twitched as terror struck him whole. No matter where he looked, he saw no alternative escape path. It was either to suffocate in the green sea or walk through the aliens.
With no other choice, and also with what he went through as he drowned, Leon forced his legs forward and began to walk toward the creatures.
"Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!" He chanted a silent, desperate prayer in his mind so much that his lips began to move, but no words came.
When he moved closer, one figure at the center of the creatures broke from its stillness and let out a silent, piercing shriek that vibrated through Leon's very soul.
Then he saw all the creatures rush forward at a horrifying speed in unison. Without knowing what to do, Leon stood there shaking, hoping he would wake up from this terrifying dream in an instant.
As he peeked his eyes through the space in his fingers, he saw their mouths move, but no sound came. Instead, he saw jagged, hungry smiles with rows of needle-thin teeth.
They slammed Leon to the ground before he could even imagine. Then one struck Leon with a claw that moved like liquid metal, slashing across his forehead.
Leon screamed as pain surged in him. It was so agonizing that his physical body trembled on the bed.
Then the others began peeling the skin on Leon's arms, chest, and face. Every flay of skin sent Leon screaming in a raw, soundless agony that choked gasps in his trembling physical body.
He felt each strip of his skin like a wildfire thrumming through his nerves. Then, as he wasn't able to break free in their grip, Leon convulsed on his bed and fell off the mattress.
Through the blinding pain that scratched through him, he saw one figure that had given the signal looming over him like a god.
Then, slowly, it raised a claw which shimmered as tiny whispers of light fell on it, and slammed it into Leon's chest, pulling out his heart.
As Leon's vision began to blur, he saw a blue eye in the creature's eye socket which glowed like Tiger's.
He jolted upright, gasping, his lungs fighting for air that wasn't there. Cold sweat slicked his skin as his body convulsed from the pain of being torn apart alive.
He brushed his hands across his chest, checking for wounds.
He found none. When his wild eyes adjusted in the dark, he saw something that had signs of the dream.
On his bedsheet, exactly where his body had lain, was a perfect, ghostly imprint of his form.
The imprint was composed of fine dark ash that had seared into the fabric not by heat, but by some strange, cold energy.
The alien face that mirrored Tiger's smirk burned at the back of his eyelids, causing Leon's body to tremble.
The message was simple: the battle had already begun, not in the ring of a vast audience, but in his very own mind.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Three sharp, impatient raps came, shaking the door in its frame. Leon walked to it and yanked it open.
His heart turned like a frantic drum against his ribs as he saw the hallway empty.
"Ah…" he hissed under his breath. Then he slammed the door shut. But the tiny ray of the morning sun made the ash imprint on his bed glow as it fell on the bed.
Before he could process it, the knocking returned. This time it was accompanied by a cold, authoritative, and threat-laced voice.
"Open the door. Now."
'What's the time?' Panic surged, obliterating the last remnants of the nightmare. Then Leon realized he had overslept on the day of the tournament's grand assembly.
Stories of what happened to those who were late—disqualification, imprisonment, worse—flashed through his mind.
"Oh… no!" Leon yanked on his uniform, not caring about the sweat that still slicked his skin, and burst out.
The moment he stepped outside, he saw two men in full combat armor standing at his door, wearing opaque shades.
He didn't stop to question them nor answer their questions; he ducked between them and sprinted down the hall.
As he reached the end of the corridor, a voice, amplified and distorted by a helmet modulator, boomed after him. "We've seen your face."
The words were a promise of future reckoning, an invisible weight thrown onto his already burdened shoulders.
He slid into the back of the assembled crowd just as the head proctor took the stage.
"Welcome, promising participants. Today will be the day some of you join your ancestors in their graves." A collective tremor flew through the air, causing the students to tremble. The proctor's smile was a thin, cruel line.
"Today's training surpasses every training you have ever taken." He gestured to the armored figures now fanning out behind him.
"It's not about power. It's about control. Unleashed power is a bomb—impressive, but useless. Controlled power is a scalpel. It wins wars."
A body with brown curly hair elbowed Leon. "Hey kid," he muttered, his nose wrinkling. "Didn't you bathe? You smell like fear and burnt sheets."
The casual cruelty, on the heels of his terror, was a tinder match. Leon's fists clenched. His chest ached as the golden energy thrummed in response.