The first thing Rex did when he materialized in the empty school gym was check his hands. All the lucid dreaming guides claimed that in dreams, your hands would appear distorted—extra fingers, blurred details, impossible angles. A dead giveaway to your sleeping mind.

  But Rex's hands? Perfect. Every callus, every line, even the faint fingerprint whorls visible in the harsh fluorescent light.

  He smirked. So tonight's one of the realistic ones.

  The weight of the knife in his pocket felt comfortingly familiar as he drew it out. He tested himself with a few experimental jumps, gauging his capabilities in tonight's nightmare.

  Barely stronger than my waking self, he realized, lips thinning into a grim line. This is going to be rough.

  Every night for the past eight years, since he was nine, Rex entered the nightmare realm when he went to bed. Every night, he fought for his life. Sometimes he emerged victorious. Recently—more often than not. Other times, he died in ways that left him gasping awake, phantom pain racing through his body. Some dreams vanished like mist at dawn—their memories vague, even if the aftermath—pain—felt so real. Others remained burned into his memory with the vivid clarity of actual experience.

  The nightmares followed patterns, though. Usually, he grew stronger with each successive dream, his abilities building upon themselves like a character in some twisted game. But sometimes—like tonight—he reverted to baseline. Those were the dangerous nights. The tests. The dreams that would challenge not just his strength but his adaptability, his will to survive.

  The cold, disembodied voice that always heralded the beginning of his torment echoed through the empty gym:

  Challenge commenced. Corrupted Rootwalkers. Tier zero. Medium difficulty.

  "Here we go," Rex murmured, settling into a fighting stance.

  At the center of the polished hardwood floor, darkness pooled like spilled ink. From this writhing shadow emerged eight-foot-tall figures of gnarled, rotting wood. Their limbs—impossibly elongated and jointed in too many places—clutched ordinary basketballs in knotted fingers. The incongruity might have been comical if Rex didn't know exactly what those harmless-looking balls could do when hurled with inhuman force.

  "Wanna play, huh?" Rex's lips curled back from his teeth in what only the most generous observer would call a smile.

  The first time he'd faced a Rootwalker, it had torn him apart. They moved with deceptive slowness until they didn't, their apparent clumsiness a deadly ruse. While you watched their upper bodies, prepared for the obvious attack, roots would explode from below, impaling, crushing, dragging you down.

  The Rootwalkers launched their basketballs with unnerving accuracy. Fast projectiles, though not lethal on impact. But Rex knew better than to focus on the obvious threat. Those projectiles existed solely to distract from the real danger—what lurked beneath.

  How many of these creatures had he dismembered over the years? Dozens, at least. Possibly hundreds, if he counted encounters beyond the lowest tier. The memories blurred together, but the lessons remained.

  Dodging roots that erupted from the floor and swatting aside grasping branches, Rex darted between the wooden monstrosities. His knife flashed silver under the lights. Years of experience had taught him their weakness—the central trunk, just below where a human's sternum would be. With surgical precision, he drove his blade into that spot, again and again, reducing the towering figures to splintered heaps.

  As each Rootwalker collapsed, waves of warm energy flowed into him, replenishing his stamina and strengthening his connection to his weapon. After finishing the last one, Rex tested this bond by hurling his knife at the floor. The blade embedded itself deep into the hardwood. If this were reality, Mr. Rogers would have his head for damaging his precious court.

  Rex reached out mentally, trying to call the knife back to his hand, but the link felt tenuous, fragile. The Rootwalkers hadn't provided enough power to restore even a fraction of the abilities he'd wielded in his most potent dreams. No matter. This was only the beginning.

  Three, six, nine, or twelve—the number of challenges he had to overcome followed its own dark pattern. Recently, when starting from tier zero, he typically faced twelve waves. He hadn't completed this particular sequence in a while, but tonight felt different. Familiar. Like a rerun of a dream from two weeks ago, with the same monsters in the same progression.

  The first three waves brought Rootwalkers—anywhere from five to fifteen per round. Their numbers mattered little; they were too slow and too stupid to coordinate. A swarm of fifteen was barely more challenging than five once you knew their patterns.

  Waves four through six introduced Scorpiwolves—abominations with lupine bodies, scorpion tails, and muzzles encased in gleaming chitin. These creatures pushed him harder, but by then he'd recovered enough power to summon his knife telekinetically, allowing him to strike from a distance and avoid their poisonous stingers.

