Riven sat cross-legged in the mausoleum's dim chamber, the skill book floating just above his outstretched palm. Its cover pulsed with an eerie glow, the inky runes shifting as if they were alive.
[[ You have obtained a Skill Book! ]]
[[ Skill Book: Abyssal Nightmare ]]
[[ Inflict a nightmarish illusion upon a target, pulling them into a realm of their deepest fears. The strength and intensity of the nightmare are determined by the caster's ntal fortitude and abyssal power. Weaker minds will be utterly consud, unable to distinguish illusion from reality. Stronger opponents may resist, but prolonged exposure wears down even the most fortified minds. The effect can be amplified through direct physical contact. ]]
[[ Would you like to learn this skill? ]]
[[ Yes / No ]]
Riven's gaze flickered over the description, his smirk deepening. A skill like this wasn't just about deception—it was domination. It forced its victims into their own suffering, leaving them at the rcy of their own subconscious. It was the perfect tool for what he had in mind.
But power always had a price.
He knew that unlocking a skill of this level would require more than just absorbing the knowledge.
He was going to have to enter his own nightmare and conquer it — and he had to do it within less than a day.
"Guard this place well," Riven commanded to his Generals. "Don't let anyone disturb . Sana," his gaze flickered to the Acolyte. "If I'm still not awake past the designated ti, I need you to wake up no matter what."
"Understood, master." Sana bowed and the rest of them followed suit.
He took a deep breath before selecting [[Yes]].
Darkness consud him.
—x—
A shrill alarm shattered the early morning silence, grating against his ears. Riven groaned, rolling onto his side, his hand blindly fumbling across the nightstand until his fingers finally smacked against the stop button.
The sudden quiet was almost worse.
With a weary sigh, he forced himself upright, stretching until his joints popped, a yawn escaping him. Monday. The most important day of the week. Delivery day. The bakery's goods had to be sent out to the local shops before sunrise.
Moving on autopilot, he washed up, dressed quickly, and grabbed a slice of toast, barely tasting it as he stuffed it into his mouth. His eyes flicked to the clock—4:57 AM.
His frown deepened as his gaze drifted toward his parents' bedroom door, still shut.
Figures.
"Guess I'm on my own again," he muttered, not even surprised.
Shrugging off the familiar disappointnt, he grabbed his things and stepped out into the cool morning air. The streets were quiet, still wrapped in the last whispers of night. His boots tapped against the pavent as he made his usual trek toward the family bakery.
Yet, sothing felt… wrong.
A weight settled in his chest, an odd sense of unease prickling at the back of his mind. Like he was forgetting sothing important.
Riven slowed his pace, his brows furrowing as he tried to grasp the thought slipping just out of reach. His breath curled in the chill, his surroundings unchanged, yet—
His gaze lowered.
His shadow stretched along the pavent, pooling beneath him unnaturally deep, unnervingly dark.
Had it always been like that?
Riven's steps faltered. His eyes remained locked on the shadow beneath him, the way it stretched unnaturally along the pavent. It wasn't just the early morning light playing tricks on him—this was sothing else.
Sothing wrong.
A flicker of irritation crossed his mind. He shook his head, exhaling sharply. Focus. He was overthinking. He had a long day ahead, and the last thing he needed was to start seeing things.
Still, the unease gnawed at him.
He turned his gaze away from the distorted shadow and continued down the familiar path toward the bakery. It was the sa as always—the cracked pavent, the dim glow of streetlights flickering overhead, the faint scent of fresh bread lingering in the cold morning air.
And yet…
It felt off.
The silence pressed against him. No distant hum of cars, no early risers, no stray dogs barking in the distance. Just him. Alone.
Riven's brows furrowed. His mories of this place were clear, too clear, yet sothing about it felt manufactured. Like a replica of his past rather than the real thing.
Then he saw it.
The bakery.
His family's na scrawled in peeling paint above the entrance, the sa chipped wooden door, the sa dim interior light that barely illuminated the inside.
He stared at it.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
Why was he hesitating?
This was routine. He did this every Monday. He walked up to that door, turned the lock, and stepped inside to begin work before the morning rush.
So why do I feel like I shouldn't go in?
His chest tightened. The unease clawed at him, but he shoved it down, forcing himself to move. One foot in front of the other.
The door creaked open.
The scent of flour and yeast filled his nostrils, familiar and yet strangely suffocating. He stepped inside, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his weight.
