Countless cross-sections of dreams were floating.
Every step I took, unfamiliar memories blocked my path. There were scenes soaked in tears like a puberty pillowcase, and scenes dry and rough like desert sand.
Most were nightmares.
Blood, blades, and death.
It was rare for a memory not to contain at least one of the three. In a hazy state of mind, I wandered between them, thinking with a brain where blood wasn’t circulating.
Probably because only the impressive scenes remained.
There were few experiences that left deeper scars on the subconscious than war. Even for me, it wouldn’t be an exception.
Would the space of my subconscious be like this too?
Gilford, Mitram, Leoric, Yuren……
How much time had passed as I moved my steps, inwardly chanting the names that came to mind one by one.
Suddenly, there was a landscape filling my vision.
It was the back of a crying man.
The corpse of the woman in…