Jack stared into the glowing eyes of his old mentor, the dream pulsing with heat and dust.
“Old Joe,” he whispered again. “What do I do?”
Joe didn’t blink. “You remember the blade?”
Jack nodded slowly. “The dragon dagger.”
Joe stepped forward. “I gave it to you for nights like this. Not for glory. Not for fame. For survival. For when they come not to ruin your name—but to end your breath.”
Jack’s hands twitched in the dream, and suddenly the dagger was there—etched in black steel, ancient symbols glowing orange across its curved spine.
“You fight,” Old Joe said. “Not with anger. With precision. With purpose. You don’t protect just yourself now. You protect the storm you carry.”
The wind howled behind him, sand blowing across Jack’s bare feet.
“And if I fall?” Jack asked.
Joe’s smi
