Dreamer's Ascent

Ethan jolted awake, clutching his arm. His breathing was ragged, his body drenched in sweat, and his head throbbed like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer. He looked down at himself—his leg was wrapped in a bloody bandage he didn't remember applying, and his arm was marked with claw scratches that stung with every movement.

"Okay," he muttered, wincing as he swung his legs off the bed. "This is officially ridiculous. I need answers, and I need them yesterday."

He shuffled into the bathroom, gripping the sink for support as he stared at his reflection. Dark circles framed his eyes, his hair was a mess, and his shirt—well, it was soaked in dried blood. Not a good look. He peeled it off, hissing as the fabric tugged at the scratches on his side.

"This system thing better come with free healthcare," he muttered, grabbing some gauze and tape from the medicine cabinet. "Or at least an in-app purchase for healing potions."

As he patched himself up, a faint chime echoed in his ears, and a glowing notification popped up in the corner of his vision.

---

Dream Forge System Update:

Player Status:

Level: 3

Health: 60% (Recovering in real time)

New Passive Skill: Adaptive Combat – Automatically improves technique during prolonged encounters.

Next Quest Timer: 10 hours, 42 minutes.

---

"Great," Ethan said, wiping his face with a towel. "So now I've got a timer for when my life's going to suck again. Awesome."

His stomach growled, pulling him out of his thoughts. He hadn't eaten since the burrito fiasco the night before, and his body was screaming for fuel.

---

8:37 a.m.

Ethan wandered into the nearest diner, his leg aching with every step. The bell above the door jingled as he entered, the smell of frying bacon and coffee hitting him like a warm hug.

He slid into a booth and stared at the menu, his eyes glazing over the options. Food sounded good, but sleep sounded better.

"Morning, hun," a waitress said, appearing at his table with a notepad. She was middle-aged, with kind eyes and a name tag that read Martha. "Rough night?"

"You have no idea," Ethan muttered, rubbing his temples. "Can I get the biggest breakfast plate you've got and a coffee strong enough to wake the dead?"

Martha chuckled. "Coming right up."

As she walked away, Ethan's gaze drifted to the other patrons. Most were the usual types—workers on a coffee break, an elderly couple sharing pancakes, a guy buried in his laptop—but one person stood out. At the corner table, a man in a dark hoodie sat hunched over, his face obscured. His hands were twitching, as if he were gripping something invisible.

Ethan squinted. There was something familiar about the way the man moved—like someone trying to swipe at an interface that no one else could see.

"No way," Ethan whispered to himself.

The man suddenly froze, his head snapping up. His eyes locked onto Ethan's, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Ethan's phone buzzed. He glanced down, and his blood ran cold.

---

Warning: Nearby Player Detected.

Caution Advised.

---

When he looked up again, the man was gone. The door to the diner swung shut, and Ethan caught a glimpse of him disappearing around the corner.

"Oh, come on," Ethan muttered, throwing a few bills on the table. "Can't even get through breakfast?"

---

10 Minutes Later

Ethan followed the man down a series of alleys, his pulse quickening with each step. Every instinct told him this was a terrible idea, but curiosity—and maybe a bit of desperation—pushed him forward. If this guy was part of the same system, maybe he had answers.

"Hey!" Ethan called out as the man turned another corner. "I know you're in this dream thing too! We need to talk!"

The man stopped, his shoulders tense. Slowly, he turned around, and Ethan got his first good look at him. He was about Ethan's age, with sunken eyes and a thin frame that looked like it hadn't seen a decent meal in weeks.

"Stay back," the man said, his voice low and shaky. "I don't want any trouble."

"I don't want trouble either," Ethan said, raising his hands. "I just—look, I'm new to this system thing, and I have no idea what's going on. You seem like you've been doing this longer. Can you help me?"

The man laughed bitterly. "Help you? You think anyone in this game helps anyone else?" He gestured to the alley around them. "You don't get it, do you? This isn't some fun little RPG. It's a death sentence."

Ethan frowned. "What are you talking about? Yeah, it's dangerous, but—"

"It doesn't stop," the man interrupted. "The quests get harder. The enemies get stronger. And the injuries… the injuries don't just go away." He pulled up his sleeve, revealing a series of scars running up his arm. "This is what happens when you survive. But most people don't."

Ethan's stomach churned. "So what, we're just supposed to roll over and die?"

The man shook his head. "No. You either fight until you're strong enough to escape, or…" He trailed off, his eyes darkening. "Or you don't wake up at all."

Before Ethan could respond, the man's eyes widened. He stumbled back, staring at something behind Ethan.

"No," he whispered. "It's here."

Ethan turned, and his blood froze. A massive figure loomed at the end of the alley, its body cloaked in shadow. Its eyes burned like embers, and its presence seemed to suck the air from the space.

---

Warning: World Event Detected.

Elite Encounter: Shadow Stalker.

Survival Rate: 32%.

---

"Thirty-two percent?" Ethan muttered, gripping his side. "I'm starting to think these odds aren't in my favor."

The Shadow Stalker moved forward, its form shifting like smoke, and Ethan's survival instinct screamed in the back of his mind.

"Run," the man said, his voice trembling. "Run now!"

But Ethan didn't move. Not yet.

If this thing was part of the system, then maybe—just maybe—it was the key to finding answers.