Long before videotapes or films existed, the best recollection of memories came through our dreams. The extension of the soul, as it is called. It gives us a view that is both unfiltered and yet changed into something else entirely. Whether it be a transmogrification or a nightmare, it is rarely ever the same.

I inhale a breath that circulates to the depths of my cold lungs. The reason why I am able to do so is beyond me. As far as I can remember, even dreams are something I can influence.

To the extent where I can move, breathe, and fight whatever comes my way. The difference between it and reality seems ever so thin. Just like reality, the only thing I do here is fight. To combat, to kill, and to confront foes. To someone who does not recall defeat or has memories of losing, however, there is only one opponent.

The forest is dead silent. Save for the wind; there is only one faint sound that I can hear in the distance. Even so, it is enough to remind me that there is life nearby. As long as I follow it, there is no doubt about what it will be.

Under the full moon that shines once more, I walk with subdued steps. Unlike real life, this forest is absent of any animals. Even the plants, green as they are, seem an illusion. It is as if the person who created them, does not understand how they function. Like the interpretation of an artist who has never seen the animal they are drawing, it is an idea that forms through baseless allusions and ideals.

Quaint. It would seem that I have arrived. In a clearing where no plants dare exist stands two people. When I blink, there is only one left. The other no longer has the qualifications to be considered a person.

Rather than breathe or think, they are now a lifeless corpse that will return to the earth. Even their heart, which once fueled their body, is no longer where it should be. Instead, it is in the hand of the one who killed them.

I see now. The one who is responsible. Under the light of the moon, her body turns. Glancing at me, she no doubt sees fresh prey. Illuminated by her surroundings, her eyes are the colour of vermillion.

And her hair, which brushes against her neck, is white. Beyond question is her identity.

My eyes, which do not lie, know her to be me. That is right. The only person I can imagine killing me is myself. Even in a dream where all should be possible and fiction turned to reality, the result is the same every time.

The true enemy of Mayevil is her own image. A product of what I can only guess to be my ego and pride, a cold wind breezes by. My blood soaked self murmurs under her breath. Even if I do not hear what she says, I read her lips all too well.

"What a nuisance."

Fists in front of her body and their legs ready to spring into action, there is only one thing on her mind. Pressure on her foot, her expression changes into that of pleasure.

"Hi there Mayevil, I see you're doing well."

Ironic, I wonder if she refers to herself or me. Glancing at her, I know I have nothing to say. I cannot rebuke her statement, but at the same time, I do not need to. Her words, although kind in nature, is underlaid by a desire for destruction.

That is correct. The one Mayvil seeks to kill is none other than herself. So in order to prevent that, I must fight. Heart in hand, she throws it. The organ turns into a weapon that transforms into a spearhead.

Like the stomach of a dead whale, I know what will come. My body which does not wish to dodge rushes at the projectile. Red smears my eyes the next second. Imploding straight in my face, the wind then sends it to my side.

The enemy before me, no doubt, wishes to use this as a screen to attack. But what they do not know; I will take the initiative. A movement that only I can react to lashes out. My body lunges for a punch—the woman in reaction, blocks with her arms.

She sees it as an attack that aims for her head. But my true target is nothing but dust and air. My body cuts through the wind and ducks under. The punch, which now converts into a grab, envelops my enemies ankles.

From the sheer force and speed of my arms, her body throws itself to the ground. Thud. The woman who smiled a few seconds ago now has a grimace.

Her body, which stills draw life, will become breathless.

Atop her body, I summon the blow that will decide the victory. When I see her face, I know she wishes to speak. As if death waits for anyone. The next second, I thrust out my hand. In a splatter of blood and flesh, her throat is punctured—a mess of what was once an intact body. Similar as she is in appearance, her power and technique do not even compare to mine. True to her identity, she is but a false facade.

A persona that serves only to weaken my own image. Her last words, which are a gurgle of hate and pride, causes blood to overflow. That is the scenario that should transpire. My dream, which the sound of screams taints, stops me before I can kill. So it ends. My nails which caress her throat, do not go through

"Seems I won."

The words that I hear in front of me definitely come from myself. The sound which comes from behind does not, however. A feminine and pained voice, I sense hurried panting alongside it.

"HOLY SHIT, THERE'S A GIANT FUCKING APE!"

The reality that is the world around me begins to crumble.