Where is this... I remember blacking out from Arcane Power fatigue...

Aphelia rubbed eyes clouded like misted glass and pushed herself upright. The noise around her swarmed like bees, and the buzz snapped her out of sleep like cold water.

“Mom, why’s that sister lying in the square?”

“I don’t know, maybe she’s praying for a blessing. Be sure to thank the holy sisters, dear. Without them, the demons would’ve wrecked our lives.”

The tide of whispers rose and fell like wind through reeds. Aphelia finally saw everything around her, and shock hit like a bell strike.

Isn’t this... the capital of the Southern Empire? How am I here?

She straightened her plain habit, the cloth coarse as unbleached linen, and stood fast. Dawn skimmed the rooftops like pale fish, and the crowd was still thin. She glanced down at her outfit: a common nun’s robe, not her old black cloak. The clue glinted like frost. Someone had dragged her into a magic dreamscape.

Arcane Power fatigue hasn’t shown any symptoms. Whoever pulled me into this dream wants something. The thought tasted like iron.

Questions welled up like a spring, but memory drew her feet. She slipped from the murmuring ring and headed toward her hideout in the capital, a shadow among shadows.

She tried to stir her Arcane Power. As expected, nothing moved, like a frozen river under gray ice. Her abilities were likely sealed. Clear as a blade’s edge.

And she couldn’t tell which chapter of her life this dream rebuilt. It could be when she stood opposed to the Church. It could be those five lost years. It could be the eve before the final battle with the Demon King.

A dreamscape built from memory means anything can bloom, like flowers in winter.

If she could find the hideout, the dream’s fidelity was high, real enough to fool the skin and bones. The hand behind it would have strength to rival a Titleholder. That shadow loomed like a mountain.

That was the worst case. She’d have to crack this dream before her body gave out, or the sea of her consciousness would shatter, and she’d die for real.

The reverse was gentler, like a breeze through bamboo. If this was a thinner weave, she just had to drag out the black hand hiding in the dream, and all would be well.

Familiar streets unrolled like an old scroll. Mana streetlamps burned dim as tired fireflies. Inner-city guards patrolled with orderly steps, while pale fog drifted through the “City of Splendor” like gauze.

Aphelia ghosted past the patrols with a dancer’s footwork, because a cathedral loomed ahead like a cliff of stone. For now, skirting the Church was the way of water. Enemy or not, caution came first. Without Arcane Power, she wasn’t their match. And if someone had salted her Church memories on purpose, that was a knife at the throat.

She turned the corner to sprint past the cathedral and ran chest-first into a figure. Bodies knocked together, and she hit the ground, breath scattering like startled birds.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry.”

They spoke in unison, words crossing like twin ripples. Aphelia lifted her head, and her heart lurched like a misstep on stairs.

The face mirrored hers, but sharper, like a blade with a cleaner grind. A silver-bright sword rode his back like a sliver of moon. No doubt—this was Aphelia back when she was still a man. Or rather, Ophelius.

“Ah, I’m so sorry, sister. I wasn’t watching my step. Are you okay?” he blurted, boyish and flustered. He reached out to help and let a healing spell bloom, soft as spring rain.

“I... I’m fine. Who are you?” Her voice wavered, the question landing like a stone into deep water.

If the person before her was truly her former self, that broke the rules of crafted dreams. The god who first wove magic dreamscapes left a few laws behind, chains for mortals. The most important one was the one she needed to test.

No dreamscape may spawn a copy of the targeted person, be they young, grown, or old.

If this really was her former body, then the board had changed. Whoever struck at her had brushed the hem of the divine.

Thinking kindly, she could call this not a dream at all. But Aphelia was a pessimist in war; before an enemy, she always prepared for the darkest sky.

The young man blinked, then gave a helpless smile, like sunlight through thin cloud.

“Yes, sister. I’m Ophelius, the Hero. Do you need my help?”

There was no arrogance in him, no glitter of pride. Just a shy big kid, earnest as warm bread. Aphelia drifted for a heartbeat. Her past self stood before her and introduced himself.

It sounded knotty and absurd, like a riddle that answered itself.

She’d never imagined a day like this. The one who knows you best is you. In every line and habit, he was her without question. And on his back gleamed the Holy Sword, the one she had lost to the void, cold as starlight.

After she took the Demon King’s heart and blood, her face had changed like clay remolded. In the broad strokes she might still resemble her old self, but the old her would never think she was aping his features.

“I do. Very much. If we can, can we sit and talk over there? I’ve got questions for you.” Her calm was a thin glaze over boiling water.

Since “she” had offered help, take it. With no power to resist, better to follow the current. If this truly was her past self, small favors would be easy to ask.

“Of course. Please, this way. There’s a coffeehouse nearby—if you don’t mind.”

Aphelia nodded and fell in step behind Ophelius. His presence parted the crowd like a lantern in fog, and they skirted Church knights and city guards with ease. Before the Church became her mortal foe, the Hero’s name was a prayer, almost a promise.

Yet what charmed most was how unassuming he was. He treated the paladin captain with steady respect and chatted with the guards like neighbors. No one thought to trouble him.

Soon they reached the coffeehouse and took a window seat where the light pooled like tea. Steam rose from their cups like soft ghosts, and every detail seemed real enough to bite.

Aphelia sat across from her younger self and watched him fidget like a sparrow on a perch. Amusement warmed her chest. So she’d been like this? She’d never noticed how shy she looked around women.

“So, Ophelius, you’re the Hero. Why are you here? If I remember right, you usually live at the front.”

She cast the line easy and light, a fisherman testing the current. She needed to know which page of her memory this was, so she could borrow “her” strength. If her enemy had thought it clever to set her face to face with herself, perhaps that thread could be pulled.

“The front doesn’t need me for the moment. Those nobles...” He made a helpless gesture, as if scattering salt.

“They think the last counterattack bled the demons dry. They’re in a rush to grab merit.”

So it was that time.

Aphelia remembered the feel of it. Her team had ambushed several demon elite guards and wanted to press the blade. But nobles leaned on the Church, and a single order hauled them back to the capital “to rest.” Anyone with eyes saw it—the nobles feared the Hero’s squad would block their harvest of glory.

The demons seized the opening and taught those arrogant lords a hard lesson. The nobles ignored formation and charged the lesser demons at the front like hounds after scraps, and the line fell into chaos. They cast aside the plans of the old commanders who knew the field.

The demons’ heavy hitters slipped in like knives and drove straight into mankind’s belly. For a time, the human coalition broke like a wave on rocks, shattered and screaming.