Of special interest is the Psionic race found within the Eighth Layer of the Astral Junction. For the purpose of this text, let us refer to them as the Astrans. Very original, I know.

  They are humanoid entities that, from what little we have been able to glean of their culture, are a close parallel to how we function in the Empire. There are enough known similarities that some Scholars have theorized that they are actually our own civilization in the far future, after ascending to the Astral Realm. Freed from the shackles of time and space, we were thus made eternal. This is a highly unsubstantiated, navel-glazing claim, and so I am inclined to support it.

  Yet, Savra is technically at war with the Astrans. They are our closest sapient threat within the Astral Instance, seemingly responsible for most of the danger and chaos sown between our realities. As far as any records show, we have always been at war. It is an atemporal conflict with no origin; an anomaly of causality.

  We do not know why they have not annihilated us. It does lend some support to the theory that they are the ascended future of Savra. Destroying their own origin would cause an existential paradox. In that case, their hostility toward us is a convenient deception, meant to temper us into worthy ancestors. Do not be deceived; they do this for their benefit, not ours.

  Conversely, we do actually know why we have not managed to annihilate the Astrans. But if you wish to learn those particular details, you would have to ask my mother.

  - A snippet from the forbidden, heretical text ‘Metacosmology & Other Funny Bedtime Stories To Tell Your Children’ by L**n H****n

  ***

  Unsurprisingly, GranGran was having one of her moments.

  “ASTRAN SCUM!” She writhed within her lavender straitjacket, as if itching to pull Tyr apart with her bare hands.

  Tyr had woken up in the Dream Realm at their usual spot, within the Moonlight tunnel he had constructed during their first meeting. Though perhaps woken up in the Dream Realm was not quite the appropriate phrasing. Regardless, he was here, and she was convinced that he was an enemy Mage intruding upon her domain.

  Upon seeing him, she had immediately enlarged her dream avatar to apocalyptic proportions. The canopy of her void-hair blotted out the heavens. On the bright side, she didn’t actually attack him. The self-restraint of an ancient Pacifist, or some other instinct, held her back.

  “What’s an Astran?” Tyr asked, adjusting the lapel of his suit.

  “WHY, YOU!” GranGran bellowed, tilting her titanic head backward. “YOU DARE TAKE ON THE FORM OF MY GRANDSON, TYRUS?!”

  Okay, so now she remembers who I am, but she thinks I’m actually an imposter? Come on.

  Tyr felt a bit ashamed of the thought, since she couldn’t help herself.

  Part of why he continued with their lessons was to learn more about her and her affliction. Perhaps there was some way to lift her Curse, or at least repair the damage that it had already wreaked on her mind. Could any proper healer, any proper grandson, shy away from the reality of the situation because it was uncomfortable?

  Still, it was rather intimidating having a mountain-sized entity yell at him.

  “It is me, GranGran,” said Tyr. “It’s time for our weekly lesson, remember? You promised you were going to teach me Astral Combat after I learned [Split Focus]. Well, I did it!”

  After a long, awkward pause, the looming silhouette of darkness shrank back down to human height. She tilted her head at him, and despite her blindfold and lack of discernible facial features, he was pretty certain she was narrowing her eyes.

  “What is the Postulate of the Cosmic Paradox?” she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

  “What?” Tyr held out his hands. “How am I supposed to know?”

  “Ah, yes. It is you, my dear boy. Welcome back to my humble nightmare. You will have to forgive my paranoia. I just faced an Astran in the Fifth Layer. Was that yesterday? No, it seems so distant now…”

  Tyr raised an eyebrow.

  Even if she was confused most of the time, he never had the impression that her perception of reality was completely off-base. She would mix people up and was disoriented to the passage of time, but she never seemed to fabricate any stories or knowledge wholesale. After their previous lessons, he had confirmed most of what she had taught him through Leon or the Endless Notebook. Some of the more unusual bits were difficult to corroborate, but he suspected that in most of those cases, she was revealing knowledge that couldn’t be found within the Library levels he had access to.

  “Okay, so what’s an Astran? If you’re going to take me to the First Layer, I should probably know what’s out there.”

