He was dreaming, and dreaming within his dreams.
Sometimes in the ocean's abyss,
sometimes in the azure heavens,
sometimes beneath unfathomable layers of earth,
sometimes at the end of time.
He dreamed within dreams within dreams, woke from dreams of waking from dreams, and dreamed of dreams in which he woke, over and over, without end.
And so, in one empty, chaotic dream, he cleared his mind and let the supernatural tendrils of his senses spread through an atmosphere that did not exist.
He did not need to open his eyes to know that endless darkness surrounded him.
There was no clamor from the countless things of the world, no sourness or sweetness, bitterness or spice, no touch of matter flowing over his skin.
Yes-all the senses a human could possess had been sealed off.
All he could do, then, was obey his mind.
The darkness was thick. He could not see the way ahead.
He had nothing, knew nothing, and had nowhere to go.
He did not even know whether he was standing or sitting-but at least he definitely was not lying down.
He felt none of the ease or pleasure of lying down. Instead, he vaguely sensed some unknowable shackle restraining him, making even the slightest movement all but impossible.
To confirm this, he had tried struggling once.
Of course, he had failed.
He had not intended to succeed, either.
So he remained there, just as he had been, contemplating life.
Life was always full of variables.
Some people, for instance, always came up with novel ideas, suicidal impulses, and mischievous schemes at critical moments, and could not resist putting them into practice.
Naturally enough, then, at some point an inexplicable longing welled up within him.
He began to move despite himself, and discovered that he really could move as he pleased-the old shackles seemed to have been washed away by time, with only him stubbornly remembering them.
First his head turned this way and that, then his body bent down, and finally his four limbs touched the ground-or, more precisely, his mind sensed something resembling the ground.
Honestly, he had no idea why, once he started moving, he had to do it in such an illogical order.
But since the road ahead did not matter, he might as well pick a direction and run.
And so he ran on all fours like a beast.
His body was unexpectedly powerful, as though time had worn the needless edges off a rock. Even unused to this posture, he ran fast.
He charged recklessly onward, his blood surging, trampling over many things as large as himself, then running faster and faster.
Like an enormous elephant running wild through tropical rice paddies, he was unstoppable.
Suddenly, he crashed headlong into something like a wall.
It seemed to be an obstacle he could never break through, even if he devoted his entire life to it.
His head bore the brunt of the impact. Sensing trouble, he reflexively jerked backward.
Then came his shoulders, followed by his body, and finally his numb senses.
One after another, they struck it, converting his kinetic energy into something else.
There was no pain, but he knew his spine and shoulder blades seemed to have suffered damage, and his neck bones cracked in protest-if he still had those parts, that was. He would call them that for now.
After such a setback, he finally stopped.
He had to rest for a while.
Leaning against the thing, he could clearly "see" that its color was a little lighter than the surrounding darkness.
It was neither a vivid "white" nor a gloomy "gray," but somehow seemed quite alive.
What that subconscious sense of life meant, or why it had immediately sprung to mind, he did not know.
He must have pondered these questions for a long time. The minor wounds and hidden injuries from his headlong charge had more or less healed on their own.
That did not require any particular attention on his part.
But perhaps he had only felt as though he had been thinking for a long time, when in fact only an instant had passed.
After all, even he did not know the limits of his regenerative power, or when it would automatically become less active.
At a coincidental juncture much like that earlier peculiar moment, he seemed to remember something, and to understand something, leaving him with a sense of loss.
The thing felt increasingly familiar to him.
He placed his broad hand upon it and gently stroked it.
He opened his mouth wide, wanting to move it, wanting to say something.
He wanted to lament, to condemn, to pour out his heart.
In this darkness without end, he longed for someone to listen to his ramblings. It did not matter if he heard no reply.
And this thing was a presence worthy of hearing him out.
But before he could say anything, the thing abruptly vanished.
It had existed for so long, yet departed so suddenly, so completely, so irrevocably, as though it had never existed at all.
He knew it existed, had once existed, and might exist again in the future.
His hand still hovered in midair, stroking nothing, while he remained rooted to the spot in bewilderment.
A moment later, he regretted it. He beat his chest and stamped his feet, feeling his heart torn apart by original sin.
He did not know what terribly important thing he had missed.
But at that moment, his memory cut out.
What-was-that-thing!?
In this place without setting suns or rising moons, there was no knowing how much time had passed.
He continued running tirelessly through the boundless darkness, and his wounds healed in that limitless stretch of time.
Everything seemed to have returned to the "starting point."
But what had happened had happened, after all.
Now he had a clear goal.
He wanted to find something similar to that thing, to fill the wound in his heart.
Ah, if he could meet that thing again, nothing could be better.
Then, at some juncture, he felt himself pass through a layer of something.
This new thing seemed to define the distinction between "this side" and "that side."
Hmm, this seemed to be some sort of incredible semipermeable membrane.
Wait, what was a semipermeable membrane? It felt familiar, but it didn't seem to be...
Tsk. He could not remember again.
In any case, on "that side," he slowed down.
This was probably a very dangerous place. Otherwise, his mind would not have been so tense.
He searched cautiously, but nothing inspired the mountain-like awe he had felt before the thing he had once encountered.
He found that strange. The "pressure" on this side was clearly stronger.
As he continued running onward in a daze through the world on "that side," at some moment-perhaps long before, perhaps just then-he felt a beam of light pierce him from behind.
The light had come abruptly, and he was terribly afraid it would leave just as abruptly.
Being pierced by the light caused him no pain at all. Instead, he felt a warmth he had not known for a long time.
What puzzled him was how familiar that warmth felt.
Oh, yes. It was the feeling that thing on "this side" had given him.
He suddenly struck his head against the ground, tears streaming down his face. His whole body scattered into formless "light," then gathered back into its original shape.
