This dream again.
Lately, I've been having the weirdest dreams.
Like, aggressively weird.
And that's saying something—because I am already a reincarnated dice.
I don't like things more absurd than me. It's disrespectful.
One time, I dreamed I was a frog.
Lived my whole life as a frog in a well.
A beautiful princess kissed me, and poof—I turned into a handsome prince.
Then she stabbed me.
I got croaked in the face.
Another night, I was a fish.
I fell in love with a girl on the surface.
Desperate to see her, I made a deal with a sea witch who gave me a magic soup to turn me human.
I drank it.
It was poisoned.
I died with soup.
Then there was the chicken incident.
I was a man trying to cook dinner for my family.
Killed a chicken.
Suddenly I became the chicken.
Legend said I had to "learn empathy and brotherhood" before I could become human again.
I didn't get the chance.
Next morning, I was already roasted over a campfire.
I swear these dreams are so freaking random, but somehow… suspiciously familiar.
And now?
This dream feels different.
I'm not in it—
I'm watching it, like a movie in a cinema.
A mysterious woman's voice opens the scene:
"Dear… you're back again. Welcome home."
A man hugs the woman.
Not just a hug—that kind of hug.
The kind that makes your chest ache.
It's quiet, but so warm I can actually feel the love seeping through the screen.
Then the man lets go and picks up a baby.
His baby.
Their child.
"You know the baby missed you so much while you were gone."
"Hah… I bet what he missed wasn't me—it was his toy."
"The dice."
Huh? Dice?
The woman smiles—bright, a little too energetic, like sunshine that talks too loud.
Then her expression shifts—mischievous, playful, dangerous in that "you're about to regret this" way.
She grabs his hand.
Leans in close.
"Come," she whispers.
"Let's make another memory… just like before."
Lyra Swift POV:
Late at night in Arial Village, most people were asleep.
Grandpa was snoring like someone pinched his nose.
Mom and Dad were still... busy in their room.
(Too busy. Don't ask. I don't want to know.)
And me?
I was awake.
Not for my usual midnight bathroom run.
Because of him.
"Ugh. Not again. This dummy dice is glowing."
There he was—on the nightstand.
Faint light. Just enough to be annoying.
Every time he dreams, he turns into some kind mana lantern with terrible timing.
And the dreams?
Always weird.
Dying, crying, turning-into-soup kind of weird.
I've picked up a pattern by now.
He gets eaten. Explodes. Cooked alive.
Every time, he dies at the end.
It's... concerning.
But also? This is Dan.
His brain's basically a cracked egg with magic scribbles inside.
"Whatever. Let's see what disaster he's dreaming about this time…"
…and boom.
I'm in.
This time?
He's a prince.
Because of course he is.
Like his ego would let him be anything else.
But not the cool kind.
Not sword-swinging, dragon-slaying, cape-flipping cool.
Nope.
He's the insecure, drama-fueled, "please validate me" kind of prince.
The emotional, high-maintenance, mirror-addicted kind.
An idiot in velvet.
Every morning—literally every morning—he stands in front of this oversized shiny mirror, tosses his imaginary bangs, and goes:
"Mirror, mirror on the wall… who's the handsomest of them all?"
And the mirror?
Completely over it.
"Not you."
HAHAHAHA.
I love this mirror.
So satisfying.
This is fun.
And it happens for years.
Day after day:
"Mirror, mirror—"
"Still not you."
"But today I—"
"No."
Eventually, he snaps.
Throws a royal tantrum.
Yells something about beauty standards and betrayal—then smashes the mirror with his royal hand like a dummy.
The shards?
Straight into his face.
Now?
Every puddle, window, spoon, and shiny plate reflects his tragic mug.
People gasp.
Babies cry.
A dog legit passed out.
And when he can't take it anymore, he jumps out the palace window.
Face-first.
Into a decorative fountain.
I blinked.
And then—
It was morning.
Light filtered through the window.
Birds were chirping like they hadn't just witnessed dream-level stupidity.
I blinked again.
"Uhh... okay.
That was not fun anymore."
I rolled over and saw him on the nightstand, still curled up in his cubic glow-ball form.
Still.
"You seriously mirror-suicided your way into a fountain," I muttered, rubbing my face.
"Who even dreams like that? What kind of brain damage do you have?"
Obviously, he didn't answer.
Still passed out like dummy cube he is.
I sat up and stretched.
Hair? A mess. All tangled, like a spell gone wrong.
Mood? Also a mess.
Time to start the day, I guess.
Bathroom. Bucket of water.
A towel that may or may not still smell like Turnip.
Let's get this over with.
As I scrubbed away the leftover dream trauma, I sighed—loudly.
"That dummy dice.
Always dying.
Always crying.
