The caravan moved sluggishly through the twilight, its wooden wheels creaking over uneven dirt. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and distant smoke, the remnants of past campfires clinging to the fabric of worn-out tents. The road was barely a road at all—just a meandering trail carved through a wilderness that seemed to shift with every breath of the wind.
Towering trees flanked the path, their skeletal branches twisting unnaturally, gnarled like the fingers of something ancient. The sky above was a deep, oppressive gray, neither fully night nor day, as if the world itself hesitated to commit to either.
The caravan itself was a mismatched collection of wagons—some sturdy and reinforced, others little more than rickety wooden cages. Canvas sheets draped over the carts, flapping weakly in the cold wind, offering meager protection from the elements. A handful of figures sat hunched near a small fire, their faces half-hidden by the flickering glow.
And at its edges, Chrollo sat, watching, listening. The cold was biting, but he barely felt it.
"Miss Ashford, may I ask you a question?"
Mira Ashford shifted in her seat, a small crate filled with unknown goods resting beside her. What was inside? Well, that was for her father to know. However, her curiosity had been slowly drawn toward this youth, someone of a similar age to her but from a world far different.
"Aye, go on," she said, her tone light but teasing. "This lady of yours is willing to answer—if ye don't demand too many cumbersome details."
Chrollo hesitated for a moment before asking, "Where is this caravan headed?"
Mira gave a small chuckle, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "Oh, you wouldn't know, would ya? Well, we're currently heading to the Kingdom of Hope. The Saint of the North allowed for trade, though I haven't the faintest idea how my father managed to make a deal with someone like that." She shrugged, as if the mystery was a common thing in her life.
"He must be a great merchant."
"He is, though he can be a bit overbearing at times." A hint of genuine affection colored her voice.
"Miss Ashford, if I may trouble you once more—who exactly are the guards? Are there any Awakened among them? I would feel much safer if so."
"Oh, well, from what my father told me, they're a bunch of veterans—old warriors, soldiers from the Empire. The children of war," she said, her voice laced with both pride and a touch of distant reverence. "I believe Sir Orson Drex and Lady Seraphine Vale are among them."
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "They're strong, I hear. Father wouldn't have trusted them otherwise. Sir Drex is built like a fortress, the type who doesn't fall even when the world crumbles around him. And Lady Vale... she's something else. You never quite see her coming, but when you do, it's already too late."
Chrollo absorbed her words in silence, his mind already working through the possibilities.
A man who stands like a fortress—did that mean he was some sort of defensive specialist? Perhaps his aspect enhanced his durability, or granted him the power to shrug off wounds that would cripple an ordinary man. It could be something subtler, like heightened resilience, an unnatural aspect to remain standing even when battered and broken.
And the woman… unseen until it's too late. That could mean anything. Enhanced agility, stealth, some form of misdirection or illusion. Or perhaps she could simply vanish outright.
Neither aspect , whatever they were, would be enough to handle a Tyrant-class entity. Even against a Demon-class creature, they would need careful coordination, teamwork, and a decent-sized force. though he he highly doubts anything of the sorts would appear in the first nightmare at most a monster could appear unless you were destined like Nephis and Sunny .
Chrollo had already realized the fate that awaited this caravan—it would soon be consumed and destroyed. But he could not be swept away by the flow of fate. He had to change it. After all, that was the very purpose of the Nightmares. The greater the change, the better the evaluation.
At this moment, however, his evaluation was but a distant whisper in the chaos of his mind.
"If they were from the Empire, shouldn't they be as capable as that young soldier from Sunny's Nightmare? He was strong, right?" Chrollo mumbled to himself in a hushed manner, his thoughts spilling out into the cold night air, pushed beyond the dam walls of his mind by the relentless pressure of contemplation.
****
Chrollo had taken his spot of rest in one of the wagons, the one which would be home to the hired soldiers. Despite that, it was empty—after all, the small group of warriors had to keep guard against the nightmare creatures.
Though no attacks had occurred, possibly due to his attribute [Fated], unlike Sunny's, he didn't have any obligation or narrative necessity to face terrors or fallen creatures. Still, caution was necessary. He wasn't part of the metaphysical hook of misfortune. His [Mark of the Forgotten King] would inevitably bring about troubles.
He needed to become stronger. Unlike other sleepers in their first nightmare, he had an unfathomable advantage. Nen. Despite not having a soul core, he could still become stronger.
The moment he entered the nightmare, he could feel a faint flow of heat around him. He had been trying to manipulate it, control it, and surprisingly, it had been easier than expected. Seemingly carrying the true Chrollo Lucilfer's talents over, he had instinctively been able to use Ten.
However, Zetsu did not come so easily. It was inherently impossible for someone like Chrollo, who had never needed to hide out of fear, to remain invisible. Furthermore, shutting down his aura nodes felt wrong—it felt like attempting to soil himself. Yet, with the passage of time, he had been able to, at first, only shut off the aura around his arms. Slowly, though, he had managed to conceal his very essence of life, his aura nodes. He had achieved Zetsu.
The unnerving silence that had blanketed the caravan for what felt like an eternity was shattered by a deep, resonant tremor, a sound less like a growl and more like the earth itself groaning in agony.
Chrollo swiftly stepped out of his wooden carriage, his sharp eyes locking onto the nightmare looming ahead. The hired guards and mercenaries, some Awakened and some not, stood in a fractured line, their weapons already buried in the creature's flesh. But it did not bleed. It did not falter.
A monstrous thing loomed over them, impossibly large, impossibly wrong. Its hunched, grotesque form stretched nearly fifteen meters into the air. Its six gnarled limbs—some ending in jagged claws, others in disturbingly human-like fingers twitched with eerie anticipation. Layers of bone and sinew coiled over its body, shifting like a living exoskeleton.
From the cavernous maw that split its chest, a sickening, wet sound echoed—the writhing birth of Mawspawn, small, twisted things that skittered from its body like parasites torn from an open wound.
Its eyes, dozens of them, shifting and twitching within the folds of its grotesque skull glowed with a baleful intelligence. And though its bulk suggested sluggishness, it moved with horrifying grace, each motion calculated, deliberate, inevitable.
It was no mere beast. It was a Tyrant.
hunger given form, death made manifest.