  The seventh, eighth, and ninth waves combined both enemy types, with an unwelcome twist: they worked together. While the Rootwalkers remained as mindless as ever, the Scorpiwolves displayed pack tactics, coordinating to exploit any opening in Rex's defense.

  Wounds began to accumulate across his body—a gash here, a puncture there—but with each kill, healing energy suffused him. This was the rhythm of the nightmare: survive, kill, absorb, grow stronger. Each victory provided just enough power to face the next, escalating challenge.

  The tenth and eleventh waves introduced Horned Ravens—massive corvids with obsidian beaks and bone protrusions that could shred flesh with a single dive. By this point, Rex had advanced to tier one, unlocking the ability to channel mana internally. He could enhance his strength and speed in critical moments, giving him the edge needed to survive even against Dire Scorpiwolves.

  But all of this—all the blood and pain and hard-won victory—was merely prelude to the true test.

  The twelfth wave.

  Commence challenge. Tier two. Difficulty: Nightmare.

  At least the voice acknowledges what these dreams really are, Rex thought grimly as he squared his shoulders, fresh mana from the previous wave coursing through his veins.

  He'd reached tier two himself now. If tier one allowed him to use mana internally, tier two manifested as an external barrier—a shimmering field that deflected glancing blows and permitted more precise energy manipulation. Moreover, the creatures he'd slain had imbued him with fragments of their essence. He could now infuse his weapon with various toxic properties, although he suspected this ability might prove less useful against whatever awaited him next.

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  The fact that he was now highly resistant to most poisons, however—that might prove invaluable.

  The final challenge brought both good news and bad. Good: only one monster remained. Bad: it was a horror Rex had encountered before—a man-eating flower that towered twenty feet high, its tentacles writhing with malevolent purpose, its maw large enough to swallow him whole. The last time he'd faced this exact sequence of twelve monsters, the flower had devoured him alive. He'd missed school the next day, his entire body feeling like it had been smeared with ghost chilly peppers for hours.

  Worse still, escape wasn't an option. The nightmare arena—in this case, the gym—always had boundaries beyond which he couldn't pass. If he'd been facing this stationary threat in a forest with ranged weapons, victory would have been simple. But here, he would have to get close. Dangerously close.

  Rex had died to this particular flower five times that he could remember. He'd defeated it only once, and that was at tier four—far beyond his current capabilities. He knew most of its attack patterns but not all. His resistance to the numbing poison coating its thorns might prove the difference between victory and yet another painful death.

  It took nearly all his mana, ten grueling minutes, and a body crisscrossed with wounds to sever most of the tentacles growing from the flower's stem. One small mercy: the creature couldn't regenerate indefinitely.

  Without those tentacles, approaching became possible, if still perilous. The few times this monster had killed him included an occasion when he'd been at tier five, testament to its lethal potential. If it managed to slow you at close range, being devoured was a certainty.

  With the tentacles reduced, Rex circled to the rear of the massive bloom and leapt aside just as its tooth-lined maw snapped shut where he'd been standing. Landing behind the flower, he drove his knife into its stem repeatedly. This was the strategy—find the blind spot. Without its tentacles, the creature had no way to attack behind itself. It could only sway violently, attempting to dislodge him.

  Rex, at his absolute limit and nearly paralyzed from accumulated poison, continued his assault until the massive flower finally stopped moving. He collapsed, back against the gym floor, too exhausted even to stand.

  "Haha, I won't die today!" he laughed hoarsely, feeling the rush as he absorbed the flower's mana, catapulting directly to tier three. Perhaps next time, he would begin at this elevated level rather than being reset to baseline.

  Congratulations on clearing the 12th challenge.

  Rex relaxed, feeling his paralysis recede as the newly acquired mana coursed through him. Waking would come soon, and for once, he'd greet the day without the lingering agony of dream-death. The phantom pain from his nightmare demises typically persisted for half an hour after waking—as real and intense as any physical injury.

  Who would willingly subject themselves to this? he wondered, waiting for consciousness to claim him.

  But something unprecedented occurred.

  Commencing a special challenge. Tier 3. Difficulty: Nightmare

  Special challenge?

  The flower's corpse dissolved into shadow, and from this darkness arose new figures. Rex scrambled to his feet, alert and confused. Never in all his years of nightmares had he faced a thirteenth wave. Had the rules changed? Was he now expected to complete fifteen challenges instead of twelve?

