The boy woke to screaming.

  Not the bat, Braveheart.

  “HEY! HEY! OVER HERE!”

  The younger boy’s vision blurred. The sky above was too bright, too wide. Pain roared in his shoulder the second he tried to breathe too deeply. A broken groan filled the air.

  “Stay with me,” Braveheart was saying, voice cracking. “Don’t do that. Stay awake.”

  The world tilted, and a shadow fell over them. Boots stepped into the grass. Heavy. Steady.

  Braveheart flinched mid-breath.

  The younger boy forced his eyes open.

  A figure stood against the sun. Broad shoulders, short black hair, medieval clothes like the tunic Braveheart had found in the cave, but thicker, reinforced. His build was enormous compared to theirs, like someone had scaled up a child and added the weight of adulthood to his frame.

  He was missing two front teeth and carried a big burlap sack over his shoulder. His eyes were sharp. Tired.

  He looked at the blood, then the cave, then Braveheart, and settled on the smaller boy.

  “...First floor,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly. “Cave spawn.”

  Braveheart bristled. “We made it out, though.”

  The older boy knelt carefully. Large hands. Gentle. He touched the younger boy’s dislocated shoulder once, firm but precise.

  The younger boy cursed.

  “Yeah,” the older boy said flatly. “That’s out.”

  Before either of them could react, he set it. A sickening shift with a flash of white-hot pain. The world blinked out.

  —

  He came back to motion, strong arms beneath him. The young boy's head rested against a broad shoulder that felt solid as a wall. Each step sent jolts of pain through his nerves.

  He groaned weakly.

  “Sorry,” the deep voice rumbled above him. Not soft exactly, more… factual.

  Braveheart was running beside him, wincing in pain, together with the younger boy. He was wearing another tunic, this one much newer, but still too big.

  “What’s your name?!” Braveheart demanded breathlessly.

  The older boy paused for a moment. “Harrow.”

  “You’re like ten or something, right? You look like you bench-press dragons.” Braveheart teased.

  Harrow didn’t answer.

  The younger boy drifted again.

  —

  When he blinked awake again, they were moving through something unreal.

  Not wild grassland, a village.

  Small wooden cottages with rounded roofs and uneven fences. Hazy smoke curled up from chimneys—gardens overflowed with vegetables too bright to be natural. Children–actual children–ran barefoot through a packed dirt path. Some children were barely toddlers, others are nearing adolescence.

  All of them aged strangely between baby softness and hardened eyes.

  Some paused to stare, others waved at Harrow.

  “Back from searching?”

  “Spider again?”

  “Newborn?”

  Harrow didn’t slow.

  “Yeah,” he answered once. “New.”

  The center of the village bustled with a massive blue healing stone, larger than the one in the cave. It hummed softly, casting a blue glow on the children nearby.

  Braveheart’s eyes lit up with recognition, looking at the sea of children. “Grannies!” He sparked up, grinning ear to ear. “There's so many old ladies here!”

  The younger boy looked at the village, eyes squinting from the pain. Identical silver hair pulled into neat buns. Identical warm brown eyes. Identical aprons, some dirtier than others.

  They moved through the sea of children like quiet guardians. Dozens of them, all the same in appearance. Some lifted infants, soothed crying children, stirred pots, and checked scraped knees.

  One looked up as Harrow approached the healing stone.

  “Oh my,” she spoke warmly. “Another little one?” Her voice was kind. Powerful even.

  Harrow laid the younger boy on the dirt against the base of the health stone. He was careful, hovering close, hands wringing.

  “Bat,” Harrow said simply.

  The Granny clone clicked her tongue. “Such eager beasts.”

  She reached down to touch both boys' heads. “Press into the stone, darlings.”

  The younger boy leaned further into the stone, moving his neck back and pressing his head into it.

  Warmth flooded his body instantly. His shoulder was realigned fully. Torn skin sealed, bruises dissolving like mist under sunlight.

  He gasped for deeper breaths of air, finally being able to breathe without feeling knives in his ribs.

  Beside him, Braveheart did the same, pressing both palms against the crystal. His back healed in streaks of blue light, scars fading away into nothing.

  The pain was gone. Leaving only exhaustion.

  The golden threads were different here. The streaks of light wrapped intentionally around every home, every plant, every child. They threaded into the earth, pulsing towards the cave.

  Harrow finally stepped back, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

  “Name,” he said to the younger boy.

