Before anyone could react, a booming voice shook the ship, cutting through the chaos like a cannon blast.

  "Brats! You’re standing on my ship now—the ship of Captain Havok! If you want to live, you’ll follow my orders. Or die screaming. Your choice!"

  The sheer weight of his presence was enough to demand obedience.

  The man standing at the helm was every bit the pirate warlord one would expect—his massive gut, thick, unkempt beard, and weathered skin made him look like he had lived through more battles than any of them could count. A worn leather eyepatch covered his left eye, while the other burned with a sharp, predatory glint. His scarred hands and face spoke of decades of warfare, and he moved across the deck with unshaken confidence, as if the storm, the cannon fire, and the bloodshed around them were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

  His voice thundered over the crashing waves.

  "All those with offensive abilities—get your asses to the cannons! I don’t care how strong you think you are—today, you’re artillery. Fire at anything that moves! There are no allies here—only enemies. This is one of many battlefields!"

  He marched across the deck as if the ship weren’t rocking violently beneath him, as if he had conquered a thousand storms before this one and had never once stumbled.

  "Defensive types—you’re on the mid-deck! I don’t care what kind of pathetic barrier you can conjure—use it! Keep this ship afloat, or we all sink together!"

  The command was absolute.

  There was no room for negotiation, no time for hesitation.

  The participants—many of whom were still reeling from the teleportation, the storm, the sheer insanity of their situation—didn’t question him.

  They moved, because defiance meant death.

  "Nyx and Sam aren’t here!" William shouted over the storm, just as a massive explosion rocked the ship.

  The blast sent shockwaves through the deck, knocking several fighters off their feet.

  Nigel hit the floor hard, barely aware of the impact. His limbs felt like lead, his vision swam, and his body refused to respond.

  He couldn’t move— he had pushed himself too far.

  The brutal training, the lack of sleep, the injuries… it had all caught up to him.

  Stupid.

  Training to the point of collapse had been a stupid decision.

  He clenched his fists, trying to force himself up, but the moment he managed to lift himself an inch—his legs gave out again.

  Dovak and William were too busy fighting to stay on their feet, gripping the cannons as they prepared to fire, but their eyes kept darting back to him.

  They saw him struggling. They knew he wasn’t okay.

  But they couldn’t help him. Not now.

  Nigel gritted his teeth and tried again—only to slip once more, his arms too weak to hold him up.

  Then—a hand.

  A massive, calloused hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him up like he weighed nothing.

  Havok’s grinning face filled his vision.

  "You, boy." The captain’s deep, rumbling voice practically vibrated through Nigel’s skull.

  The way he smiled was unsettling—sharp, knowing, almost amused.

  "You’re going to the cabins. Time for a nice, long nap."

  Nigel’s gut twisted.

  Something about the way he said it—the casual amusement in his tone, the way he handled him like a ragdoll—felt off.

  But he didn’t even have the strength to argue.

  Before he could protest, Havok dragged him across the deck, his grip unbreakable.

  William and Dovak immediately reacted, both lunging forward.

  "Hey! Let him go!" William shouted.

  Dovak’s massive arms reached out to grab Havok’s wrist—

  But with a single, casual flick of his hand, Havok tossed them both backward, sending them crashing back toward the cannons as if they were nothing more than inconvenient flies.

  "Don’t worry, lads," Havok called out, still dragging Nigel effortlessly. His voice carried a low, almost mocking growl.

  "He won’t die. Not yet, at least."

  And just like that—Nigel was gone, pulled below deck.

  Once inside the cabins, Havok wasted no time.

  With zero regard for delicacy, he hauled Nigel over his shoulder and dumped him onto the first bed in sight.

  Nigel barely registered the impact— not because it didn’t hurt, but because the bed was… strange.

  For something that looked like a rotting wooden plank with a mattress barely thicker than a leaf, it felt almost impossibly comfortable.

  A faint, heavy pressure settled over him, locking him in place.

  Not restricting him— just keeping him there.

  Like the bed itself was telling him: "Stay."

  Havok grinned down at him, arms crossed over his barrel-like chest.

  "Your job is simple, boy— sleep. Sleep, and find the key. If you do it before the others out there, you’ll give us a damn good advantage.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Nigel’s tired mind struggled to process that. "Key?" he muttered weakly.

