Sleep came quick. The exhaustion from battle, from cracked bone and bruised pride, dragged Avin’s eyelids down like weights. And as his body in this strange world rested, Clive’s consciousness stirred.
Dreams for Clive were never normal anymore. They weren’t half-remembered flashes of nonsense or bizarre carnival-scapes. No, his dreams had become doorways — windows into the strange overlap between himself and Avin.
And tonight, as his mind slipped into the haze, he realized he wasn’t alone inside his own skull.
The blur sharpened, and suddenly he was standing upright. Not as Avin. Not in the cold grandeur of castles or holy swords.
But back in his world.
Or at least, Avin in his body — bumbling through it like a king dropped naked into a supermarket.
Clive hovered unseen, a ghost with front-row seats to the disaster.
The first trial came quickly. Avin, with Clive’s old body and all its modern trappings, stood in front of the glowing rectangle of a smartphone. His crimson eyes narrowed at the touchscreen, suspicious as though it were some kind of cursed artifact.
"Such dark magic..." he muttered, poking the glass with one finger. The phone lit up. The sudden glow startled him. He yelped, dropping it.
CLACK! It clattered onto the floor.
"Damn you, crystal!" Avin barked, glaring down as if the phone had insulted his ancestors.
Clive doubled over, invisible with laughter. It’s just the lock screen, idiot.
Avin crouched, cautiously lifting it again. The screen demanded a password. He squinted at the glowing numbers. "A riddle? Fine. I shall solve your puzzle."
He pressed 1. Then 2. Then 3. Then 4.
The phone buzzed. Incorrect password.
Avin’s face twisted in outrage. "You dare defy me?!" He tapped again, this time 1-1-1-1.
Another buzz. Denied.
Clive wiped tears from his eyes. Keep going, genius.
Avin tried 9-9-9-9. Denied. He growled. "This is sorcery designed to humble me." His grip tightened. For a second, Clive swore he was going to swing the phone like a sword and smash it against the wall.
Next came the microwave.
Avin approached the humming box with the curiosity of a caveman discovering fire. The plate inside rotated, glowing faintly. He pressed his face close to the window, eyes wide. "A miniature forge," he whispered.
The timer beeped. DING!
Avin flinched backward, nearly tumbling. The door popped open slightly. Steam wafted out. Inside was a plate of noodles.
He leaned closer, sniffing. "It cooks without fire..." His tone trembled between reverence and suspicion. "What foul deal with gods created this?"
He jabbed a finger into the noodles, burned himself, then roared as if wounded in battle.
Clive’s laughter rang in his own head. It’s just pasta, man. Eat it!
Avin sniffed again, then cautiously slurped a noodle. His expression froze, processing the taste. "...It is acceptable."
Elevators were worse.
Avin stepped into the mirrored box, immediately raising his sword-hand like he expected an ambush. The doors closed. The floor shifted beneath him.
"The ground! It’s moving!" He pressed his hand to the wall, eyes wild. "We are descending into the abyss—"
The bell dinged, doors opened, and a mother with a stroller gave him the most unimpressed stare possible. Avin stumbled out, glaring back at the elevator like it had personally tried to murder him. Original content can be found at NoveI~Fire.net
Clive couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop laughing. His ribs ached from how hard his ghost-body convulsed. This guy can fight Bram, can trade blows with Ashborn, but can’t handle an elevator ride.
And then came the toilet.
Avin stood before it, brow furrowed, as though it were a throne of judgment. "Strange... basin," he muttered. He pressed the handle. FWSSHHH! Water rushed, swirling violently.
Avin stumbled back. "It consumes offerings?!"
Clive actually hit the floor, rolling in spectral laughter. Oh no, don’t tell me—
Avin leaned in again, cautious. He flushed it again. And again. His eyes widened with each whirlpool. "An endless vortex... controlled by a lever."
By the fourth flush, Clive was wheezing.
But the crown jewel of humiliation was the TV remote.
Avin sat cross-legged on the couch, the remote clutched like a dagger. He pressed a button. The screen across the room lit up in vivid color.
He gasped. "A portal!"
He stabbed at the buttons, flipping through channels: cartoons, news anchors, soap operas, infomercials. Each change made his expression shift from awe to horror to pure confusion.
One moment, soldiers in a war film shouted commands. The next, an animated rabbit cracked jokes. Then a woman on an infomercial screamed about detergent.
Avin dropped the remote like it was hot iron. He stood, pacing. "This world... this world is a madhouse."
Clive wheezed. Welcome to cable television.
And yet... amid the hilarity, Clive felt something stirring in his chest. Watching Avin , fumbling through the mundane, stripped of ego — it was disarming.
Avin, the arrogant brat, the holy sword wielder, the boy who smiled in battle... reduced to panicking at toilets and televisions. It was funny. But it was also... human.
Clive tilted his head, curiosity poking at the edges of his laughter.
And then the dream shifted.
It started subtle. The edges of the world blurred, colors bleeding into one another. The TV’s light flickered, not like changing channels but like failing electricity.
Avin turned, confused. "What trick is this?"
Clive frowned. Wait. I didn’t change this part...
The walls bent, distorted. The couch stretched into shadow. The buzzing of the television deepened into a low hum, vibrating in Clive’s chest.
Avin’s voice warped, his words slowing, stretching. "Whhhhaaaat... iiiisss..."
Clive’s stomach dropped. Something was wrong. This wasn’t just a dream anymore.
The shadows thickened, coiling like tendrils across the floor. They slithered toward him — not toward Avin, but toward Clive.
"No, no, no—" He tried to move, but his legs were stuck, pinned in place by invisible weight.
The shadows reached. Cold fingers brushed his ankles.
He gasped as a force yanked at him, dragging him backward, out of the dream. Avin and the warped world grew smaller, receding.
The last thing he saw was Avin, still clutching the TV remote, staring blankly at static.
Then darkness swallowed him.