Darkness.
Not the suffocating, jagged-black void of the dungeon.
Not the deep abyss of stone and mana.
This darkness was different.
Soft.
Weightless.
Quiet.
Friezzar drifted in it like a feather suspended in still air.
No pain.
No sound.
No light.
Just a silence so complete it felt like a dream.
Except—
Puppets weren't supposed to dream.
Friezzar slowly opened his eyes.
But instead of seeing the world—
he saw himself.
Floating.
Weightless.
Small.
A carved puppet suspended in a space of swirling blue threads—strings of memory, hanging from nothing. Each strand pulsed faintly, connected to fragments of stone, runes, and shapes he couldn't yet understand.
He reached a trembling hand toward one—
but a voice echoed before he touched it.
"Do you see, vessel?"
Friezzar froze.
That voice—
The intruder.
But this voice wasn't sharp and cold like before.
It was distant.
Echoed.
As if speaking from memory.
A shape formed in the swirling blue.
Not a person.
A shadow.
A silhouette with no detail—
just glowing red eyes.
Friezzar stepped backward instinctively.
The silhouette floated closer.
"You've reached the boundary between existence and silence," it whispered.
"The place where vessels rest when they are broken."
Friezzar clutched his chest.
"…broken…"
"Your core was fractured," the voice continued.
"The dungeon heart was tied to yours. When it shattered, you nearly vanished."
Mana threads around Friezzar began to flicker—
like dying fireflies.
He pressed his wooden hand against his heart.
He didn't understand all of it…
But he understood this:
He was fading.
The shadow circled him.
"You felt it, didn't you? The call. The pain. The hunger."
Friezzar lowered his head.
"…hurt."
"And yet…"
The shadow paused.
"You resisted. You chose a human over your origin."
Images flickered in the blue threads:
Friezzar shielding Lyra.
Friezzar defying the intruder.
Friezzar refusing the core.
Lyra's tears falling on his chest.
Her whisper: "Please don't leave me."
The shadow's tone sharpened.
"That choice should be impossible."
Friezzar touched one of the glowing threads—
and a soft memory surfaced.
Lyra smiling.
Her voice gentle.
"…belong means a place you choose."
His runes flickered faintly.
"…Friezzar choose."
The shadow leaned in.
"Why her?
Why choose a fragile human over your creators?
Over the dungeon itself?"
Friezzar stared at the floating memory threads.
At warmth.
At comfort.
At safety.
He whispered quietly:
"…safe."
The shadow hissed.
"Humans will fear you."
"They will abandon you."
"They will break you."
"You are not one of them."
Friezzar lowered his hand.
And said the words that felt truest:
"…but Lyra… stay."
The shadow stopped.
Friezzar's voice gained strength.
"…Lyra stay.
Arden stay.
Guild stay."
He touched his chest.
"…Friezzar…
not dungeon.
Friezzar… with them."
The shadow's red eyes narrowed.
"You are defective."
Friezzar blinked.
He did not understand the insult.
But he recognized something:
The shadow was angry.
"You resist your programming," it whispered.
"You disobey the core.
You defy your maker."
Friezzar stepped backward.
"…not obey."
The shadow lunged forward suddenly—
—but hit a wall of blue light.
A barrier.
A shape stepped out from behind Friezzar.
A small figure.
Soft.
Human-shaped.
Made of pure pale mana.
A girl.
Just a silhouette—
no face—
no features—
but undeniably the shape of Lyra.
Friezzar stared.
"…Lyra…?"
The silhouette didn't speak.
But it lifted a hand and touched Friezzar's chest—
warming the dim glow within him.
Strength pulsed through him.
Mana threads reignited.
The shadow hissed.
"Her memory is interfering.
The human's presence has rooted itself in you."
Friezzar clutched the silhouette's hand.
Warmth spread through him.
"…not alone."
The shadow's form fractured—
anger shredding its outline.
"You will return to me," it snarled.
"Your body will answer the call.
Your core belongs—"
Friezzar stepped forward.
And spoke louder.
"…Friezzar belong…
to self."
The shadow froze.
The blue threads around Friezzar blazed with light.
The Lyra-shaped silhouette brightened—
glowing like a star.
The shadow shrieked in fury as it dissolved into dark smoke.
SHHHHHCRACK.
The dream realm shattered.
Light consumed everything.
Meanwhile — The Waking World
Lyra jerked upright in her chair, almost falling off.
Friezzar's hand—
which she had been holding for hours—
moved.
Very slightly.
Just a twitch.
But real.
Arden leapt from his place near the doorway.
"Lyra?! What happened?"
Lyra leaned over Friezzar's face, tears welling.
"F-Friezzar…?"
The faint glow inside his chest pulsed—
brighter than it had since the dungeon collapse.
The mages rushed closer.
"O—Oren! His mana levels are rising!"
"Core stability increasing!"
"It's working—he's recovering!"
Lyra held her breath.
Friezzar's eyes slowly—
slowly—
began to glow.
A faint, dim blue.
Weak.
But present.
She whispered:
"Friezzar…?"
A soft, trembling voice escaped his unmoving lips.
"…Lyra…"
Her tears fell instantly.
"You're back."
His glow brightened just an inch more.
"…Friezzar… back."
He lifted his cracked hand—
barely—
And brushed her tears with his wooden thumb.
"…Lyra…
safe."
She let out a sobbing laugh.
"Yes. I'm safe."
Arden rubbed his face, relieved beyond words.
"Godsdamn puppet nearly killed us with worry."
Oren approached slowly.
"Friezzar… can you hear us? Can you understand?"
Friezzar's glowing eyes opened fully.
Weak.
Shaking.
But aware.
He nodded.
"…Friezzar… choose."
Lyra's heart clutched.
"What do you choose?"
He squeezed her hand—
"…Lyra."
And then—
"…Arden."
Arden choked on air.
"H—hey—why am I second—?"
Lyra laughed through her tears.
Friezzar closed his eyes, exhausted—
—but the glow inside his chest was steady.
Alive.
Stable.
And as his consciousness drifted—
he whispered one final word:
"…home."