No one could say exactly how many uses the Sands of Time had. As a magical tool in Dream's hands, it was as elusive and inscrutable as a dream itself.
This strange transportation, powered by Lucifer's strength, felt like falling into a dream.
All around them were endless colorful bubbles of every kind—flat ones, round ones—like those blown by a breathless child while giggling.
Within those bubbles, one dream world after another unfolded. A destitute nobleman on the verge of starvation dreamed of attending a high-society banquet, while a stray dog dreamed of reuniting with its long-dead owner.
There were comedies and tragedies alike, but without exception, they were unrealistic dreams. That was the essence of the Unwritten Poem: stories that, for one reason or another, had never been written down.
Including the unexpected reinforcements, Albera, the group of five was falling through a wide yet twisted tunnel. They were not descending particularly fast, leaving Enchantress enough time to cross her legs and light another cigarette.
"Phew~~~" She coolly blew out a puff of smoke, snapped her lighter shut, and lifted her chin at Deathstroke. "These dreams originally didn't exist. We saw them, so they were recorded and became fixed. This reminds me of some scientific explanation. What was it called again?"
"Schrödinger's Cat. That falls under Quantum Mechanics. You wouldn't understand it even if I explained it, so let's stick to the Magic World's usual view."
Bobo, who had answered first, was gripping Deathstroke's Cloak and had not let go. During freefall, he still preferred having something to hold onto. The monkey chattered away, saying, "But speaking of which, witch, why do you look thinner? What happened to the money Deathstroke gave you last time? Didn't he tell you to improve your living conditions?"
Upon hearing the chimp's words,