Chapter 168: The Devourer

Gawain had no idea what exactly had changed within his soul, but one thing was certain: his soul had undergone a complete transformation the moment he crossed over. Otherwise, there was no explanation for how a person could hang in the sky for tens of millions of years and still retain full clarity of mind—not only that, but also preserve an immense, terrifyingly detailed cache of memories from those eons of watching over the earth, all perfectly intact and accessible even now.

One thing was clear: the souls of the Sleeper cultists had not undergone such a transformation.

To traverse hundreds of thousands, even millions of years of vast surveillance data in mere seconds was devastating to cultists whose souls were still essentially mortal.

As the Sleeper cultist’s mind and soul shattered into meaningless fragments, Gawain caught fleeting glimpses of residual consciousness—chaotic, broken data streams that rippled faintly through his vast memory bank. Had he not been so focused, he might never have noticed that he had scavenged some of the cultist’s lingering memories. Upon closer inspection, he confirmed they were indeed remnants of the cultist’s mind.

Unfortunately, the fragments were few, disjointed, and illogical. The cultist’s own confused thoughts were riddled with chaotic, distorted shadows and mad delusions. Worse still, since the Sleepers were lost in dreams, it was impossible to tell which memories were real and which were mere fabrications of their slumbering minds.

From the scant information he could piece together, Gawain understood the nature of this Sleeper’s “existence.”

It seemed the cultist had abandoned their physical body—or transformed it into some horrific, inhuman form. In the cultist’s memories, Gawain saw scenes of frenzied rituals involving bodily dissolution and souls leaving their shells. Afterward, the cultist’s consciousness drifted between new bodies, wandering through others’ dreams and memories.

This Sleeper had apparently “ascended” their soul, gaining the terrifying ability to transfer between human minds.

Fortunately, this ascension ritual appeared to be extremely demanding. The cultist had hinted at holding a rank above bishop within the cult, so such terrifying abilities were likely rare—and those who possessed them probably spent most of their time away from the mortal realm.

The chaotic space around them continued to collapse, its sustaining power fading. Before this “dream” completely vanished, Gawain seized the moment to focus, searching the cultist’s fading consciousness for any valuable intelligence.

…

In the ancient castle of the Kant family, Victor Kant hurried down the corridor leading to the lower levels. The glow of magic crystals cast flickering shadows along the hallway, but beside the old viscount, the darkness clung like a constant companion. His figure cast a vague, shifting shadow on the floor, stretching and warping with his hurried steps as if it had a will of its own.

The viscount’s eyes shimmered with an increasingly unreal light. His pace quickened, even faltering slightly as he reached a heavy oak door at the castle’s lower level.

Victor paused before the door, hesitation and confusion flickering across his face. It was as if something beyond the door was calling to him, yet he dared not open it.

After a moment’s indecision, he placed his hand on the door. Before he could push it open, the door creaked open on its own, revealing a narrow gap.

A faint light spilled out, and a woman in a white dress stepped halfway through the opening, holding a lantern. She looked no older than thirty, with pale skin and delicate features, but there was a faintly sickly aura about her—a fragile, pitiful grace. She smiled at the viscount with surprise and curiosity.

“My dear, what is it? Do you want me to come out?”

“I… no, it’s nothing,” Victor’s face flickered with hesitation, but in the next moment, all doubt and worry vanished. He smiled as if nothing had happened and looked at his young wife. “It’s nothing. I just came to see you. The sun hasn’t set yet. Go back to sleep, get some rest, and then we’ll have dinner together.”

The young viscountess bit her lip softly. “But darling, I’m not sleepy anymore.”

“Be good and go back to sleep,” Victor shook his head gently, smiling warmly. “I’ll come find you later.”

She blinked, seeming reassured, nodded, and retreated back inside with her lantern. The heavy oak door slowly closed behind her, the creak of its hinges echoing through the empty corridor.

Victor Kant stood there for a moment, his expression vacant, then regained his usual calm and steady demeanor. He turned and walked back the way he came…

Near the eastern border of the Ansu Kingdom, deep within an ancient, hidden cave, Beltira, the High Priestess of the End of All Things cult, suddenly opened her eyes wide.

As one of the church’s “external bishops” who frequently communicated with other cults, she maintained long-term spiritual contact with several high-ranking Sleepers. This time, a Sleeper bishop had recklessly reached out to Gawain Cecil, which had annoyed her somewhat. But since it was another cult’s affair, she had no authority to interfere or dissuade them, so she waited to hear if the contact bore any fruit.

She believed the bishop would gain something—after all, Gawain Cecil was no longer at his peak. Seven centuries of slumber had weakened his body and mind. A nightmare bishop of near-legendary power should easily dominate a “pseudo-legend” on the spiritual plane.

But what she received was not news of success, but a soul’s anguished wail, followed by a wave of overwhelming terror transmitted through their spiritual link.

Then the Sleeper’s mental presence vanished, as if swallowed whole by some terrible devourer, utterly consumed.

Beltira sensed immense fear, mixed with shock and panic, but she could not imagine what in Gawain’s consciousness could devour a bishop-level Sleeper and leave him so terrified in his final moments. These cultists, masters of manipulating minds and crafting nightmares, should have iron wills—how could they be so easily broken?

Puzzled, Beltira reached out to other connected minds—high-ranking Sleeper members in Ansu who had ties to the fallen bishop.

Before she could ask, a nightmare bishop sent a message: “Bishop Roderick has fallen.”

“He was devoured during his spiritual contact with Gawain Cecil,” another nightmare mentor added.

“What exactly happened?” Beltira asked, unable to contain her curiosity. “Did he send any message before he died?”

The internal spiritual links among Sleepers were far stronger than those with outsiders. Beltira heard no words from Roderick’s final thoughts, but perhaps others still connected knew more.

After a few seconds of silence, a nightmare bishop replied: “He only managed to send one sentence—”

In the next instant, Roderick’s desperate, emotionally charged scream exploded in Beltira’s mind:

“Do not come to spy on this inhuman soul!!”

…

Gawain opened his eyes. He was still standing inside the small cabin where the prisoners had been held.

The mercenary leader, used by the Sleepers as a stepping stone and sacrifice, lay dead on the floor. The burly man’s orifices bled, his entire head was flushed red as if boiled, even emitting faint heat. His twisted expression spoke volumes about the horrific pain he endured before death. The mercenary mage sat nearby, dazed and seemingly unaware of what had just happened.

Hetty, Pittman, Amber, and the others stood around him, their eyes filled with tension and concern.

“What happened?” Gawain shook his head, clearing the lingering discomfort from his mind, then exhaled deeply. “Did I lose consciousness just now?”

“Ancestor, we’re so relieved you’re okay!” Hetty finally breathed out, sweat streaming down her forehead as she rushed forward to check on him. “Are you alright? That mercenary suddenly unleashed a burst of powerful magic, and then you just stood there motionless. We were all terrified!”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Gawain reassured his flustered granddaughter, then frowned. “How long was I out?”

“Not long, only a few minutes,” Pittman wiped the cold sweat from his brow. “Luckily you’re okay, or I’d have to leave town sideways today—someone would definitely blame me for messing up the fake medicine.”

Amber immediately shot Pittman a glare. “Are you sure it wasn’t your suspicious ointments and incense causing this?!”

“It really wasn’t him,” Gawain waved his hand, certain that time flowed differently inside that mental space. He felt as if he’d spent half a day there, but outside only a few minutes had passed. “A Sleeper cultist tried to invade my mind.”

Everyone gasped. “A Sleeper?!”

(End of chapter)