The hands of a clock would always slip out of alignment, then begin their circular motion once more.
Everything about us, it seemed, would never change.
All at once, he remembered-remembered almost everything.
What that thing had once given him was an experience of flow called "love."
But what was that thing?
He struggled with all his might, but the web sealing him in did not budge.
Despairing at his own helplessness, he looked back, tears brimming in his eyes.
He shakily grasped the beam of light. His "memory" of that thing grew ever clearer, yet the thing itself grew ever hazier.
His tears were scalding and bitter.
The light was pure and bright.
The beam passed through his chest.
The light carried information with it. Its frequency, wavelength, and polarization each spoke their own tale.
Letting the tears stream over his cheeks, he actually hid in a corner, helpless and cowardly.
He did not dare go.
He feared that when he reached that place, the beam would disappear.
But keeping his head down would not make everything all right.
Sensing that profoundly discordant thing, the darkness around him shuddered uneasily, as though an ancient mural sealed away for a thousand years had come alive.
He curled up tightly, forcing himself not to look around.
He felt countless eyes staring at him. Everything carried an eerie air.
Yet even without opening his eyes, he could see the boundless darkness around him, and the single ray of dawn shining straight toward him from afar.
The dawnlight was pure and bright, cleaving the darkness.
As though answering his doubts, the beam before him widened, revealing a luminous passage.
Still he hesitated, though he did not know why.
The darkness was deeply displeased.
Like the medieval Catholic Church frantically persecuting and slaughtering heretics, the darkness made only a few tentative probes before stretching countless wicked claws toward the light with a savage grin.
But the source of light held firm. It tottered beneath the darkness's assault, yet would not be defeated so easily, much less vanish.
And under the pounding tides of darkness, the light grew smaller, but ever brighter.
It seemed to mock the darkness's weakness and impotence, or to be rooted in the darkness, growing madly.
So much so that even he could feel that mysterious warmth within the vast, icy atmosphere.
His heart lurched, and his eyes seemed to widen-the anticipated harm had not come. That delighted him, but also left him with a strange trace of regret.
Suddenly, he stood up.
Just then, in that indescribable instant, a very, very soft voice had whispered in his ear that if he missed this chance too, there would be no more.
The voice came from somewhere farther than far away, and had never appeared before-he had hoped it would say something more, but afterward there was only the same unchanging silence.
Was it a dream of mirages, or merely a bronze bell in an illusion?
He did not know what else was "here," or what might be "there."
Out of another mysterious confidence called "someone with nothing to lose has nothing to fear," he did not believe that whoever was "here" would deceive him.
There was nothing left that could be swindled away from him.
He willingly entered the luminous passage, striving to avoid the darkness's claws as he ran recklessly toward the source of that light.
Along the way, the darkness casually diverted an insignificant fraction of its power to knock him down many times.
But every time he fell, he immediately climbed back up. Even as his wounds gradually worsened again, he had no complaints or regrets.
Because he did not want to be left with regrets once more.
He had that voice to thank. As the light drew closer, an emotion beyond joy gradually welled up within him.
It bubbled forth like a clear mountain spring, growing sweeter and richer the farther he traveled.
Just as he savored that sweetness, believing all was well, something flying from behind pierced him again.
His mind went blank, as though all his efforts had been in vain.
He was furious, astonished, his eyes brimming with hot tears-he had been so close, truly just a little way short.
He almost gave up on himself.
Yet when he took another step forward, heedless of his chance to linger among the living, he discovered in bewilderment that his wounds were gradually healing again.
Confusion, incomprehension, not joy.
This was not his own doing.
The darkness was furious, but now, at last, that fury carried a note of helplessness.
He continued running forward, no longer feverishly, but with cautious curiosity.
Oh, he saw it quite easily.
Before the source of light stood a figure darker than the darkness.
That being had driven back those claws almost single-handedly.
This did not resolve his doubts.
That being was the guardian of his hope, and also the creator of his confusion.
He did not know why that being would help him, but he was polite, and knew to repay kindness.
As he ran, he struggled to keep his balance and bowed to the figure, expecting no response.
He did not know why he still insisted on being polite when he had come to this, when clearly...
As he drew closer, his heart suddenly tightened, and his earlier, fleeting train of thought broke off.
He tried hard not to realize that, even in the darkness, that being gave off a faint light that absorbed the darkness-it was simply insignificant beside the source of light, which was why he had not noticed it before.
Then his thoughts strangely skipped a beat. As though he had never noticed anything unusual about the figure, his attention returned to the source of light.
He swept straight past the figure and, without hesitation, gathered the source of light into his arms.
He spread his arms to receive the baptism of light.
Beneath its radiance, his consciousness gradually blurred. He felt he had been redeemed, that he would now leave the sea of suffering behind and welcome a beautiful life found only in myths.
But the light vanished, taking his memories of light with it.
In the end, this was a dream, and dreams always had a moment of waking-even if, after waking, he was still dreaming.
He regretted it, he could not accept it, yet there was nothing he could do.
And so he finally spoke:
"I am a moth drawn to the light, loving her as though plunging into flame. That love, burning eternally without rest, is my light! I will walk beside her! I will follow the light until I rise higher than it, reaching above heaven!"
Across countless worlds, countless gods and mortals yearned to seize the power to rule for countless reasons.
Emotion, pleasure, joy, hope,
Sin, blood, kindness, responsibility,
Burning love and the desire to ascend,
Ultimately, all were the individual's unyielding, absolute will overlaying, solidifying, and reshaping everything soft and fluid.
But the divination cards of the real world did not usually employ such imagery, for from beginning to end, there was only one sovereign destined to rule all the heavens and worlds.
That was the eternal, undying "Secret Emperor," slumbering within a dream.