Chapter 166: The Sleeper
In the northern territory of Kant, within the ancient castle that had housed the Kant family for generations, the aging Viscount Victor was meeting with representatives from the local merchants’ guild.
The reception hall was brightly lit by numerous lamps, yet the steady glow of the magic crystal lamps couldn’t quite dispel the castle’s perennial gloom and eerie atmosphere. The long rectangular room held only the viscount himself, a handful of merchant delegates, and a few scattered servants. Each person’s shadow stretched long and twisted on the floor, blurred and wavering in the crystal light.
Yet none of those present seemed to notice the oppressive darkness hanging in the air. To the merchants, the lord was as kind and graceful as ever, generously promising benefits for both traders and common folk alike.
“The last batch of herbs and potions for the year has been harvested, and the grain yield was quite good,” one merchant bowed respectfully. “The potions have all found buyers, but the herbs haven’t sold well this year.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Pirkes,” Viscount Victor said with a gentle smile, reassuring the prominent trader of his domain. “Soon the caravans from the Holy Spirit Plains will arrive. Frostwood Keep will purchase a large quantity of herbs. All your hard work this year won’t be in vain.”
The old viscount’s smile was warm and sincere, his eyes always kind. Few nobles would speak to commoners with such genuine warmth—though their etiquette demanded impeccable politeness, their expressions rarely matched their words. Victor was an exception.
He was famously known as the “kind, friendly, fair, and tolerant” nobleman. Though he kept to himself among the aristocracy, every commoner in his lands loved and respected their old lord.
“Viscount, thank you for your tireless efforts on behalf of the people,” another merchant said earnestly. “Please also take care of your health.”
“No need to worry. These old bones are still strong,” Victor chuckled. “My good-for-nothing son will soon return from his travels across the Holy Spirit Plains. Once he takes over the family estates, I can finally rest.”
Then the viscount began asking the merchants detailed, professional questions about trade routes, cotton, and ore procurement—an unusual level of involvement for a noble in these times.
Suddenly, a faint breeze swept through the castle hall.
Though the magic crystal lamps were bright and unaffected by wind, the light flickered and dimmed as if a candle had been disturbed.
The merchants remained oblivious to the change, and the servants standing silently showed no reaction. But Victor abruptly rose from his chair, glancing up at the dim ceiling. His eyes flickered with a faint violet glow, like starlight.
He offered the merchants an apologetic smile. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid we must end today’s meeting early. I just remembered an urgent matter I must attend to…”
At the same moment, in a hidden cave near the eastern border of Ansu, tangled vines twisted and coiled around a massive stone, forming a huge pod-like shape. Suddenly, the pod split open, revealing a beautiful yet unsettling female figure.
Her long hair was dark green, her skin pale and flawless, and her face delicate. But beneath the hem of her priestly robe, her limbs twisted and gnarled like tree roots—terrifying and unnatural.
Beltira, High Priestess of the Cult of the End of All Things, had been lying low in this secret outpost near the eastern front since leaving the far southern lands. Through her symbiosis with plants, she observed the shifting situation across the eastern region. But a sudden, covert message jolted her from her communion with nature.
She frowned, her dark green hair seeming to writhe with a life of its own. “A bishop-class Sleeper… has successfully breached and invaded the mind of Gawain Cecil?!”
Gawain walked through darkness.
He still clearly remembered what had happened: the suspicious mercenary captain suddenly looked up, smiled strangely, and called his name in a bizarre voice that seemed to blend many voices at once.
Then some force had pulled him into this strange, chaotic void of darkness.
He was certain he’d been tricked by a powerful entity—but it wasn’t the mercenary captain’s own power. The man’s body and aura were clearly that of a low-ranking knight. At the moment the captain looked up, Gawain sensed a strong, chaotic force manifesting within him, as if it had “descended.” So he guessed the captain was merely a vessel, perhaps a sacrifice, used to deliver this powerful force to Gawain Cecil.
After initial panic, Gawain had calmed.