  The question landed heavily. Braveheart answered first, of course.

  “I’m Braveheart.”

  A pause. Harrow tilted his head.

  Granny stepped forward to pat his head again, “My, what a wonderful name! You must be quite the hero.”

  Braveheart beamed, leaning into her praise.

  Harrow’s eyes shifted towards the younger boy, still sitting on the ground.

  The threads were woven gently through the air. The younger boy thought of the cave. The spider. The bat. The sunlight. The way Braveheart saved his life.

  He thought of the rain, his mother’s empty armchair. He thought about the stories he’s heard since he was just a boy.

  The younger boy smiled solemnly, looking up at the group. “I’ll be Alexander.”

  Braveheart jumped over to pull him up. “Alexander the Great! Braveheart the Hero!”

  The threads were just as joyful as Braveheart, twirling around the boys like they were dancing.

  Alexander laughed at Braveheart’s ridiculous excitement. “We aren’t heroes.”

  “We are! You saved my life, very heroically. We just healed the bruise on my butt.” Braveheart looked past Harrow, towards the cave. “We’ll become the strongest warriors.” A solemn look on Braveheart's face contrasted with his tone.

  A breeze moved through the village. Children moving through their quiet routines. Some training with crude wooden swords near the edge of the path, others carrying buckets of water. Everything looked almost peaceful.

  Braveheart broke Alexander's concentration, nudging him lightly. “So this is the hub, right? NPC village. Quest board?”

  Harrow gave him a long look. “Do you think this is a game?”

  Braveheart opened his mouth to reply–

  A bell rang. Not loud.Not urgent. Just once.

  All the children in the village perked up, looking west towards a lush forest. From the tree line, a group approached, maybe fifteen people. Older. Not much in size, but in presence. Their eyes were different. Harder. One of them limped, and another was missing fingers. They carried weapons, staffs, books. Real weapons.

  A girl beside Harrow exhaled slowly. “They’re back early,” she murmured.

  Harrow’s jaw tightened slightly before taking steps towards their welcoming.

  Braveheart leaned into Alexander. “Why’d it suddenly get so tense?”

  The threads wrapped tightly around the group, almost like they were strays from their clothes. They were writhing, not chaotic, but excited. Like they had been waiting.

  Harrow greeted them at the west side of the healing stone, along with three Grannies giving them cups of water and offering to take their bags. Some children backed away, refusing to look at their injuries; others stepped closer, looking at the faces of the children who had returned. The group bathed in the light of the healing stone before accepting the welcomes.

  The leader of the group was a taller, lean boy with apple-red hair and sharp teeth. It was easy to tell he was the leader; he walked in front of everyone, held his head high, and greeted Harrow with a firm handshake. He spoke quietly, taking Harrow along with a few other children into a larger building near the center. Harrow looked at Alexander one last time before closing the door behind the group.

  Children returned to their playing and tasks, quieter now. A few walked away into buildings with tears in their eyes.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “What’s going on?” Braveheart asked the Granny nearby.

  She smiled warmly. “Those children fight,” she gestured towards the group. “Their group is called ‘Dreamweavers’.”

  Braveheart looked at Alexander swiftly; it was easy to tell that the name excited him very much.

  “Don’t get too excited,” a girl with soft white hair walked over to them. Children clutching her legs. Her hands patted many children’s shoulders as she passed by them. “It’s more of a political party these days.” She smiled softly at Braveheart.

  Braveheart groaned; Alexander cut him off.

  “You’re a part of the group, aren’t you?” The younger boy asked, standing on his feet.

  “I am, my name is Liora. You seem to be newborns,” she tilted her head at the boys’ clothes. Too big to fit, too flimsy to be permanent. “I will pray for your safety and longevity.” She stepped past the boys, children in white robes like hers trailing behind her, like a stream of white. “Good luck.”

  Braveheart blinked, “Prayer?”

  Alexander shrugged.

  The Grannies hurried the boys off to a bigger house opposite the one Harrow went into. The building was filled with babies too young to lift their heads. There, the Grannies put them into clothes, fed them, and brought them to a small office with a girl sitting inside, along with a few wooden chairs.

  “Hello. I am Serah Dune, floor one Strategist.” Serah was an older girl, the oldest the boys had seen so far aside from the grandmas. She had short brown hair cut into a choppy bob and wore a permanent scowl.