  Despite his exhaustion, a spark of excitement kindled within him. If he'd managed to defeat that monstrosity at mere tier two, perhaps he was improving. Perhaps tonight truly was his lucky night.

  Then he saw the new opponents, and confusion gave way to astonishment.

  Humans. Five of them. And not just any humans—people he knew. Mr. Rogers stood at their center, clad in full mail armor, wielding a massive battle-axe. Flanking him were four of Rex's classmates, similarly armed and armored.

  Their eyes were wrong—clouded, with crimson light bleeding from their irises. They moved with unnatural precision, radiating power that suggested they were all tier four at minimum.

  Well, I always wanted to see if I can kill you guys, Rex thought, a genuine smile creeping across his face. Dream's giving me a gift tonight.

  No, he wasn't exactly a complete psychopath. Rex was just genuinely curious—how would it feel like, to face those he had faced every day, restricted by the society and morals from facing them in mortal combat. He enjoyed the thrill, not that sadistic pleasure,of taking a human life. Not like he ever had taken one before.

  "Let's see what you've got," Rex taunted, hurling his knife at Gordon, the most insufferable of his classmates. Gordon had even attempted to bully Rex, of all people, in sixth grade. Only until the first punch in the face, though. The tall boy raised his shield just in time to deflect the blade.

  The battle erupted with ferocious intensity. These copies fought with human ingenuity, but inhuman strength gained by the mana empowering them, each displaying unique abilities. Rex's poisoned blade proved effective against most of them—a few scratches sufficient to hamper all but Mr. Rogers. The PE teacher seemed to grow stronger with each injury, and when his four companions lay defeated, his assault only intensified.

  "I bet you're not this tough in real life, teach," Rex goaded, narrowly avoiding decapitation by the whistling axe.

  In desperation, Rex resorted to a decidedly ungentlemanly tactic—a savage kick between the teacher's legs. The armored figure emitted a very human squeak of pain, freezing just long enough for Rex to drive his knife into the man's chest.

  The reprieve proved momentary. A retaliatory kick sent Rex flying across the gym, ribs cracking on impact.

  "What's that for, teach?" Rex wheezed, summoning his knife back to his hand. "Ruining your precious floor? Or is it payback for me always skipping your classes?"

  The wound in the teacher's chest wasn't fatal, but Rex's poison began taking visible effect. The man slowed, features contorting in pain—then something changed. With a surge of mana, Mr. Rogers activated some hidden ability. He moved faster than ever, even as his own wounds reopened, blood streaming from his eyes and every injury.

  Rex thought he'd evaded the next axe swing, but at the last instant, the weapon's trajectory altered. Searing pain exploded through his right shoulder as his arm separated from his body, toppling to the floor with a wet thud.

  Not the first limb I've lost in these dreams, Rex thought through waves of agony. Won't be the last. Never gets easier, though.

  The teacher's reckless offensive created an opening. Left-handed now, Rex summoned his knife and drove it repeatedly into his opponent's throat. Before the axe could descend again, Rex had struck five times. Yet somehow, impossibly, the teacher remained standing—headless but still lethal, like a chicken continuing to run after decapitation.

  The axe fell one final time, cleaving through Rex's legs above the knees. Fire consumed him as he collapsed, screaming. But even as darkness crowded the edges of his vision, he saw Mr. Rogers drop to his knees, head barely attached to shoulders, blood cascading in sheets down his armor.

  Congratulations on clearing the special challenge! May you be prepared for the horrors to come, Rex Savage.

  Reality fractured, and Rex awoke with a strangled cry still echoing in his bedroom. His throat felt raw—he'd been screaming in his sleep again.

  "Good morning, brother," came a soft voice beside him, the words barely penetrating the fog of pain enveloping his consciousness.

  Through the haze, Rex focused on the face hovering over him—a little girl, only eleven years old, her eyes wide with familiar concern. It almost made him flinch.

  "Did you have another nightmare? It's okay, big sis is with you," she said, her small face set with determination that would have been incongruous if not for the genuine worry behind it.

  Rex didn't respond. The phantom agony of three severed limbs consumed his attention as he debated skipping school. Again. Eight years of these nightmares had taken their toll on his attendance record.

  But something felt different today. Some instinct told him he needed to go, needed to be there. So despite the excruciating pain radiating from limbs that were, in reality, still attached, Rex forced himself upright.

  It was time to get ready.