DREAM: Rebirth across Time

Fight!

The droning DREAM machine and the weak light of monitors showing a young man's vital signs. A pale body lay motionless within the translucent pod, his upper body moving up and down with deliberate breaths.

Two people were standing close by, their faces illuminated by the monitors' flicker. Justin, Steven's father was at the bedside and the other was the chief medical officer, Dr. Adeyemi, who was in charge of Steven's health as well as the machine.

"It is amazing," the doctor muttered faintly. "We weren't prepared for the level of integration with his physiology. His vitals are steady, which is much better than anyone could have anticipated for a guy with his condition.

Justin clasped and murmured slowly. "How much time can this go on? How much longer is the DREAM able to suspend him in this manner?"

Silently, Dr. Adeyemi said as she looked over the readings. "Weeks, maybe even months. The machine anchors his consciousness inside the simulation although his physical body is at rest, his mind is still functioning."

Justin released a long breath. "But his body is still weak?"

Dr. Adeyemi nodded in agreement.

Justin squinted. "What about neural synchronization? Is the machine using his entire consciousness?"

As she made calibration adjustments, Dr. Adeyemi swayed over the controls. "Almost all. The interface circumvents his weakened neural pathways by using sophisticated conduits. Through artificial synapses inserted into the core, signals are intensified and redirected. As a result, his mind can operate within the simulation with little lag or dissonance."

She continued. "Neurofeedback loops and indications of cognitive fatigue are being watched for. None have been found to date. According to his brainwaves, he is adjusting well."

The brows of Justin furrowed. "Even so, the illness keeps getting worse. This machine is an opportunity, but it isn't a remedy."

The doctor said in a low voice, "No. However, it gives him hope, which is a valuable gift."

Both of them turned to face the sleeping figure inside the pod. A small smile tugged at Justin's lips, a mixture of sadness and hope. "My son—trapped between two worlds."

The physician lowered her eyes. "He has a powerful mentality. According to the readings, he is adapting to the simulation with ease. He might live longer than anticipated because of that strength."

Justin's voice broke as he continued. "I created this machine to help him. However, I worry that at times he feels even more isolated, trapped in a world that is out of his reach."

The physician steadied his shoulder with a hand. "He is not by himself, he gains every moment he spends there. Now, every heartbeat we witness is evidence that the DREAM is a reality to him."

For a moment, Justin closed his eyes and prayed in a whisper. "My son, hold on. For us, fight."

---

A rough-sounding nevertheless humorous voice called out to his left, "Lord Steven. Would you mind confirming whether you once climbed the south tower while completely nude and yelling about a flying horse?

Steven took a blink. "I... What?"

The masculine man next to him, broad-shouldered and always smiling, grunted a laugh. "So it's true!"

"Obviously not," said Steven, pretending to be outraged.

A chuckle broke out behind them.

The younger soldiers were laughing so hard that one of them almost fell off his saddle.

Steven noticed that the corners of Clinton's mouth were moving as he rode silently ahead.

"There is too much free time for all of you," Clinton finally remarked. "Maybe I will uncover a few rocks for you to carry."

The bearded man sarcastically said, "Aye, Captain. Only if Lord Steven also hauls them."

Steven muttered a laugh.

The once-stiff and silent ride was now bearable, even warm. It was obvious the men respected Clinton.

And in spite of his past reputation, they had started to respect Steven as well.

Later that night, the group set up camp next to a shallow stream that was surrounded by tall oaks. Sweat, smoke, and the smell of charring meat filled the air.

Amidst stories, laughter, and the silent determination of a prince establishing his power, the party continued as the fire blazed and someone started a horrible song off-key.

The woods was too quiet in the morning. Steven rode close to the center of the column, looking from tree to tree. It appeared that the wind avoided this trail as well.

Clinton threw up his fist. "Hold on."

Heartbeat began to race, so they gripped the reins more tightly.

Twyford, who had one hand already on his sword, muttered, "I don't like this."

