Sunny was anxious—deeply so—about leaving Aveline in someone else's care, even if that someone was Master Jet. A strange, gnawing feeling tugged at the back of his mind, telling him to stay close, to protect what little he had. But at the same time, that same sense whispered something else.
That it was safe.That it was... beneficial, even.
Besides, Jet was trustworthy. She had earned that much.
And while Sunny would never dare say it out loud—not yet, anyway—he had a strange feeling about her. That she wasn't just going to be a good friend.
Maybe, someday… she could be family.
The metal bridge beneath his feet gave a shudder, then settled into place with a series of loud, echoing clicks, signaling the end of its movement. Sunny stood silently, gazing ahead at the massive red gates of the Academy, wondering what kind of life awaited him over the next eight weeks.
A Few Hours Later
A facility staff member had met him at the entrance soon after, ushering him through a brief orientation and handling the necessary paperwork. It was quick, efficient, and utterly impersonal.
Sunny was then guided to the section of the Academy reserved for new Sleepers.
The Sleeper Compound was relatively small, nestled in the southern quadrant of the campus. Surrounded on all sides by vast training fields and green parks, it was a quiet corner—peaceful, almost deceptively so. The building itself was low and modern, constructed with clean lines and reinforced alloy materials. Like many of the Academy's structures, most of it was subterranean, with only a couple of floors exposed to the surface. Its white walls gleamed under the fading sun, and the wide windows gave it a pristine, almost sterile appearance.
Sunny glanced around as he walked. He had passed dozens of other Sleepers—young people like him, all around his age, wandering about with nervous excitement or chatting in lively groups.
And it didn't take long for a few things to become painfully clear.
First: Everyone was dressed well. All of them had come prepared—carrying suitcases, duffel bags, or at the very least, neatly packed backpacks. Most had clearly arrived straight from their homes, with the loving support of a family that cared for them. They looked bright-eyed, refreshed, and confident.
Sunny, on the other hand, stood out like a bruise.
He wore simple, worn-out police-issued clothing. No bags. No personal items. No farewell hugs or hopeful goodbyes.
He was the anomaly.
Second: Jet had not been exaggerating when she said she was below average by Awakened standards.
Even though these youths had only recently Awakened, their appearance was already striking—handsome, radiant, and oozing health and potential. Their postures were upright, their steps confident. They were the very image of future heroes.
Sunny swallowed.'So this is what they mean when they say the chosen ones…'
And yet, despite all of that—despite being outmatched, outclassed, and outdressed—he thought of Jet again.
'Still... I feel like none of them compare to her.'
She might not be as picture-perfect, but she had something more dangerous. Presence. A gravity of being. It was as if shadows deepened and the temperature dipped a few degrees when she entered a room.
It wasn't something you could bottle.It wasn't something you could fake.It was... power.
Since the induction ceremony wouldn't be held for another two days, Sunny was given the freedom to explore. Many of the other new Sleepers had already arrived and were lounging in the courtyard or wandering through training zones. It was a rare, quiet period.
But all of these observations were ultimately just his mind's way of postponing the inevitable.
Because deep down, Sunny already knew what awaited him.
A new nightmare.
Not the kind with monsters or darkness or forgotten ruins.
This one came with smiles, handshakes, casual chatter... and, most terrifying of all—small talk.
His flaw ensured that he couldn't lie. And all these excited, wide-eyed, confident Sleepers?They all wanted one thing: to talk.
To share stories about their Nightmares.To speculate about the Dream Realm.To bond.To ask questions.
They wanted to be heard.They wanted to be seen.
And to someone like Sunny, it was a waking horror.
"It's a nightmare!" he moaned internally, anxiety twisting his stomach into knots. "I'm doomed!"
Then, breathing through gritted teeth, he forced himself to calm down.
'Just think of it as a continuation of the trial. You survived the black mountain. You can survive this, too. You've faced tyrants, shadows, and gods. Surely you can survive… teenagers?'
…He may have underestimated how terrifying teenagers could be.
Over the course of the day, he exchanged a few words here and there—nothing deep, nothing dangerous.
He made sure to appear as weak as possible.
Not pitiful, not suspiciously mysterious—just harmless. Forgettable. A dead man walking.
He had briefly considered taking a more aggressive approach: antagonizing others, acting unstable, making himself seem crazy. But he discarded that plan quickly. No good would come from creating enemies this early. Especially not when there was a chance they could be assigned together in the Dream Realm.
The worst case? They'd leave him behind.The worst-worst case? They'd kill him before the monsters could.
The cruelty of Humanity need not to be underestimated, especially in a situation, where there own survival isn't guaranteed and trust is hard to come by.