  Havok simply laughed— a deep, booming sound, like a man who thrived off chaos.

  "That’s not my problem. Figure it out in your dreams." He gave Nigel a solid pat on the chest, strong enough to rattle his ribs.

  "Do it right, and we’ll be the first ship to get the hell out of this mess and make it to Hizar—where fine maidens and even finer barrels of the best damn liquor this sea has ever seen are waiting for me."

  He smirked. "Sweet dreams, Sleeping Beauty."

  And with that, Havok turned and walked out, leaving zero explanation behind.

  The moment Havok left, Nigel’s body sank deeper into the bed.

  His limbs felt heavy, the soreness in his muscles dulling into something distant, almost numb.

  For the first time in what felt like weeks, he wasn’t standing, wasn’t fighting, wasn’t running.

  And gods, it felt… good.

  The fatigue that had been gnawing at him for days finally sank its claws in deep, washing over him like a slow, suffocating tide.

  It wasn’t just exhaustion—it was bone-deep weariness, something he had forced himself to ignore for too long.

  His breathing slowed.

  His body relaxed.

  But with that relief came a terrible, inescapable pull.

  Sleep was no longer an option—it was an order.

  His vision blurred, and thoughts faded.

  No dreams, no memories— just a deep, unrelenting blackness swallowing him whole.

  And within seconds… He was gone.

  A cold breeze slithered across his skin, biting into his flesh like unseen fingers. The scent of wet earth and rotting wood filled his nostrils, thick and suffocating.

  Nigel’s eyes snapped open.

  He wasn’t on the ship anymore.

  Dark, towering trees loomed above him, their twisted branches stretching so high that they blotted out the sky, leaving only glimpses of something unnatural—a sickly gray expanse, streaked with deep bordeaux veins, pulsing faintly, as if the sky itself was alive.

  Something about this place felt wrong.

  It wasn’t fear—not yet. But his instincts screamed at him.

  Leave. Leave now.

  But he had nowhere to go.

  Nigel pushed himself to his feet, forcing his legs to move.

  The ground beneath him was wrong.

  With each step, the earth let out a sickening squelch, like he was stepping on something half-decayed and wet. The sensation crawled up his spine, but he pressed forward, walking in a straight line, hoping to **find something—anything—**that could tell him where he was.

  The silence should have been comforting.

  It wasn’t.

  Because it wasn’t true silence.

  Somewhere in the distance, low, guttural sounds echoed between the trees.

  They weren’t voices. Not human ones, at least.

  Nigel kept walking, his breathing steady—until a deep boom shattered the eerie quiet.

  A sound like a massive stone crashing down.

  He froze. His body tensed, instincts sharpening as he listened—really listened.

  And that’s when he heard it.

  Voices.

  Not just one. Many.

  Far away, but unmistakable.

  They were speaking, But every word was in reverse.

  Nigel’s blood ran cold.

  What the hell is this place?

  Ignoring the weight sinking into his gut, he moved toward the source of the voices. His steps were careful, deliberate, making sure he didn’t make a sound.

  With each step, his breath grew heavier.

  With each step, the air pressed against his skin, thick and suffocating.

  Sweat dripped from his forehead in heavy droplets, and before he realized it, he was trembling.

  What the hell was he feeling?

  He forced himself forward. One step. Then another.

  Then—

  The song began. A voice, low, unnatural, warped beyond human understanding began to chant.

  The sound slithered through the air, twisting and writhing, as if the words themselves were alive.

  The moment it reached his ears, a sharp pain exploded in his skull.

  The world spun.

  The trees blurred. His vision darkened at the edges.

  His breath hitched.

  Then it hit him.

  Fear.

  Not the kind that could be rationalized.

  Not the kind that came with logic or explanation.

  This was something deeper. Something wrong. Something that didn’t belong in a world he understood.

  He clenched his fists, squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself to resist whatever was clawing at his mind.

  When he finally forced his eyes open, everything had changed.

  The forest was gone. Nigel now stood in an endless field, stretching so far in every direction that the horizon itself seemed to warp and shift, as if the landscape wasn’t truly real.

  The same gray-bordeaux sky loomed above, but there was no sun, no light source—and yet, everything was illuminated.

