Joel dreamed of a life completely different from his usual one. He was no longer a warrior, nor a monk, nor a rebel peasant. This time, he was a pastry chef. A man at the height of the so-called "age of technology," a strange and fascinating time that Joel had learned to recognize by the recurring terms in his dreams: electricity, cars, screens, networks.

  The man was a true artist. He spent decades perfecting his craft: combining flavors, experimenting with textures, understanding the hidden science behind every oven and every yeast. From childhood to old age, his life was an endless parade of flour, fire, and sugar. He won awards, his face appeared in magazines, and he had disciples and admirers all over the world. Every dish was a work of art, and every customer left with a smile.

  But when fame came, so did the pressure, the obsession with perfection, and isolation. Family fell behind, and love was a luxury he couldn't afford. His only company was his kitchen and the silent walls of a vast, empty house. And so he died, suffocated, ironically, by his latest invention: a mousse so thick and sweet it ended up clogging his throat as he ate alone in the artificially lit dining room. He died being the best and completely alone.

  Joel opened his eyes with a grimace. The memory of the dream was vivid, even clearer than many of his real-world memories. He sat up in his bed, the katana resting on its makeshift stand next to the desk. He took a deep breath.

  "Why?" he whispered, unsure to whom he was directing the question.

  The past few months had brought him dreams increasingly alien to his identity. Urban and domestic lives, lives without blood or combat. What was the point of them? What purpose did the existence of a dessert artist serve? What connection could that have with his path?

  Perhaps it was a warning, or a mockery. Were all those who reached the top doomed to end up like this? Was it the inevitable price of excellence? Joel clenched his fists. The memory of the pastry chef's senseless death still throbbed in his mind.

  More than a year had passed since Joel joined the Cult of the Dawn. In that time, his growth had been noticeable, if strange. His magical ability had developed enough to be considered a level two mage, but he was still unable to use any normal magic. What was truly surprising, though, was his body. His physical strength, stamina, and speed far exceeded what someone at that level should have. With his katana at his belt and his mind clear, thanks to the echoes of past lives, Joel was able to face fourth-level mages in hand-to-hand combat. And often, he won.

  The cult's doctors had examined him dozens of times, studying his blood, scanning his life energy, comparing his bone and muscle structure to the standards set by the great magical guilds. But nothing made sense.

  "You shouldn't be able to do this," an elderly healer once told him, after measuring his vital pressure.

  "Then stop measuring it," he replied, tersely as ever.

  Finally, they classified it as a "blood anomaly." His file was sealed and labeled for special study. The High Circle's records noted it as a unique case and a living eccentricity, a phenomenon without a traditional magical explanation.

  Joel had drunk the red potion on two more occasions, delivered directly by Deyar. These potions were undoubtedly responsible for increasing his magical potential to level two. But his physical strength had been increasing much more steadily and profoundly.

  The clearest proof came after dreaming of the life of a weightlifting champion, an athlete from the technological age. Upon awakening, Joel felt an immediate increase in his strength, a noticeable and significant one. Although there was no increase in speed or agility, his musculature had assimilated something of the life he had experienced in that dream. It was a resounding confirmation.

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  Joel understood that, as his magical potential grew, it was as if several people were developing within him at the same time. Each dream was a fragment, another layer on top of his soul. Each life pushed him beyond the limits of any traditional magician. And with that, his strength became increasingly impossible to measure under normal parameters.

  He suspected that the more dreams he had, the more he would transform, the more he would grow, and the more the line between himself and a traditional magician would blur. His path couldn't be explained by levels or statistics. His power lay not only in his blood, but in something much more complex, something cumulative, strange, and perhaps irreversible.

  And Joel… he just kept training, with the sword, with his body, and with his mind. Because, despite the dreams, despite the ironies, he still believed his path was made of steel, of combat, and of struggle.

