Then her father appeared. A man crowned in glowing vines, who, when he entered, brought calm with him. Light-Lord Sol, she saluted him silently, guiding the village through wisdom that seemed to soothe the air around them.
Present also were her brothers: Lumen, with his dutiful nature and serious character, wove harmonious patterns with steady hands; Shade, younger and afire with rebellion, spun chaotic threads that sparked with unrest. His eyes smoldered with defiance, something Bullet knew all too well from the faces of Maul, Veil, Husk.
Glow's tapestries balanced them somehow, her work a bridge between order and chaos.
But her wrist bore that scar, the same one she had in the waking world. She noticed him looking at it.
"I wasn't able to stop Shade's first rebellion," she said in a quiet tone, her eyes laden with guilt that Bullet knew too well. "Let things spiral until the Weaver twisted him into something cruel." She fixed her gaze on his face. "No matter what this jungle shows you, don't lose your path. Don't let it consume who you are."
Her guilt was a mirror of Ridge's penance, of the weight Bullet carried for Cowboy and Rivet and everyone else.
The Weaver emerged from the shadows of the dreamscape.
It was multi-limbed, and its body was woven from shadow-vines that writhed like serpents. Its eyes were voids, empty places that immediately reminded Bullet of the Dreadwraith. The hum was a bone-rattling roar, shaking the whole dreamscape and sending crystal spires trembling.
It's a creation born from the cruel menace of the world, given form in this place between waking and sleeping.
It corrupted Shade right before Bullet's eyes, the threads twisted into shadow-vines as the spires were consumed by blazing purple. Villagers screamed. Glow's tapestries burned like paper. The cycle would play out again: Sol would restore order, Lumen rebuilding what was destroyed. Shade would rebel again. The Weaver would smite. Glow would fail to stop it. An endless now of failure and light, repeated for eternity.
Bullet's scar burned, but the pull anchored him. A fire in his chest that reminded him he had somewhere else to be.
The pipe was heavy in his hand - solid, real, his.
He slashed through dream-threads, and they thrashed like living things. Sap that shouldn't exist in a dream burned his skin anyway. His ribs screamed. His shoulder oozed blood that was both real and not real.
The Weaver lashed out with shadow-vines, slicing the air inches from his face. Visions flooded his mind in overwhelming cascades: A traitor's torch in a burning village. A child's voice singing in a cave. A jeweled regime falling into chaos. A shadowed hunter stalking Province 618's sands, its hum echoing the sentinel's.
"It's not real, Bullet!" Glow's voice cut through the chaos. She clutched a knife made of solidified dream-light, cutting through threads with desperate efficiency. "Break the cycle! Don't let it trap you!"
The scar on her body glinted with every movement she made, her determination no less fierce because the situation was impossible.
A bullet targeted the Weaver's core: a pulsing glow that almost looked like a shard. His pipe sparked as it struck, screaming metal against the vine-woven mass. Tendrils recoiled. Light flared in blinding bursts.
Glow severed the binding threads of Shade. His eyes cleared for just a moment, recognition and regret flooding them. "I'm sorry," he whispered—a flicker of redemption before he faded.
Sol's light suddenly flared, illuminating the way. The spires started to steady themselves. The air began to warm up once more with an increased glow.
Bullet and Glow struck the core in concert—pipe and dream-knife flashing in perfect synch. Tendrils recoiled with sounds like screams. Light burst outward in a cascade that was blinding even with his eyes closed.
The dreamscape folded in upon itself, collapsing like a house of cards. Vines fell away. Spires faded to mist. Reality reasserted itself.
Bullet staggered, finding himself back in the real jungle. Glow gasped beside him, slumping against a fungal tree. She was weak but her eyes were fierce, clear for the first time.
His ribs hurt. Crimson dripped from fresh and old wounds. The guilt pressed down, Stitch's trust, Ember's warnings, the people he kept abandoning.
Glow clutched his arm, her grip surprisingly strong despite her exhaustion. Her skin still glowed faintly, and her scar caught the light.
"The jungle weaves lies," she urged. "Steals memories. Traps you in visions that feel more real than reality. Its vines link like a hive mind, snaring anyone who enters." She met his eyes. "I know how to free the others now. I'll cut them loose, one by one."
Her resolve was a mirror of Ridge's determination - that need for redemption he saw in so many faces.
The moss pulsed beneath her feet. Tendrils twitched nearby, already reaching to ensnare her once more. The shard in Bullet's pocket, etched, grew warm-an indication of a link with the jungle's pulse that he didn't understand. Another riddle without answers.
The pull roared in his chest, urging him forward. Away from here. Deeper into whatever came next.
Eternal, unaging, unbirthing, the stasis of the jungle spoke to that weirdness of the world. And his scar burned in its reminder of how little he knew.
Guilt pressed against him, a shadow heavier than the pipe in his hand: Cowboy's scream, Rivet's blood, Stitch's trust, and now Glow's cry would join them, trailing in his wake as he moved on.