Always being the main character of his own tragedy…"
Why do I even worry about him like some mom taking care of her emotionally unstable baby?
I dunked my head, then sat up with water dripping down my face.
Sighed again. Harder this time.
"Were those dreams... his past lives or something?"
"Like—he's reincarnated into a dice now, right?"
"Does that mean he's just gonna... die again one day?"
I paused.
Then immediately shook my head.
...Ugh. Whatever. I don't like complicate stuff.
Freshly scrubbed and still mildly annoyed, I walked back into my room.
There he was.
Dan the Dice.
Still asleep. Still glowing faintly like an enchanted potato.
I stared at him for a second.
Then picked him up by the chain and let him dangle midair.
"You better not whisper weird things at me in public again."
Silence.
Cube still sleeping.
I slipped the necklace over my head.
He settled into place—right at the center of my chest, like always.
Square. Solid. Smelled like trouble.
And then...
He twitched.
Just a little.
Then muttered—his dummy line again:
"Whoa—whoa—turbulence… morning already?
Waking up in Lyra Airlines with this fluffy cloud in morning.
Talk about first class."
...
I stopped walking.
Just stood there.
Trying to make sense of whatever nonsense just left his mouth.
"...Excuse me?"
He didn't respond.
Fake-sleeping. I knew it.
Probably smirking in whatever dream coma he's in.
Pretending to be innocent. Tsk.
"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean.
Lyra Airlines?
Honestly, what even is that?
Am I his mount or something? Is he the great hero now?
What is this metaphor??"
I looked down at him, dangling like a smug little pendant—
as if he wasn't currently being worn by a girl one emotional twitch away from drop-kicking him.
"I swear I'm gonna find out what you mean by that one day.
And when I do... I'm rolling you straight into a wall."
I tried not to think about it for the rest of the day.
Didn't work.
But I pretended anyway.
The rest of the day was... normal.
Annoyingly normal.
Boring chores.
Boring villagers.
Boring training.
Everyone else was boring.
Well—except Dan.
But he's an idiot. And a dice. So that barely counts.
Anyway, I'm still cool.
I wrote that down.
It's a habit—I keep a diary before bed.
Even giggled a little.
"Hehe... I'm cool."
And then...
He started glowing again.
"Not again."
I leaned in and poked him with one finger—charged with lightning magic.
Bzzzt.
No response.
That was extra worrying.
Usually, when I electrocute him, he snaps awake, starts hopping around, and curses me saying I just deleted his save file.
I don't even understand half of what he says—
But all his yapping and tiny hops while slightly smoking... were so cute.
Annoyingly adorable. Used to make me giggle.
But this time?
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
I took a deep breath.
"Alright, what's the dream disaster tonight, you dummy dice."
I focused.
And boom—just like that, I was in.
And immediately… regret.
I hate it.
He was a broom.
Yes. A broom.
In love with a mop.
They trained together in a storeroom, dreaming of one day cleaning the world together.
But when the big moment came—
He tripped.
Snapped in half.
And the mop got promoted without him.
He cried in the dustbin.
I... don't even know what to say about that one.
But I clearly wrote "I hate it" in my diary.
And tonight… he glowed again.
I was getting tired.
The more I saw his weird dreams, the more it felt like something was changing.
Like I was... becoming more like him.
But still—
I decided to peek into his dream again.
And—
Another instant regret.
He's a blanket.
Not even a magical one.
Just a plain, fuzzy blanket—soft, a little worn, the kind you'd swaddle a baby in.
"Warmth is love," his voice echoes.
"And love is destiny."
He wants to be a hero's cape.
A legendary one.
The blowing-in-the-wind-on-top-of-a-mountain kind.
So what does he do?
He climbs up a dresser.
Throws himself off.
Hoping to catch the wind and FLY.
...
He falls.
Like... instantly.
FLAP—SMACK.
Idiot.
Hits the ground.
No lift.
Just thud.
Next day?
He tries again.
Higher.
Fails harder.
FLAP—SMACK. SNAP. ROLL.
He keeps trying.
Over and over.
Until he's worn thin, frayed at the corners, and covered in shoe prints.
Eventually?
He gets picked up by a farmer.
Used to clean cabbage juice off the floor.
"He's not even absorbing properly," the farmer mutters.
"Just toss it into the firewood. Snow's coming hard tonight."
...
It's morning again when I snap out of the dream.
I stare at the dice.
Speechless.
Just...
"...You idiot."
I grab my diary.
Sit in bed.
And scribble down two words.
"I'm losing."
Just what are you...
This kind of nonsense.
I'm emotionally exhausted because I care about a reincarnated idiot blanket with dreams of wind.
I didn't even want to check again.
But…I will.
Because deep down, I already know.
The next time he glows…
I'm going to look again.