So instead, Sunny settled into a simple pattern:
A few polite words. A few self-deprecating jokes. A little nervous laughter.
And then, he'd quietly slip away.
The conversations went something like this:
"Look at all these young people! How many do you think will return from the Dream Realm? How many will perish? What do you think our own chances of survival are?"
"I don't know… but someone as brilliant as you will probably survive. As for me… I'm quite certain I'm going to die."
or
"I received an armor-type Memory! A robe—it's enchanted. Would you like to see it?"
"Actually, miss… I think you're beautiful enough without needing any robe to accentuate your beauty. Not that I even know what a robe is…"
(Later, he found out that a robe was basically just a fancy blanket you wrapped around yourself. How strange.)
or
"Then those lowlifes began robbing corpses. It was disgusting! They even took their shoes! What kind of degenerates steal from the dead?"
"Absolutely vile! I even knew a guy who killed someone just for a pair of boots!"
"…Wait, what?"
And so on.
He kept things vague. Played dumb. Gained a few sympathetic looks. And made sure no one suspected that he had a True Name, or anything resembling a secret worth uncovering.
He was just another weakling.
Another Sleeper doomed to die.
By the time the sun dipped low and the sky burned orange, Sunny had spoken to fewer than a dozen people—but he had accomplished his goal.
He'd started learning how to control his flaw.
He had learned how to control his Flaw.
Not perfectly—not yet—but enough to give himself room to breathe. Enough to navigate this new world without immediately throwing himself under the nearest metaphorical bus.
The mechanics of it were cruelly simple.
Once asked a question, Sunny could not stay silent. Nor could he lie. The Flaw ensured it. It was an invisible force coiled deep in his mind, waiting to spring with every inquiry.
But after hours of painstaking experimentation—small conversations, careful tests, and more than a few agonizing headaches—Sunny had made a discovery.
With enough practice, he could manipulate how the truth emerged.
It went like this:
The moment a question was asked, his mind would automatically conjure the most direct and accurate answer. The Flaw would then begin its work—building pressure within his skull, a tight, pulsing force that only grew more painful with every passing second of silence.
If he refused to speak, that pressure would grow sharper, lancing through his thoughts like hot needles. Eventually, the pain would become unbearable.
He would have to speak.
But… in that small window between the question and the moment he yielded to the pain, he had room—just a sliver of it—to shape the truth.
He could reword. Rephrase. Soften.
The truth still had to be truth. That much was non-negotiable.
But truth, as he had come to understand, was a malleable thing. The more he veered from the direct answer, the more resistance he faced—yet with skill, he could walk that razor's edge without tipping into falsehood.
It was all about nuance.
For example, if Master Jet were to catch him staring again and demanded to know what he was looking at, the purest truth would probably be: "Your face , I have never seen someone as beautiful as you."
Not exactly the kind of thing one says meeting someone the first time without expecting consequences.
But with just a bit of mental finesse, he could say:
"You."
Still the truth. Still honest. But subtle. Indirect. Manageable.
And infinitely less humiliating.
Now, hidden in the corner of the training yard, half-shrouded by the shadows of a steel column, Sunny allowed himself a rare, triumphant grin as he watched the other Sleepers mingle.
"This is good," he thought, his fingers drumming lightly against his thigh. "This is great. This is something I can work with."
The world would underestimate him.
And he would let it.
Because one didn't have to lie to deceive a person.
Sometimes, truth—carefully cut and polished like a gem—was the finest weapon of all.
And, more importantly, he had successfully laid the groundwork for a perfect disguise.
Not of strength.But of weakness.
He would let the world underestimate him.Let them ignore him.Let them look away.
Because in the Dream Realm, anonymity was armor. And invisibility?
That was power.
If wielded with a certain devious type of intelligence, truth could be just as misleading as any lie.
Sunny had begun to understand this not as theory, but as strategy.
Thus, two honest fragments—spoken with the right pause, the right tone—could mimic a lie so well that even the keenest listener would walk away with the wrong impression.
And that, Sunny realized, was power.
It was a dangerous art, this manipulation of the truth. A dance on a knife's edge. Each time he shaped a response, there was risk. Risk of pain. Risk of exposure. But with time, effort, and an ever-deepening sense of cunning, he believed it could become a weapon as sharp as any blade.
He would need to train it like one.
He would need to rely on it like one.
Because in the days to come—among the beautiful, terrifying young Awakened with their perfect faces and dangerous secrets—he wouldn't just be fighting monsters.
He would be fighting people.
And to do that?
He just needed a bit of luck…
…and a very careful relationship with the truth.