  Far ahead, in the distance, a single speck of light flickered.

  A building.

  Nigel’s pulse steadied, and he took a step forward. His foot didn’t move.

  A cold, wet sensation crawled up his ankles.

  He looked down.

  His legs were submerged in thick, black mud, nearly reaching his calves.

  What the—

  Panic flared as he yanked his left foot up, pulling with all his strength. It came free.

  He exhaled sharply.

  But then— his right foot sank deeper.

  Shit!

  Or at least, he thought he had shouted.

  Because no sound came out.

  The world around him remained deathly silent.

  The mud clung to his skin, thick and unrelenting, pulling him down inch by inch.

  He grabbed his leg with both hands, muscles straining, fighting against the invisible weight that was dragging him into the abyss below.

  And somewhere in the distance—the song continued.

  The mud refused to let go.

  No matter how hard Nigel pulled, there was no sign of it loosening—if anything, it seemed to tighten its grip, as if it were alive.

  Then—it got worse.

  With a sudden, sickening lurch, the thick sludge splattered upwards, coating his hands.

  The moment it touched his skin, it latched on.

  His fingers froze in place, sticking to his own leg like they had been welded together.

  A wave of cold dread crashed through him.

  He stopped moving entirely.

  Then—he heard it.

  A deep, resonant voice.

  Not speaking. Singing.

  The sound was unnatural—low, heavy, vibrating through the very air like it wasn’t being produced by vocal cords, but by something wrong.

  And it was getting closer.

  The earth beneath him shuddered.

  The dried, withered grass trembled violently, as if something unseen was passing beneath it, rippling outward in every direction.

  Nigel's breath hitched.

  He had to move. Now.

  Ignoring the pain in his skull, he forced himself to turn his head… And immediately regretted it.

  It was there.

  A figure. Human-shaped. But not human.

  Its body was composed of shifting black smoke, its form constantly distorting, as if reality itself was rejecting its presence.

  Two massive, glowing white eyes pierced through the darkness of its form, flickering like lanterns in the abyss.

  And those eyes were locked onto him.

  Nigel’s entire body seized with terror.

  His mouth opened, his mind screaming—

  "Shit, shit, shit—!"

  But no sound came out.

  The silence was absolute.

  And the thing kept coming.

  Suddenly, something shifted.

  The pressure on his leg changed.

  Nigel instinctively tilted his knee, testing the resistance—and it gave way.

  His eyes widened.

  "Bingo!" he thought, though no sound left his lips.

  Without hesitation, he twisted his trapped leg into a diagonal angle and yanked with everything he had.

  With a sickening slurp, his foot tore free—and with it, his hands snapped loose as well.

  For the briefest moment, relief flooded his mind.

  But then—

  A flicker of white light behind him.

  The thing was right there.

  Nigel didn't look back.

  Didn’t dare.

  His body moved on pure survival instinct as he launched forward, bolting toward the distant glow on the horizon.

  Run. Run. Run.

  But something was wrong.

  Even though the weight of the mud was gone, his legs didn’t move properly.

  It felt as though he was running underwater, his strides slow, sluggish, unnatural.

  It wasn't exhaustion—it was the world itself.

  The laws of movement weren’t obeying him.

  Nigel's mind raced.

  This place—this warped world, these twisting skies, the unnatural gravity in his limbs—

  This isn’t real.

  A dream? A vision? Something else?

  Whatever this was, the rules weren’t normal.

  The sky had no sun, yet there was light.

  The landscape shifted, stretching unnaturally, warping the farther he ran.

  Even sound itself was wrong.

  He staggered to a stop. For the first time since waking up here, he focused. Not on his body, not on his fear.

  On the world itself.

  If this was a dream—if this place obeyed thought over physics, then maybe…

  He could bend it to his will. Nigel closed his eyes.

  The light in the distance. The house.

  Closer. Bring it closer.

  He willed it—not with his body, but with his mind.

  A shift.

  A lurch in the very fabric of the dream.

  When Nigel opened his eyes—

  The speck of light on the horizon was no longer far away.

  It was right in front of him.

  A large, two-story house, standing impossibly close, as if it had always been there, waiting for him to realize he could reach it.

  His heart pounded.

  He had just manipulated the dream.

  And if he could do that… What else was possible?