CHAPTER 38 | THE GREATEST NIGHTMARE
MIN YOONGI
The dream always began the same: a silence so pure it seemed to echo, pierced only by the soft rustle of long grass dancing beneath a tired sky. The wind moved lazily, as though reluctant to disturb the solemn stillness of the world. Before me stretched a field—not of green, but of age-worn gold and decay-tinged earth. The once-lush grasses were entwined with bushes of dark red roses, overgrown and pulsing like bruises upon the land. Their petals were thick, velvety, almost too red—colors that whispered of dried blood and broken promises.
And then, she appeared.
She crossed the field barefoot, each step deliberate, as if she moved not across soil but through memory. Her dress billowed behind her, catching the sighs of the wind like a cloak of sorrow. In one hand, she cradled the roses as if they were children born from pain. In the other, blood clung to her pale skin—fresh, glistening, and trailing like paint upon a ruined canvas. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the thorns, pushing them deep into her palm, as though she drew strength from the ache. The blood ran freely, thick drops darkening the grass, and as it did, the earth beneath her feet seemed to cry out. What was once green and thriving turned grey and brittle, curling into itself like it feared her presence. I stood frozen, gripped by a terror that was not loud or sudden, but slow and familiar—like remembering the end of something beautiful.
And then, she turned.
Her gaze met mine—and something in me fractured. Her eyes, once the vessels of starlight and fireflies, were dim now. Hollow. I couldn't bear how empty they were, how they held none of the warmth they once poured into me. A deep sting burned in my chest, and I realized how I had come to rely on her light. Now that it was gone, all I saw was shadow.
She looked down at her blood-stained hand and the roses still clutched within. A bitter laugh danced from her lips—one not born from joy, but disillusionment. "It's funny," she said quietly, her voice a ghost across the field. "The more you look at the world, you'll soon realize how much red there is."
I whispered her name—it slipped from me like a spell I had once chanted with devotion. It felt foreign now, even as it trembled against my lips. "It's you..."
I stepped forward, each footfall trembling with hesitance and longing. My hand stretched out slowly, trembling like a starving man reaching for warmth. I wanted—needed—to touch her. To feel if she was real, if anything ever had been. "By the Gods," I breathed, my voice cracking, "please tell me that you are real."
She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with something between pity and resignation. "Nothing is real, Yoongi," she replied. Her voice held the chill of winter's end, soft but cutting. She twirled the rose in her hand, crimson petals catching the dying light. "Not even the Gods. Not even the forgiveness anyone seeks. Yet here you are, craving the insatiable."
My thoughts twisted. Confusion bloomed. Her words didn't sting—they stabbed, each syllable cold and deliberate. My brows furrowed. "What do you mean?" I asked, though part of me wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
Then came the shifting of presence. A new figure emerging behind her, one I recognized in the same way a wound recognizes a blade—instinctively and with dread. Axel. He moved with purpose, the great axe in his hand swaying with deadly intent. He did not need to speak. His approach was enough. I stepped backward, my breath catching as panic began to swell in my chest like a tidal wave. I raised my hands, instinctively calling on the necromantic forces I once commanded with ease. But nothing came. No tendrils of shadow, no skeletal hands bursting through the dirt. My palms were empty. Powerless.

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The Promised Blade ✧ Min Yoongi
Fanfiction"They forsook their thrones and fled the firmament, yet named me heir to the ruin. Mine is not a voice of divinity, but the echo of what divinity could not hold." Long before empires rose, the Speakers held the balance between gods and mortals-until...