As he walked, more dreamers became visible. Tendrils or roots bound them, others hung from the fungal trees like bizarre ornaments, cradled in glowing moss, mist curling around peaceful faces. They were all lost in their visions while their breath made little lights in the humid air.
Bullet walked alone, the glow of the jungle his only companion. The siren call was heavy, a constant hum clawing at the edges of his mind.
Spore clouds erupted from another fungal tree, their glowing haze choking the air. They stung his eyes and conjured visions that felt like memories: a jeweled regime at war; swords clashing, crimson pooling on gem-encrusted streets; a village burning; a cave filled with singing; a shadowed hunter, its hum a constant threat.
In the visions, he was holding different weapons. His scar burned in each one. A fuzzy figure whispered words he couldn't quite hear: "The greatest task."
He had been a cruel king, a singing farmer, a thief of beating hearts, a healer, a traitor, a lost child. The visions all blended into one another seamlessly, bleeding, tugging at his sense of self. The hive-mind of the jungle closed in, tighter, intent on making him just one more dreamer, caught in endless light.
But his scar grounded him. The etched shard pulsed. The pipe was heavy and real in his hand.
He tore through the moss with desperate strength, ripping roots with wet snapping sounds. Their glow faded where he touched them. The pull of the quagmire weakened. His heart pounded. Blood dripped freely now. But the pull surged—a fire that refused to be extinguished.
He broke into a clearing where mushroom trees dominated the landscape like giants. Their caps were blindingly bright, casting a kaleidoscope of blues and purples across the sponge-like ground. Their collective hum was deafening, vibrating through his entire skeleton. Sap dripped like rain, stinging every wound.
A man hung in the middle, tendrils piercing his chest like spears. The purple tips pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His face was serene, lost completely in visions. His breath formed a faint glow in the mist. Scars crisscrossed his arms, souvenirs from the world's cruelty, whatever life he'd lived before the jungle had claimed him.
A hypnotic rhythm pulsed in the moss beneath his feet, luminescent patterns swirling in living veins to weave new visions that clawed at his mind: Stitch's trust in the tunnels; Glow's cry across the dreamscape; the shadowed hunter stalking Province 618, its hum a lingering threat.
His knees quivered. The pipe was slipping in his sweat-slick hand. His ribs screamed. His shoulder oozed steadily. Crimson dripped from his calf. The pull flickered, near drowned by the jungle's overwhelming siren call. The hive-mind tightened around his thoughts like a noose.
Tendrils surged toward him, aglow like serpents. Their tips slashed at his cloak, more sap burning his forearm, leaving fresh welts. His scar blazed with heat that should have been impossible to endure.
But it anchored him. The shard, with its etchings, pulsed in his pocket like a second heartbeat.
He drove the pipe into the moss, tearing through roots with brutal efficiency. They ripped with wet sounds, their glow fading instantly. The hive-mind recoiled, its hum faltering for the first time.
He sprinted through a gauntlet of tendrils, their purple tips lashing like whips. One grazed his already-injured calf, crimson mixing with violet sap, pain flaring white-hot. His scar burned in response.
A fungal tree collapsed nearby, spores bursting in a blinding cloud. Their whispers clawed at his mind with renewed intensity, but he twisted away, reflecting light off his pipe. The metal surface blinded the tendrils momentarily, their movements slowing just enough.
He amputated them with wild sweeps, the scream of the jungle a silent wave that shuddered through the mist.
Then he broke free.
He came out onto a rocky plain under the auroras, their violet-green light casting long shadows that seemed almost normal after the alien glow of the jungle.
The hum of the jungle fell away behind him. The pull surged forward, much stronger now. His scar throbbed. The shards in his pocket seemed to weigh more than ever.
But the guilt was heavier still. The scream of Cowboy. Rivet's blood. Stitch's trust. Glow's cry. And dozens of dreamers still bound, still lost, still trapped in visions. Not his to save. He could not save them all. He could not even save himself. He could only move forward.
Glow watched Bullet's silhouette vanish over the horizon, her will unbroken though her body was exhausted. Her skin still glowed faintly. Her scar glinted under the fungal trees' light. Tendrils twitched around her, their hum a chorus of hunger that was never truly stilled.
She grasped her dream-knife, its edge honed from light-threads that had frozen solid, and slashed at the tendrils binding the nearest dreamer. Sap sprayed across her arms. Her cry was swallowed by the merciless glow of the jungle, its pulse tightening like a living trap.
But she would fight it. Just as Ridge had fought to redeem herself in the tunnels. Just as Stitch had maintained trust despite everything. Just as Bullet carried the weight of everyone he'd left behind.
Her resolution was a fire that echoed all of theirs, a defiance against the world's cruel pulse. Bullet walked across the rocky plain, the glow of the jungle fading behind him, never to truly vanish from his mind.
Ahead lay new unknowns: new provinces, new people he would inevitably fail.
The pull was a fire in his chest, guiding him forward despite everything. The scar on him blazed—a man without a past, without answers, driven by a need he couldn't name or resist.
In his bones, the cruel pulse of the world hummed like a song he would never be able to forget, even if somehow he could forget everything else. Province 269 was behind him now.
Whatever came next waited ahead.