That is when it arrived.

The sound of a whistle sliced the air.

Then screams.

From either side of the path, arrows rained down, thudding into men, horses, and trees.

Blood gushed from a shaft stuck in the throat of a rider to the left who screamed and fell.

"AMBUSH!"

The chaos burst out.

Clad in mismatched armor and brandishing rusted blades, bandits rushed out of the undergrowth. They roared as they charged, like savage animals.

"Keep the young lord safe!" Clinton broke through the commotion with a roar.

Steven pulled the sword and then jerked his horse back.

His breathing came in quick, frantic gasps. Both the grasp and posture were instinctive, but the sense of dread was real.

This was not a training session.

It was blood and death.

A bandit with untamed eyes sprang at him.

With the clash of steel bouncing up his arm, Steven made an awkward parry.

Another approached him, but Twyford stopped him with a savage swing that launched the man into the air.

"Remain vigilant!" Twyford let out a growl. "Move, don't think!"

Steven was too busy to think.

A second assailant approached from behind; Clinton quickly slashed out, whirling his horse and bringing down the bandit.

"Dismount!" he commanded. "We're surrounded!"

Steven managed to jump off his horse in time.

He collapsed as an arrow brushed his shoulder, just missing him.

A bandit came charging at him with the intent to kill.

His eyes were wild and wide.

Steven was hesitant.

That hesitation almost cost him.

Twyford reappeared, and his blade fell like judgment as the boy lunged once more.

One swing.

The young bandit went down.

Twyford said icily, "Never forget this, be ruthless against your enemies and show compassion to your allies."

Steven clenched his throat. "He was only a youngster."

Twyford shot back. "Get moving!"

The men came together, forming an enclosed circle around Steven.

The guards resisted like wolves backed into a corner, but the bandits continued to arrive in waves, dozens of them.

With a blade lodged in his chest, another bandit crashed to the ground.

It was a one-sided slaughter as the guards proved too strong for the bandits.

Steven swung low, rolled, and ducked, catching a bandit and knocking him to the ground.

He was unable to finish him, though.

"Is this the nature of war?" He struggled as chaos unfolded in his mind.

Twyford splashed the opponent apart, screaming to alert the prince. "Behind you!"

Just barely, Steven whirled and blocked.

His blade followed instinct.

The death tolls finally forced the bandits to retreat. They dispersed, escaping into the fog they had previously sought refuge in.

Once again, there was silence.

All that was left were the panting of weary warriors and the moans of the wounded.

Steven remained motionless.

He saw a dead bandit, a young man of about eighteen, who had been stabbed in the stomach.

He had not actually killed the bandit.

However, it was irrelevant.

Clinton came over, holding his shoulder. "Well done, Prince. You made it through."

Steven forcefully swallowed. "How many did not?"

Clinton answered. "We have three. Theirs, fifteen. The bodies will be set on fire."

Twyford put his sword away. "Your Highness, this will not be the last time."

Steven gradually nodded.

He gazed down at his hands.

For the first time, however, he wondered what it meant to be alive in this world, where keeping oneself alive meant having a sword and a death-hardened heart.

Steven held his sword firmly.

Twyford came up with a weary grin. "Your Highness, try not to look too long."

Steven looked away, and he let out a trembling breath.

He took the cloth from Twyford.

His fingers shook as he carefully cleaned the blade. "Will things always be like this?"

"No," Twyford said as he sheathed his sword. "It can be worse at times."

Steven let out a feeble laugh.

The humor was appreciated.

Nearby, Clinton was already giving orders. "Get the injured together and burn the remainder. Half a league south, we set up camp."

He turned to face Steven, his face tough but not mean. "You froze during the raid."

Steven surveyed the bodies lying around. "This is more difficult than I anticipated."

Silently, they made their way that night to a narrow ridge with a view of a shallow stream. The camp was swiftly set up, complete with tents, fires, and a perimeter.