  GranGran grinned at him with tombstone teeth. “Trying to take advantage of this old woman? I never said I would take you out to the First Layer. Not yet. However, you should be aware of the Astrans. One day, it will be your responsibility to hold back their advance.”

  Tyr grimaced. Her expectations for him—or for Leon, that she hoped to realize through him—seemed like an incredibly daunting mantle to bear.

  GranGran was an ancient monster of unfathomable power, locked within the Moon to deter incursions from the Astral Instance. And she was looking for an apprentice to continue an endless war.

  If his lack of response bothered her, she didn’t bother to show it. “I suppose I should set an example for the new generation and keep my promise. Allow me to show you the lowest of their minions.”

  GranGran nodded her head once.

  Their surroundings completely changed in an instant. An endless plain of golden grass replaced the cosmic background. High above, a white, a lavender, and a black moon floated within the blurred, distorted sky. The dim lighting was uniform throughout, produced from no apparent source. Besides their dream avatars, the only other objects within the landscape were a dozen lavender boxes, laid out in a pattern of escalating size. The first, and closest, was roughly around the proportions of a small shed. The last was as large as a mountain, rivaling GranGran when she went apocalyptic mode.

  Broken Dream Prisons. Containers fashioned by The Mad Witch in order to hold hostile Astral constructs. Threat levels range from insanity to death.

  Identify (Common) 21 > 22.

  “Uh, are we sure this is safe?” said Tyr.

  GranGran shrugged. “So long as you win.”

  Tyr tugged at his collar. “Just to double check, this won’t break my Pacifism, right?”

  “We have gone over this many times before,” GranGran said with unfounded confidence. “There are two protections built into Astral Combat. First, almost anything that happens within Mental Realms is considered a Mental action, not Physical or Magical. This bypasses one of the break conditions for Pacifism. Second, almost nothing you will encounter within the Astral Realm is truly sentient. They may behave as if they act with purpose and respond to stimuli, but they lack any internal sense of experience.”

  He and GranGran definitely hadn’t discussed the non-sentient aspect before, though he didn’t care enough to argue the point.

  “‘Almost’ isn’t very reassuring.”

  GranGran sniffed. “There is an exception to anything you can imagine. In this case, Astrans. They are all S-Grade entities with perfect Mind and Dream affinities. The Eighth Layer appears to be their home, but they have been sighted as close as the Third. If you encounter one, flee immediately. Or, better yet, awaken at once, then remain awake for a few centuries.”

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  Tyr rubbed his chin and peered at the row of Prisons, pondering for a moment what sort of monsters such beings would create. “That doesn’t explain why they’re an exception to the first rule. Why are actions against them not counted as Mental?”

  The smallest Prison vibrated slightly. Tyr’s eyes widened, but he refused to comment. Or make another sound in general.

  “Clever boy,” said GranGran. “That appears to be a separate boon, possibly unique to Psionic Types. On Savra, most people possess a Threefold Soul. We are nexuses of the Physical, the Magical, and the Mental. Every thought or action is an expression of at least one of those aspects of our being. For Astrans, their soul appears to have evolved into a singular, fused existence. It may be a Race or Bloodline boon, or something else entirely.”

  The more Tyr thought about it, the more in awe he became, enough to overcome his trepidation about the increasingly-shaking Prison. “So when you attack them, even if it’s Mental, it registers as Physical and Magical to the System as well? What a weird cheat. Though it could also be a weakness…”

  “You grasped the root of the problem quickly.” GranGran’s ancient voice held a surprising amount of warmth. “Any direct, offensive action on our part leads to an immediate loss of Pacifism. This has always resulted in a forced retirement. There are no records of any Mentalists who have been able to reach the Eighth Layer without the benefits from Pacifism. Despite experimenting with alternate Paths that theoretically should be capable of reaching the same thresholds, none of them have proven successful.”

  The Prison shook with more force. This time, it didn’t let off, only growing in intensity.

  Is it responding to us talking about its masters?

  Soon, the ground beneath it quaked as well. Cracks began to spread throughout the walls of the container.