He wandered aimlessly in the darkness, feeling no fatigue—suggesting this was not the physical world but some kind of mental “imaginary space.” He suspected he was trapped in a spiritual prison. But as a soul who had been trapped in a satellite for at least hundreds of thousands—maybe millions—of years, and who had long since mutated, he felt no anxiety at all.
What mortal, no matter how strong, could compare to a satellite’s lifespan?
“I was watching you all learn to walk upright from the sky back then!” he thought with a wry pride born of his satellite-born calm.
Because of this confidence, Gawain faced the situation without fear. After confirming he couldn’t leave this space by walking, he stood still and quietly stared into the darkness—just as he once gazed down upon the unchanging seas and lands below.
He believed the entity that had dragged him here had a purpose. It was probably watching him silently somewhere. And given the patience of most—if not all—carbon-based lifeforms, the entity wouldn’t outlast him.
It would surely lose patience and reveal itself.
His only worry now was that time might flow differently here, as in most stories. Otherwise, if Heddy and the others outside thought he was dead again, it would be a mess—his two granddaughters might bury him once more, and Amber would probably rummage through his grave…
Just thinking about it was terrifying.
As random thoughts swirled in his mind, he didn’t know how long had passed in this imaginary space. Then, suddenly, a faint, ethereal light appeared in the darkness.
Looks like the silent watcher finally lost patience.
Gawain smiled as the light grew clearer and approached, eventually taking the form of a figure in a pristine white robe, wearing a smooth white mask that concealed any gender. A deep, genderless voice came from beneath the mask:
“Duke Gawain Cecil, you have more patience and composure than I expected. Truly worthy of the great hero from seven centuries ago. Your temperament is something I have never seen in others.”
“Your patience is far worse than I imagined,” Gawain replied calmly. “I thought you’d drag this out for a hundred or eighty years.”
“Please don’t bear a grudge. My invitation may have been abrupt, but my true purpose is simply to have a proper conversation with you. Perhaps a different setting would be more comfortable?”
The masked man gestured, and the darkness around them instantly transformed. Colors and lines swirled and coalesced into various shapes. Gawain found himself standing in a vibrant garden, lush with blooming flowers and low shrubs. Familiar-faced servants bustled about, and nearby stood the tall main building of a castle.
Everything looked vaguely familiar.
After a moment’s thought, Gawain recalled the corresponding images from the original owner’s memories. He eyed the robed figure suspiciously. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Is my reconstruction not accurate enough?” the robed man feigned surprise. “I’ve done my best to recreate this place from those ancient memory fragments. See those servants? Don’t their faces look familiar? Most of the castle scenes are drawn from their memories. Look at the plants, the architecture… How does this differ from your memory of Cecil Castle?”
Before Gawain could answer, the man continued, “Ah, memories drawn from dreams can be distorted. Such an inaccurate castle might make you uncomfortable. How about this environment?”
With a word, the scene shifted again. The seven-century-old Cecil Castle and garden vanished, replaced by a lofty platform high above the ground. On it stood an elegant round table and chairs, laden with assorted pastries and tea. Beyond the platform stretched a magnificent city.
Countless splendid white buildings rose, towering mage towers and floating crystals dotted the cityscape, streams of blue magical light flowing between structures, making the city look like a paradise on earth. Above it all hovered a massive translucent shield inscribed with countless runes. Farther away, a blue beam of light shot from the city into the sky, like the legendary Tower of Babel reaching heaven itself…
The ancient capital of Gondor… and the Deep Blue Well?!
“Do you prefer this scene?” The robed man sat at the table, his smooth white mask expressionless but his voice tinged with amusement. “After all, you lived through Gondor’s golden age. Perhaps you’d rather recall the grandeur of the human empire at its peak?”
“Sorry, during Gondor’s heyday I was just a knight apprentice on the northern frontier. I have no idea what the bustling capital looked like,” Gawain said casually as he sat opposite the robed figure. “But this view is nice. I’d like to see what the Deep Blue Well looked like back then.”
“Good to hear,” the robed man said cheerfully. “Now that the Sleeper has paid you respect, it’s time for you to show your cooperation.”
(End of chapter)