  He had focused all his time on mastering the katana, in addition to practicing the meditation exercises and special techniques left behind by Hoshinobu. Most significant was mastering a technique that allowed him to project the sword's slash up to a distance of twenty meters, using a discharge of pure mana. Although relatively weak, comparable to a level one or two magic, the technique could be executed with such speed and precision that few mages of level three or lower could foresee or resist it. It is a subtle, swift, and deadly technique if used at the right time. He ended up calling the attack "Echo Slash," and it wasn't just a combat tool: it was a statement. An extension of his will through steel and mana. It was the beginning of a new style, a solitary path, but his own.

  Over time, living with members of the Cult of the Resplendent Dawn, Joel learned much more about their philosophy. It's an organization focused on helping and rescuing abused mages across the four empires, with a special emphasis on the rural and less populated sectors of the worlds, where imperial order tends to be more lax and abuse more prevalent.

  Often, villages fall under the control of local nobles, mage hunters, or imperial-aligned sects who view non-lineage mages as expendable tools. The Cult of the Dawn doesn't just save them: it takes them in, giving them a family, a new path, and a cause.

  Joel also learned where he was: the cult's main base, on the world of Aeskar, a unique planet. Its hurricane-force surface winds make the construction of permanent cities impossible. Therefore, long ago, the great nations decided to abandon the surface and build enormous floating cities, which drift slowly through the upper atmosphere, avoiding cyclones and harnessing sunlight. However, the cult's base is hidden underground, deep within an old, abandoned iron mine. Aeskar is riddled with caves and tunnels: vestiges of its powerful mining industry and the ancient cities that once thrived underground, before humanity took to the skies.

  There is still a significant population living in these caves: miners, farmers, and gatherers, who are responsible for extracting precious resources and growing much of the planet's food, especially during the season of weak winds. However, this way of life is becoming less common over time, due to the construction of huge greenhouse islands, located high in the atmosphere, where sunlight is ideal for abundant crops.

  The cult's base is one of those deep caverns, a place hidden by time, filled with ancient magic modernized through the efforts of its members. A refuge, a sanctuary, and for Joel, a new home.

  Joel hasn't heard from Liria since she left the base with Kael. However, Deyar recently revealed to him that she is on one of the order's most remote bases, on one of the system's outer moons: one of the many exoplanets with orbits much farther out than the four main worlds. The vast majority are rocks incapable of sustaining life, but through the use of magic, they can be converted into ideal hiding places... or for secretly training a new dimension walker.

  The Order of the Dawn only has two Dimensional Walkers: Kael, a level six mage, and Danton, one of the few level seven mages in the order, considered its great pillar, since only walkers of that level are capable of creating fixed portals between worlds, crucial elements to maintain the operations of the order and its supply chain.

  Joel's progress—focused almost exclusively on his katana skills and physical training—did not go unnoticed. His skill with the Echo Cut, his combat prowess, and his instinctive reaction to high-tension situations have put him on par with many level-three mages, and some even consider him lethal against level-four opponents... if he can surprise them.

  The High Circle deliberated for weeks. The final decision came in a simple communiqué, hand-delivered by Deyar:

  "You have been assigned to a deployment team," the mage said, regarding Joel with a mixture of pride and caution. "It's a minor, low-risk mission. But it's a start."

  Joel nodded silently, as always. He didn't ask for unnecessary details, nor did he express emotion. But something in his pulse quickened. A dull tension, like a distant drumbeat. That same night, he locked himself in his room. He sat at his desk, his katana resting on his knees. He looked at his hands and tried to remember every dream, every blow, every day of training, and every silence.

  "It's now," he murmured.

  The mission would take him to the world of Mirrial, a land he barely knew from documents and accounts. His first real deployment and his first active step in the silent war against imperial oppression. Although he was told it was only a reconnaissance operation, with no combat planned, Joel knew that any encounter, any mistake, could change everything.

  But he didn't say it, didn't ask for guarantees, and showed no fear; he just nodded. Because the fear was real, but so was his will.