《The First Corridor of Old Works》Chapter 185: Rampant Surging Fog Through His Mind and the Words His Mind Repeated

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He felt the weapon in his hands, that was capable of firing some kind of sorcerous projectile. Pink flames trilled around the holes of the two barrels at the end of it; everything; his whole perspective was trained upon this. This weapon. This was his face, this was his arm, this was his eyes, this was his perspective on the world – this was the thing between him and demons.

Whatever vigour he felt he'd lost in the previous battle, his nicking the cannon of vomitous chest shit out the demon's utilitarian toilet appendage, it had returned.

He didn't know how; in what artificial sense this was possible – perhaps it was only something connected to what was clearly the sorcerous nature of this instrument he was attached to.

– A full frontal hit by that shit-stream would have killed him or at least have rendered him dangerously near-death. But as it was, his vigour had returned – a fact based upon – he felt it – he didn't know, except the rules were different here.

Whatever this place was, whatever it's true nature, what it was connected to – it was the landscape of the demon's dream; the demon who dreamt him – but it was also clear that it actually existed.

This was – he had no idea how this functioned except this question was the centre of his existence, in some sense – and even what his previous identity/identities had been fighting all along. This fact: that despite the fakery; despite the fact it was the demon's dream – it was real. And it had... consequences... it was real; it mattered and it was real.

Whatever death he might meet here – that obviously too would be in fact real. In fact. In these terms. In fact. Even more a trip to an inescapable perdition than any other place. Dying here –

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But the obsessions; the repetitions – indeed the fog, the rampant surging fog through his mind and the words his mind repeated – this too was the demon's dream. This too was the nature of this place and what it meant to be dreamed by a demon.

Because it wouldn't end.

None of it would.

And purposeless – killing demons his souls' purpose – he was lost in the realisation that his soul's purpose, here anyway here, anyway here, anyway here – only satisfied the sick needs of the demon – this was what he was here for – that they dream him – that – he fulfil exactly that role in the dream they had by means of the ritual manipulated him toward participating in. Forced him to.

That he be here/that –

The Hero Dreamt... by a Demon – process into that dream toward him.

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