  Serah Dune didn’t look up right away. Her pen scratched across the page in fast strokes. Filling lines in a ledger already packed with cramped handwriting. A small stack of books with a similar cover leaned on the wooden floor beside her elbow.

  “Sit,” she said briskly, gesturing to the wooden chairs without looking up.

  Braveheart sat instantly. Alexander sat slowly, watching the room.

  It was small, bare.

  A map hung on the wall behind Serah, hand-drawn in dark, streaky lines of charcoal. Crude lines twisted around the bottom half, mapping out the cave entrances. Tunnels marked with blue dots, red X’s, and a large black bat drawing. Above that were wide open spaces, forests, lakes, towns, and something labeled FLOOR TWO PASSAGE.

  The golden threads twisted faintly in the air, weaving between shelves and tables. They looped around the map before flowing upwards, through the ceiling.

  Serah finished her line, blew gently on the ink, and looked up at the boys.

  Her eyes were sharp. Evaluating.

  “Names,” she said quickly.

  Braveheart leaned forward eagerly. “Braveheart.”

  Serah paused, “...Braveheart.” She wrote it down anyway.

  “Alexander,” he said.

  Serah’s pen froze. Just for a second.

  A small, involuntary flinch crossed her face before she continued scribbling.

  Alexander noticed.

  The golden threads flickered warmly around her wrist.

  Serah shut the ledger with a dull thump.

  “Right,” she said quickly. “Newborn information.” She clasped her hands together on the desk.

  “You’ve already encountered cave spiders and bats. Good. That means you understand the dungeons of floor one.”

  Braveheart raised his hand immediately.

  Serah ignored him, “You will remain in the starting village until you reach the physical age of seven,” she continued, “Until then, you perform labor, train, build connections, and study. Chores and labor include things like farming, maintenance, food preparation, and supply transport.”

  Braveheart’s hand was still raised. Serah sighed and pointed at him.

  “Yes.”

  Braveheart leaned forward with sparkling eyes. “Why are we children?”

  Serah blinked. “Unknown,” she looked back down at her papers, one seeming to catch her eye.

  Braveheart waited.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Alexander tilted his head. “Any theories?” he asked.

  Serah tapped her fingers once on the desk.

  “There are theories,” she said flatly. “None confirmed.”

  She spoke quickly, words flowing like she had repeated them hundreds of times.

  “Most people believe it’s a reset mechanism. Some say reincarnation. Some say divine punishment.”

  She shrugged.

  “I believe it’s a structural anomaly.”

  Braveheart tilted his head, not understanding.

  “It’s consistent, though,” Serah continued. “Everyone arrives the same way. Body between zero and ten years old, same waking consciousness they’ve always had. That suggests some form of pattern rather than chaos.”

  Braveheart blinked, “You mean it’s like a glitch?”

  Serah stared at him.

  “Do you think this is a game?” Her voice was sharp and icy.

  Braveheart paused.

  “People die here,” Serah snapped. “Daily, even.”

  The room went quiet.

  She inhaled and returned to her quick, clipped tone.

  “Anything else?”

  Braveheart raised his hand again.

  “How do we get stronger?”

  Serah gestured towards the map behind her. “Each world is structured vertically. Each level is referred to as a floor. They contain environments, monsters, dungeons, and a central boss.”

  Braveheart’s eyes widened, but he kept his words to himself.

  “When the boss is defeated, the door to the next floor opens.”

  Alexander frowned knowingly.

  “And if someone wanted to go back?”

  “You must go back through the boss room.”

  Braveheart blinked. “...Wait.”

  Serah nodded. “Yes. Exactly as you think.”

  “No teleportation,” Alexander stated, leaning forward slightly.

  “None.”

  “Fast travel?” Braveheart suggested.

  “No.”

  “Magic healers?”

  Serah gestured out the window, into the center.

  “The healing stone.”

  “That’s it?” Braveheart asked.

  “That’s it.”

  Her eyes sharpened again, pulling a book from the top of the stack and scanning the front cover.

  “You cannot heal anywhere else. No potion. No spell. No priest. Of course, there are doctors.” She finally opened the book, flipping through the pages slowly. “The crystal can heal everything up to a missing limb, making doctors almost obsolete. The crystals are scattered throughout the floors, somewhat randomly.”

  Braveheart blinked. “That seems… rough.”

  Serah shrugged. “You would be correct.”

  The golden threads curled faintly around the legs of the desk. Alexander followed them with his eyes.

