Marvelous. It was as though it could see everything.
For the first time, the Wandering Titan considered what it wanted beyond its next meal. And as it thought, it wandered.
The Bleeding Phoenix called a rain of red lightning that blotted out the sky, but its fury accomplished nothing. It was only expressing its rage.
It remembered a human, a tiny man with punches that summoned blood dragons miles long. It remembered another, a titan in purple armor.
Those two were prey, but they had dared to harm it. It wanted revenge. It wanted to devour them.
Its awareness was scattered, so that at times it felt more like a council in its own head, but it vaguely remembered a time when it could have found these humans in a moment and annihilated them. Now, it couldn’t even come to a decision.
Should it split and gather power?
Should it find the humans and head straight for them, no matter the cost?
Should it sleep?
Thinking was hard. It hadn’t always been this hard. After a good sleep and a long session of feeding, then it would know the right thing to do. The many minds and spirits inside of it would be more unified then.
But it couldn’t spare the time for that. It needed a decision now. It continued unleashing power on nothing, its attacks powerful enough to warp reality, but each blow consumed power it would need to restore.
It hated those humans. All humans. At the same time, it had memories from millions of humans. The Phoenix grew very confused.
A moment later, a surge of white power swept through the sky. The Dreadgod’s techniques froze, and it fell into a daze.
This was the presence of the original. The final will of its father, its oldest brother, its original template.
This was a gift.
The Phoenix absorbed the power as easily as thirsty soil absorbed rain. The minds of the many spirits within it merged, fusing into one another, and the Phoenix grew larger. Its will grew stronger. And its consciousness was finally, blessedly clear.
It remembered.
The male human was Northstrider, a Monarch who had stolen power. Some of the Phoenix’s power in particular.
The Dreadgod was irritated at its past self for allowing Northstrider to touch it.
The female human was Malice, Queen of the Akura clan. Her lands were not far.
A moment ago, the Phoenix had plenty of strength, but only instinct controlling it. Now, its increase in power was negligible compared to its clarity.
It knew what to do.
Carefully, the Bleeding Phoenix began to dissolve its body. It melted into droplets that fell like rain, each drop an egg that slipped through a subtle spatial distortion.
It spread itself widely, and quietly. The human would not pierce its veil before it was too late. By then, the Phoenix would have devoured its lands.
Beaks couldn’t usually smile, but the Bleeding Phoenix was made of blood and madra. It twisted its face into a parody of a human grin.
Then even that liquefied, and the droplets teleported away.
On another continent, the Weeping Dragon tossed in its dreams. It floated on a bed of clouds, and it dreamed of what it always did: the past.
When it had wandered freely. When it had done battle. Even longer ago than that, when it had been confined.
Once, it had been less than what it was. But the process of growing, of becoming, had taken something away as well. The Weeping Dragon was technically capable of thinking at a level far beyond the ordinary human, but it had been centuries since it was more than a beast.
Once, the Dragon had thoughts, plans, ambitions.
Once, the Dragon had a name.
The Dragon dreamed of these times, and in its sleep, it wept for what was lost. Rain fell from its bed of clouds, watering the land.
Then its dreams changed.
More memories came: of its predecessor, its form beautiful and white and hungry. The one who had infected it with the hunger that could never be satisfied. In its dreams, the Dragon was furious at its ancestor for passing on this curse. Though it knew that the original’s fate was far worse than its own, the Weeping Dragon couldn’t resist its own anger.
Until it woke, and then its thoughts would retreat back into haze, and it would revert to a predator prowling on instinct. Just food and sleep.
While it dreamed, the Weeping Dragon feared waking. But…not this time.
It found that its dreams grew clearer and clearer. First they were dreams of the past, and then they were memories. And then they were thoughts, realizations, knowledge. Plans.
What it had lost was coming back. And the Weeping Dragon realized that it was becoming whole.
It woke, and this time, it really woke.
The Dragon’s cry of joy alone killed thousands of people. It was aware of this, though it didn’t care.
Distantly, it knew that something must have happened to its predecessor. The Slumbering Wraith had died, or at least released what it had been holding.
The Dragon would check on that later. There might be something to learn.
But for now, it would relish being in control of its own body. It wanted more than just food, it wanted shelter. A domain. Children. Servants. Treasures.
Countless serpents of madra rained from its cloud, crackling with its lightning and carrying its will.
It wanted…everything.
Deep in the jungles of the Everwood Continent, the Silent King crouched in its den.
Unlike its siblings, the King had never lost use of its mental faculties. It would have been impossible to control dream madra otherwise. It was its body that had suffered.
It had never carried as much devastating destructive power as the others, and was only as big as one of these human houses, but for the last several centuries, it could be overpowered even by the average human Herald.
While it was almost always better to avoid dangerous combat, the Silent King still considered this unacceptable. It was a Dreadgod. Except by its own siblings, it should be unequaled in all respects.
The Silent King’s mind was rarely focused on its own body. Even now, it tended to its mental web. Its subjects filled the jungle for hundreds of miles. They lived in cities, talked, joked, created art. Remnants crept by newborn sacred beasts and both traded respectful nods. Neither should be as intelligent or aware as they were, but thanks to their King, they could live up to their full domain.
In these lands, there was true peace.
But this was as far as its domain would ever extend.
The thought filled it with fury, and back in its den, it opened its jaws. A waiting sacred artist plunged willingly into its teeth, and the King chewed. The snack helped a little, though of course no amount of food could ever fulfill the curse of its hunger madra.
That was a problem it could solve, though. If only it was allowed to.
For the hundred thousandth time, the Silent King ran its spiritual perception around the boundaries of its kingdom. Roots stretched all around it, roots under her command. Its greatest enemy.
The Silent King knew that its sibling, the Dragon, often lost itself in dreams of the past. But its dreams were…crude. Simple. It didn’t know how to dream. The King knew, and sometimes its dreams were so vivid as to be indistinguishable from waking.
Whenever it dreamed, it liked to imagine the elaborate revenge it would take on Emriss Silentborn. It dreamed of revenge even more often than it dreamed of plans to restore its power. The only reason for achieving its full potential was for revenge.
That, and to spread its peace over all the world.