Everything was exactly where it should be. The trays of dough waiting to be baked. The shelves lined with loaves of bread and pastries. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the back.
It was the sa.
And that was the problem.
He stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, his pulse beginning to pick up. This wasn't real. He knew this wasn't real.
But he couldn't rember why.
The bell above the door chid.
His body tensed instinctively.
Two figures walked in.
Riven turned slowly.
"Ugh, slacking again, Riven?" His mother's cold, disapproving gaze pierced through him, her tone sharp and biting. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression twisted in familiar disdain.
His father followed, scowling. "Useless brat! Why haven't you started yet?!" His voice bood through the bakery, filled with the sa contempt Riven had known his entire life.
But sothing was wrong.
The way they moved—it wasn't natural. Their steps were stiff, jerky, as if their joints weren't working properly. Their limbs twitched unnaturally with every motion, a grotesque mockery of human movent.
A cold dread settled in his stomach.
Their mouths moved, spewing the sa insults he had heard countless tis before, but their voices warped, distorted, like echoes bouncing through an empty void.
His mother sneered, stepping closer. His father's presence lood over him.
Riven stumbled back, his instincts screaming at him.
Riven squeezed his eyes shut, hands clamping over his ears as the relentless barrage of insults pounded against him. His body trembled, shrinking beneath the weight of their words, just as he always had.
But in the suffocating darkness behind his eyelids, sothing shifted.
A presence.
A pair of dark blue eyes erged from the void—cold, piercing, ancient. Flas, darker than the abyss itself, flickered at their edges, casting eerie shadows across his vision.
Riven's breath hitched as the outline of a man took shape. Towering. Commanding. Cloaked in an endless void of shifting shadows, an obsidian crown rested upon his brow like a symbol of dominion over darkness itself.
And he was smirking.
The Shadow King's gaze locked onto him, searing straight through the illusion. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted a hand, fingers outstretched toward Riven.
An invitation. A command. A choice.
Riven's breath shuddered as he stared at the outstretched hand, the dark flas licking at the figure's fingertips. The weight of the bakery, of his past, of the nightmare pressing in around him—it all felt suffocating.
But those eyes.
They cut through the illusion like a blade.
His trembling hands lowered from his ears. The voices of his parents droned on, their insults sharp and ceaseless, but they sounded… dull now. Like echoes trapped in a void, aningless noise trying to claw at him but unable to reach.
The Shadow King remained, his presence unwavering.
Riven swallowed hard. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming faster. He knew what this was now.
A nightmare.
His nightmare.
But that ant…
Riven's lips parted, his voice hoarse. "I've already escaped this."
The bakery wavered. His parents twitched, their movents distorting, glitching, as if sothing was trying to keep the illusion intact.
His father's hand shot out, grabbing Riven by the collar. "What did you say?"
For the first ti, Riven didn't flinch. His hands clenched into fists, his abyssal flas flickering at his fingertips. "You're not real." His voice steadied, stronger. "None of this is."
His father's grip tightened, but Riven didn't feel it.
His mother stepped forward, her face twisting in rage. "Insolent little—"
Riven exhaled. "Burn."
The abyssal flas erupted from his body in a violent surge, engulfing the entire bakery in black fire. The shelves, the counters, the walls—everything was consud in an instant. His parents' forms twisted, their faces stretching in silent, gaping horror as the flas devoured them, reducing them to nothing but ash.
The bakery around him warped, the illusion shattering like glass. The distorted world cracked, revealing the void beneath, a sea of endless shadows writhing like living things.
And through it all, the Shadow King stood unbothered, still holding out his hand.
Riven stared at it, his breath heavy. His flas flickered in the empty void, but the fear—the suffocating helplessness—was gone.
He wasn't the sa person who had died here.
Slowly, deliberately, Riven reached out and grasped the Shadow King's hand.
The mont their fingers touched, the void collapsed.
—x—
Pain.
A deep, searing agony shot through his skull as he gasped awake. His body jolted, drenched in sweat, his breath ragged.
He was back in the mausoleum.
His abyssal flas flickered weakly around him, his mind reeling from the intensity of the illusion. He forced himself to steady his breathing, his vision clearing.
A notification hovered before him.
[[ Skill Unlocked: Abyssal Nightmare ]]
Riven let out a slow, dark chuckle, running a hand through his damp hair.
He had conquered his own nightmare.
Now, it was ti to create them for others.
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