  “Next topic.” Serah settled on a page, bringing her pen to start writing.

  Braveheart leaned forward eagerly.

  “Climbing.”

  Serah rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You’re enthusiastic.”

  “I’m prepared,” Braveheart corrected pridefully.

  Serah turned the page. “Children may be drafted into climbing groups once they reach the physical age of seven.”

  Braveheart blinked. “Drafted?”

  “Yes.”

  Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “Seven?”

  Serah nodded. “Age has become quite dodgy, and we need troops. You can lie about the age you were when awake rather easily, as there’s no real way to check.” She sighed. “It has made laws and morals complicated.”

  Alexander nodded, noticing the golden threads tense around the window frame.

  Braveheart cleared his throat. “So… what happens when someone dies here?”

  Serah answered immediately, “They die.”

  Braveheart nodded slowly, “Yeah… but like–”

  She cut him off.

  “In the real world, too.”

  Silence fell over the room. Braveheart blinked. Alexander felt something cold moving through his chest.

  Serah’s voice stayed clinical. “More than eighty percent of people who fell asleep died. Fools who fought too early, born too young to survive long enough to be found.”

  Braveheart looked pale.

  She closed the ledger again, putting it into a different stack on her desk.

  “Which brings me to my next question.” Her eyes sharpened again. “You two fell asleep recently.”

  Alexander nodded slowly.

  Serah leaned forward, bringing her hands together. “Tell me about Earth.” She spoke more quickly, words firing one after another. “Government stability. Hospital capacity. Global response.”

  Braveheart blinked. “Uh–”

  “Politics,” Serah pressed. “Riots? Military intervention?”

  Alexander answered first. “Most governments are still running,” he said slowly. “But everything’s strained.”

  Serah wrote fast. “Hospitals?”

  “Overflowing,” Alexander said. “Entire malls converted into automated care centers.”

  Serah nodded. “The media response?”

  Braveheart jumped in. “They’re calling it a Sleeping Plague.”

  Serah wrote it down, “Scientific theories?”

  Braveheart shrugged. “Virus. Brain parasite. Alien signal. Divine punishment.”

  Serah nodded, writing vigorously. “Economy?”

  Alexander answered again.

  “Collapsed sectors. Automation rising. Food is still stable, but most restaurants are closing due to a lack of manufacturing workers. Whole food stores are stocked the best.”

  Serah flipped to another page.

  “Military?”

  “Mostly maintaining order,” Alexander said.

  Serah paused. “...Interesting.”

  She scribbled another note, then looked up again.

  “What did you two do before falling asleep?”

  Braveheart answered immediately.

  “I just graduated college!”

  Serah raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations. Field?”

  “Music.”

  Serah nodded slowly and wrote it down.

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  She looked at Alexander. “And you?”

  Alexander hesitated slightly.

  “Demolition,” he said.

  Serah looked up.

  “Age?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  Braveheart snapped his head toward him.

  “WHAT.”

  Alexander winced.

  “You’re an old man!” Braveheart shouted.

  Serah ignored him and continued scribbling notes.

  “Name again,” she said casually.

  “Alexander.”

  Serah looked up slowly.

  “Last name?”

  The golden threads tightened in the air. Alexander watched her expression. The flinch earlier, the way she reacted. Something felt wrong to Alexander.

  “...the Great,” he said.

  Serah stared at him.

  Alexander shrugged casually. “Just a hero name I picked.”

  Serah studied him for a moment longer before writing it down.

  “Alexander Winters. The first man to fall asleep.”

  Alexander felt his stomach drop.

  “He slept for ten years before committing suicide three years ago. Right before everyone started falling asleep.”

  Braveheart jolted up in his chair. “Yes! That’s the guy from the forums! He was asleep for ten years and woke up telling people about this world.” He looked over at Alexander. “Everyone thought he was crazy, but when he died, tons of people started falling asleep. Like THE DAY he died.” He exaggerated.

  Alexander's hands tightened slightly on the chair.

  Serah nodded. “He warned everyone. Everyone thought he had gone crazy.”

  Alexander felt something twist in his chest, recalling the stories nobody had believed.

  Serah closed the ledger, “Anyway.” She stood up abruptly. Conversation over. “I have much more to do before sunset.” She gestured towards the door. “Find Harrow.”

  Braveheart jumped up immediately.

  “For a quest?”

  Serah sighed. “For a tour.”