I did not write this to be understood, but to leave behind what I thought
when I could no longer tell if I was truly alive
or only dreaming of it
— When the Dream Refused the End — doesnt ask what a dream is
It asks—if truth itself begins to deceive us,
what is left for us to believe in?
I only wish to hear the voice of someone
who still dares to question,
even when they already know
there is no answer
ผจญภัย,แฟนตาซี,ยุคกลาง,แอคชั่น,ย้อนยุค,ปรัชญา,ผจญภัย,แอคชั่น,ต่อสู้,ตามหาความจริง,พระเอกเก่ง,plotteller, ploteller, plotteler,พล็อตเทลเลอร์, แอพแพนด้าแดง, แพนด้าแดง, พล็อตเทลเลอร์, รี้ดอะไร้ต์,รีดอะไรท์,รี้ดอะไรท์,รี้ดอะไร, tunwalai , ธัญวลัย, dek-d, เด็กดี, นิยายเด็กดี ,นิยายออนไลน์,อ่านนิยาย,นิยาย,อ่านนิยายออนไลน์,นักเขียน,นักอ่าน,งานเขียน,บทความ,เรื่องสั้น,ฟิค,แต่งฟิค,แต่งนิยาย
I did not write this to be understood, but to leave behind what I thought
when I could no longer tell if I was truly alive
or only dreaming of it
— When the Dream Refused the End — doesnt ask what a dream is
It asks—if truth itself begins to deceive us,
what is left for us to believe in?
I only wish to hear the voice of someone
who still dares to question,
even when they already know
there is no answer
ผู้แต่ง
athanasia(อาธานาเซีย)
เรื่องย่อ
A young knight named Arthur awakens from three years of slumber in a remote village, after once battling a dragon and being gravely wounded
He remembers nothing of what came before. The villagers revere him as a hero who drove away the beast, yet within him grows a silent doubt
Arthur sets out on a journey to uncover the truth of his past—and of a world he no longer knows to be real or dreamed
Along the way, he meets those bound to the same uncertain fate: a priest, a sorcerer, a jester, a nobleman, a rebel—each reflecting a wound, a belief, and an ideology that clashes with his own
As fragments of memory return, Arthur learns that he was entangled in rebellion and war
The King of the Western Realm—a man with the face of a friend from another world—stands at the heart of that confusion between faith and dominion, between the ideal and the will to rule
Every encounter becomes an echo of one question: Who are we, when even the memories that define us can no longer be trusted?
In the end, the world shatters along with the boundary between dream and truth.
Arthur stands amid the ruins, unable to name himself any longer—
not a hero, not a rebel, not the awakened nor the dreamer,
but merely what remains of someone else’s telling
Once, there was a jester.
No one knew his name.
People simply called him “the one who always made us laugh”
He would step into the middle of the square,
climb onto a chair, sway his body in strange ways,
and twist his voice into odd tones.
Every word he spoke made someone laugh—
and made many others feel at ease.
His laughter worked like incense,
making everything lighter for a moment.
Everything—thoughts, and the ego included.
Yet one day, he vanished.
No farewell.
No message left behind.
No one ever asked where he had gone.
———
Years passed.
One day, a young boy walked past a middle-aged blacksmith standing by his forge beside a stream.
He stopped, looked, and asked,
“Don’t you laugh anymore?”
The man raised his head, revealing a face devoid of mirth.
His eyes were as still as the hammer in his hand.
“I used to,” he said.
“Back then, I thought laughter helped people understand the world more easily.”
“And now?” the boy asked.
The man didn’t answer at once.
He lifted the glowing iron from the fire, set it on the anvil,
and struck it hard.
The sound was so heavy that the boy flinched.
“Now,” the man said,
“I think people should listen to the sound of iron.
It’s not funny.
It doesn’t lighten the heart.
But it’s too true to be laughed over.”
The boy stood still,
then asked with the innocent curiosity of youth,
“What kind of sound is too true?”
The man stopped hammering,
turned to meet the boy’s gaze, and said,
“It’s the sound no one dares to speak—
because no one wants to be the first to say it.”
“Like what?”
“Like this:
— Many adults smile only because they’re afraid of being questioned.
— Most people believe whatever helps them escape responsibility.
— And many cities build laughter just to bury the sound of crying.”
The boy fell silent.
No more questions came from his lips.
He couldn’t understand it all,
but he felt that not everything needed to be understood—at least not yet.
He knew only this:
from that day onward,
the sound of the blacksmith’s hammer in that town
never rang the same again.