"Some dreams sleep. Others awaken. But one… chose to forget."
---
When Asma-Ra crossed the threshold into the forgotten dream, he ceased to exist—at least, in the way mortals understand.
His feet no longer touched ground.
There was no wind, no weight, no breath.
Only the echo of potential.
---
Here, the garden stretched endlessly—a place of lush silence, where time grew on vines and colors wept down from cloudless skies. Trees bore fruit shaped like unborn thoughts, and every blade of grass whispered a secret it had never spoken.
This was the Womb of Uncreation.
Where the gods once knelt before the first spark.
Where Asuras dared to steal its flame.
And where the monk-child, now nameless, had vanished.
Asma-Ra clutched the serpent-skull and listened.
It pulsed against his chest.
Then, the garden stirred.
---
From a tree whose bark was stitched from ancient regrets, a figure descended—neither child nor old, neither man nor woman. It was unfinished—shimmering with half-shaped features, its body a breathing scripture.
> "You have entered the Forgotten Dream. Speak no lie. Think no thought. Or it shall rewrite you."
The figure bowed.
> "I am the Watcher of What Could Have Been. You seek the monk-child, do you not?"
Asma-Ra nodded.
> "Then you must find his name. For only those remembered may return from this place. But beware—he chose to be forgotten.
He bled his name into the roots so that even the gods would not find him."
The Watcher turned and pointed toward a mountain of glass that wept ink.
> "There lies the Book Without Pages. Inside it is written every name that was never born."
---
Asma-Ra journeyed there.
He crossed rivers made of unspoken lullabies, and stepped over skeletons of dreams that drowned themselves. The glass mountain shimmered with guilt.
At its peak was the book.
Blank.
Until he opened it—and it spoke.
> "Will you remember what another wished forgotten?
Will you carry the weight of a name that chose oblivion?"
Asma-Ra placed the skull on the book.
The pages ignited—revealing a single name carved in burning ash:
"Vāma-Sattva"
(The Gentle Essence.)
At that moment, a storm swept the garden.
Reality reeled.
The forgotten dream fought back—howling and twisting, trying to erase him.
---
But Asma-Ra held the name in his soul.
He screamed it into the sky.
> "VĀMA-SATTVA!"
And the garden split.
From the shattered earth, the monk-child rose—not as a boy, but as an ancient flame.
A spirit wreathed in white fire and sorrow.
He looked at Asma-Ra, and spoke—not in words, but in feeling:
> "You should not have remembered me."
And then:
> "But now… we can begin."
---
END OF CHAPTER XV
Next: Chapter XVI – "The Monk Who Refused to Ascend"