  Through the widening gaps, he caught sight of…GranGran.

  But it was a pale imitation of her dream avatar. A cheap impersonator. Her hair looked like a plain, lank wig, and her blindfold and straitjacket were spun from cheap purple cloth. She paced within the confines of her Prison, her movements spastic, unnerving.

  As the cracks widened, her head rotated and she caught sight of Tyr. After a moment, she suddenly disappeared from view.

  “HOW PATHETIC,” boomed the real GranGran. “It could not bear to assume my form for more than a few seconds. A poor showing for a creature incapable of truly experiencing suffering. Leon, remind me once more why we are bothering with these? This is far below your current level.”

  “Yeah, that was easy.” Tyr chuckled nervously. “I just had to maintain eye contact for a second and I won.”

  The Prison exploded. From the cloud of spraying mana fragments emerged a tiny figure in a purple suit, scampering through like a rat out of hiding. Curls of golden hair bounced as he surged across the ground, his rainbow eyes gleaming with hostility. A series of azure mana orbs sprang to life around his head like a halo.

  After noticing the real Tyr and GranGran before him, the tiny figure came to a sudden halt.

  Tyr pointed at the imposter. The imposter pointed at him.

  “Mother says it’s rude to point!” both of them cried out in unison.

  What is this nonsense? I was expecting a Lesser Mindfiend, not…this.

  [Identify.]

  Tyr Hollan. The most envious of toddlers. Scion of the Hollan Family. Possesses the [Gaze of the Dominator] Bloodline Technique and basic mana manipulation proficiency. Minimal threat level. Inconsistencies noted compared with the original. Caution advised.

  Identify (Common) 22 > 24.

  Even worse, this was a copy with an unsealed Bloodline and far more Dexterity, based on how fast it had moved.

  Frowning, the real Tyr launched himself into the air, imagining wings of Sky mana flaring behind him. The Dream Realm obeyed his command, manifesting them into existence, but they felt different compared to usual. Sluggish, unresponsive. After only a few flaps, they broke apart into a flurry of dissolving feathers.

  Usually I can zip around the Dream Realm at the speed of thought. Conjure up whatever I want. Why am I so limited now?

  Half of his mind worked on unraveling this mystery, while the other half focused on his opponent.

  His brief time airborne had only elevated him ten or so paces above the ground. The imposter waited below, ignoring GranGran as if she was invisible. GranGran, for her part, looked uninterested in the whole spectacle.

  As Tyr descended, he retrieved the Whitewood Wand from his spatial ring. With a flex of his will, he gathered ambient Dream mana from the environment and released it as a dense Solar beam. A series of Crystal focusing lenses popped into existence along its path, further concentrating the intensity of the deathray. The beam struck the imposter instantaneously, leaving an angry red welt across the right side of his jaw. Tyr continued channeling the technique, but the imposter danced backward, outpacing what should have been the speed of light.

  Frowning, Tyr landed in a crouch. He cut off the deathray after it, impossibly, failed to catch up with his target.

  “What’s your problem, guy?” The imposter snarled as he kept dancing away, keeping his distance. His rainbow eyes flared with prismatic light. “Get lost.”

  After a few seconds of nothing happening, the imposter stomped his foot childishly. Moving so fast that his hand blurred, he made a flinging motion at the real Tyr. The halo of Sky orbs darted out in a rapid-fire barrage.

  Fortunately, it was a wild, uncontrolled spray, like a toddler unloading an Uzi. Instead of attempting to block with an imaginary construct, Tyr danced out of the way of the few orbs that came anywhere near him. Though they didn’t look impressive, he sensed that each one contained enough power to blast a hole through his body.

  It’s like we’re both limited in different ways. My imaginary power isn’t unlimited against it. And it has my Bloodline ability unlocked, but apparently can’t actually use it? What’s the common factor here that would let me understand what rule we’re breaking?

  Tyr abandoned his plan to out-imagine the imposter. Instead of harnessing the ambient Dream mana, he drew from his Core. Ethereal purple globes sprang into being like a horde of will-o’-the-wisps, each as large as his head. Unlike his deathray, these simple constructs hummed with danger.

