Chapter 1
Sonidor.
If one were to sum up her life, it would be close to submission. Or perhaps resignation. Mostly resignation to absurdity. Simply put:
Nothing changes no matter how hard you struggle, so let whatever happens, happen. Damn this world.
From the moment she was born, Sonidor was deprived of rights that many others could enjoy. And it wasn’t something that changed just because she got angry or protested.
Sonidor was born a member of the Desencia tribe, and in fact, her real name was something else. The name passed down from her mother meant “dreams made of golden light.” “Sonidor” was merely a rough translation of that name into the imperial language. That was the first right taken from her. All members of the Desencia tribe were forced to adopt imperial names.
In the imperial tongue, “Sonidor” meant something like “Sleep well! Sweet dreams!” So whenever an imperial citizen heard her name for the first time, they would inevitably snicker.
For example, when parting with her in the evening, they’d shout “Sonidor, Sonidor!” as if it were the funniest joke in the world, and burst into laughter. No matter how many times she heard that damn joke, it always grated on her.
Under imperial law, the Desencia people could not inherit surnames. This was a longstanding form of discrimination passed down ever since their land was conquered by the Arke Empire five hundred years ago. The inability to inherit a surname meant the Desencia could never inherit a status higher than that of a commoner. It didn’t matter how much they contributed to the empire—they were never allowed to become nobles.
Additionally, Desencia tribespeople were forbidden from ever leaving imperial territory until death.
Originally, the Desencia had lived on a large island at the southern tip of the continent. The island had a temperate climate year-round and was rich in marine resources and mana. The mana there was so abundant it overflowed, to the point where the Arke Emperor who invaded the island five centuries ago dubbed it the “Island of Mana.”
A land blessed by the gods. The native inhabitants lived as one great tribe and, under the powerful influence of the island’s mana, they developed mystical abilities passed down through generations.
The extent of these powers varied greatly from person to person. Some could bend metal, read memories, summon wind, or see the future. Most of these abilities were hereditary and did not require mana to use, unlike magic. Though minor in comparison to large-scale spells like Meteor, these powers could be used endlessly until physical exhaustion. Some tribe members even wielded abilities that no magic could replicate.
Too dangerous to assimilate, yet too valuable to discard—so the Emperor compromised. Instead of recognizing them as imperial citizens, he assigned them the status of “artisan.” They could own private property, but no matter their achievements, they could never receive noble titles or surnames. Better off than slaves, perhaps, but most commoners still looked down on artisans.
Sonidor was a dream artisan. She possessed the ability to link her consciousness with that of someone sleeping and create new dreams. She usually used this skill to help the elderly fulfill dying wishes or to recreate unfulfilled dreams. Occasionally, risky requests—like extracting classified information—would come in, but her assistant Terry would always filter those out.
That day, Sonidor was performing a request. And she really wanted to punch the client.
“I-I mean… I… I’ve always, um…”
It was already the second time. She grit her teeth and kept holding on. It wasn’t unusual to need more than one session to complete a request, but rarely did it stretch into a third. And judging by this client’s behavior, a third session was inevitable.
“T-The sunset is beautiful, Lady Laila.”
She’d have to start charging extra. Sonidor’s eyelid twitched as she glared at the man fumbling for words. She glanced skyward, where the cobalt-blue sky bled into crimson like red paint spilled on a canvas. A sign that waking was near.
If the ground belonged to the client, then the sky was Sonidor’s domain.
Sonidor stared at the darkening twilight. The more her concentration wavered, the more cracks would form in the sky. It might suddenly shift from day to night or start snowing in midsummer. Dreams had no set form or rules, so they could manifest in any number of ways.
Was it time to eat? Or the bathroom? It was always some biological urge. Dark clouds were forming, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Rumble! Crash! Must be hunger.
“Thunder, out of nowhere!”
Sonidor stared blankly at the flustered client.
They say a man never forgets his first love.
She’d never paid much attention to that saying before. She’d never even had a proper romantic experience—always too busy with work. So what if some guy wanted to confess to his first love before dying? As a woman herself, she couldn’t relate. Still, she was being paid.
That aside—
Why can’t you just say you like her?!
Couldn’t even confess, and that’s why he’d never even held a woman’s hand before dying. Her mental exhaustion peaked as she screamed internally. But she still wanted to try once more before the dream collapsed. Think! Say something to make him confess!
Sonidor put on an obviously disappointed face.
“I’d heard you had something important to tell me, Refonce. I was looking forward to it.”
“L-Lady Laila, it’s not that…”
In the dream, Refonce wasn’t the elderly man he was in reality but the 22-year-old youth who first fell in love with Laila. Laila had been the daughter of a noble count, while Refonce had been the hired gardener—far too lowly to even dream of her. Now, Sonidor wore the form of that very lady.
She could take on the form of whoever the client most desperately wished to see. It wasn’t always a person, but it usually was.
She fiddled with her fingers and said softly,
“Is that really all you have to say, Refonce? Even if this is the last time we meet?”
“What do you mean, last time, Lady Laila?”
Tears welled in Sonidor’s eyes as she looked down. If Terry had seen her, he would’ve scolded her for going overboard, but no one else could interfere in a dream but her and the client.
“…I, Refonce, I… I…”
The client’s pupils trembled in every direction. Of course they did—his noble lady, who he’d only admired from afar, was on the verge of confessing. Understandable, but infuriating. The table was set—just eat!
“Refonce. Are you going to make me say it first?”
Clutching the bouquet he’d given her, Sonidor looked up at him with fluttering lashes—an obviously flirtatious gesture. Refonce blushed furiously and parted his lips.
Do it, confess! She glanced up nervously. Cracks were forming in the sky. It was breaking apart—no time left. Sensing her desperation, he finally squeezed his eyes shut and said,
“I-I love you! I’ve always loved you! From the moment I first saw you, through all these years, always… unwaveringly…”
She sighed in relief.
The request was complete. Just in time, apparently. His final wish had been to confess to his first love, and she had helped him do that. Before the fully blackened sky descended, Sonidor gently held Refonce’s hand.
She didn’t need to do more—but this dream had been beautiful, and she wanted to honor that. His mental landscape—the garden in his consciousness—was stunning in its harmony and warm colors. Truly a gardener’s mind. She remembered when a famous imperial painter had once hired her; that dream had been just as picturesque.
“Thank you. I’ve never once forgotten you either.”
A garden in full bloom, a heartfelt confession to a long-lost love—it was the perfect ending. A smile naturally spread across her lips.
At last, her vision narrowed and faded to black.
Her consciousness slowly surfaced. As her senses returned, Sonidor was hit with a pounding headache and sore muscles. She felt like death. If she’d done this three times in one day, she would’ve passed out for two days straight.
She twitched her tingling toes and slowly opened her eyes. Her hand was still tightly holding the client’s. She hated touching strangers, but physical contact was required to enter someone’s dream. She sighed and waited for her body to move again.
Then suddenly, her whole body cramped like a charley horse.
Sonidor groaned dramatically.
“Hey—Terry! I’m dying here!”
Startled by her scream, the boy who’d been dozing in a chair jumped up. Still groggy, Terry tripped over his own feet and fell with a crash. She muttered inwardly, Seriously? Every time…
Holding his reddened nose, Terry hovered nervously in front of her.
“Did you finish it this time? No more overtime today?”
“Don’t care that I’m suffering, huh? That’s all that matters?”
“Well yeah, of course it is. What else matters?”
“If you keep slacking off, I’m docking your pay. Now help me up!”
“Are you sure you can’t move? Your mouth’s working fine.”
Grumbling, he silently began massaging her arm.
