It was simply an endless, eternal torment—a mad sprint where, if they wanted to win, they could not stop, and the instant they slackened or gave up, they would lose everything.
There was no exhaustion, no finish line, and even less of an end.
All that remained was a futile cycle of fighting for their lives again and again.
Again and again, they repeated it; again and again, they restarted. The entire Dreamland kept cycling through accelerated time, and the conflict between the dragon and the Holy God never ceased.
Like Sisyphus, pushing a boulder up the mountain again and again, only to return to the starting point again and again. What was frightening was not the endless torment, but the "relief" of turning back.
Relief was the most terrifying poison of all.
All they had to do was give up.
The moment they wanted to stop, they could stop!
At any time, in any place, they could choose to give up.
They could rest. Wait a while. What was the point of continuing like this? How long would this cycle last? It had already been so long—how much longer was left? How much longer did they have to endure? After this second came the next, but how many more seconds were there?
The instant they began to think, such stray thoughts sprouted like weeds, growing without end and eroding their so-called resolve again and again, like termites spreading through a dam.
The instant the thought of retreat surfaced in their hearts, the high wall built from reason and perseverance would collapse like a bursting dam, falling apart.
Sea-tide-like anxiety rose again and again, washing over consciousness and the self without end.
Either they endured the torment with an unyielding obsession, pressing down those insignificant distractions, or they cast aside