  He smirked.

  That must be it. Comprehension is necessary for techniques to have any real weight in the Dream Realm. I don’t actually know how to fly with Sky Wings, or focus a deathray, so their effects are minimal. Likewise, I have no idea how to actually use my Bloodline, so neither can this little brat.

  The Dream orbs flew at the imposter. He made a frustratingly small target, turning their exchanges into more of a game of dodgeball than anything. Dancing between projectiles, the imposter countered with his own, launching sparks of Solar mana, tiny moons, marble Crystals.

  One difference quickly became apparent. The imposter had much higher attributes than Tyr, or some other trick empowering it within the Dream Realm. Neither of them were particularly accurate, but within a few exchanges, it became obvious that the imposter was far quicker and more resilient. Perhaps out of cockiness, he allowed one of the Dream orbs to land; he stumbled back slightly, then brushed imaginary dust off his shoulder and launched a counterattack.

  No way I’m that arrogant, Tyr seethed. Enough of this.

  Nothing said that he had to rely only on mana from his Core. It just seemed that he needed to comprehend the actual technique he was unleashing.

  Ambient Dream energy flooded into his body. For a single breath, he focused entirely on compressing it according to his imagined shape. One more difficult than a simple orb, but not so far beyond his actual capabilities that it would lose all of its power. Since he was an unmoving target, there was no chance of dodging the imposter’s attacks. Two of them whizzed by, missing, before an azure orb disintegrated a chunk out of his left thigh. The pain registered a distant, muted discomfort, no more than the vague idea of an injury.

  In return, a shard of incredibly dense Crystal mana materialized at the tip of Tyr’s wand. With a thought, he launched it at the imaginary speed of light. As expected, it failed to reach his desired velocity, but it did move faster than it otherwise would have. Apparently a combination of imagination and realism was better than the sum of its parts.

  The Crystal shard whistled through the air. It pierced through the imposter’s forehead, exited through the back, and continued on into the distance.

  “Well, you’re not a hopeless fake,” said the imposter. “I think that actually hit me.”

  He lifted one trembling hand, touching the pinprick mark on his forehead. A tiny rivulet of blood seeped out, staining his fingertip. A look of curiosity crossed the imposter’s face. Then he collapsed forwards, dead.

  Easiest way to take out a cocky brat. Don’t make a show of it. Just go in for the instant kill. I really have too many obvious weaknesses that any serious opponent would be able to exploit.

  Tyr waited for the corpse to dissolve or change shape into some monstrous form, but it just kept leaking a growing puddle of blood.

  “Well, that’s nightmare fuel.” He looked away, down at the hole tunneled through his leg. At least it didn’t really hurt. More of an uncomfortable numbness than anything. “Couldn’t have put on the PG settings, GranGran?”

  The old woman frowned at him but didn’t respond, apparently lost in thought.

  To distract himself, Tyr glanced at his notifications from the System.

  [ Enemy Mimic defeated. Experience held until the Third Gate is unlocked. ]

  Will 16 > 17.

  Perception 9 > 10 (20).

  Split Mind (Uncommon) 50 > 53.

  Mana Manipulation (Uncommon) 27 > 29.

  Dancing (Common) 24 > 25.

  Astral Vanguard (Rare). The Junction must be cleansed, and the Veil must be lifted. You have defeated a hostile Astral construct at a young age, with moderate assistance. +10% Will. Skill acquired: Mental Resistance (Uncommon) [Level 1].

  That was quite a serious slew of gains for a fight that, from his perspective, had lasted less than a minute.

  Tyr gave GranGran the side-eye. “That seemed way more intense than it should have been.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “Mimics have a base of 100 in each attribute, and only a rudimentary, non-adaptive intelligence. A simple training dummy. And what was that poor showing from both of you, Leon? Flinging basic orbs back and forth? It almost appeared as if I would have to intervene on your behalf! Why, I thought you said you—”

  Tyr wiped at his forehead with a trembling hand. She…can’t be serious. This mad witch is going to be the death of me!