Chapter 169: Entering the Dream Again

Hearing Gawain’s words, everyone was taken aback. “The Sleeper?!”

This was completely unexpected. Even the usually composed Hetty nearly lost her grip on her staff. She widened her eyes and glanced at the mercenary leader lying dead on the ground. “That mercenary was disguised as a cultist of the Sleeper?”

“No,” Gawain rubbed his temples, sharing the intelligence he’d gathered from the cultists. “He was just used as a stepping stone by the Sleeper. Apparently, at some point in the past, this guy had a nightmare. A powerful Sleeper cultist used that nightmare to implant a coordinate in his mind, turning him into a one-time ‘vessel’—a conduit that allows the cultist to ‘descend’ quickly when needed.”

The bizarre truth gave Amber goosebumps. “These cultists sound even creepier than the End of All Things sect!”

“The Sleeper is indeed more unsettling,” Pittman said gravely. As a true druid with inherited knowledge, he was well-versed in cult affairs. “The Sleeper cult originated from the church of the god of dreams, but they fell and transformed. They were once priests who soothed minds and banished nightmares, but after their fall, they became masters of weaving nightmares and fear. The most powerful Sleeper bishops can walk through people’s dreams and even link multiple minds and dreams together, making themselves elusive and impossible to predict. Their unique abilities make them more terrifying than ordinary cultists. The somewhat good news is… the Sleeper doesn’t operate with the same extreme bloodthirstiness as the End of All Things or the Stormborn. They mostly trap people in various nightmares or illusions, occasionally kidnapping, but rarely outright killing.”

Hearing this, Hetty nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of the Sleeper cult too. They rarely cause mass deaths, but their actions are far stranger and more bizarre than other cults. I feel like they’re hiding some grand plan. A cult that doesn’t kill much but operates in such a strange, secretive way is even scarier.”

Gawain agreed deeply. “Any dark cult is dangerous. If they don’t kill, it only means they’re capable of things worse than murder—things even harder to defend against. Besides… the Sleeper is the only dark cult besides the Stormborn that deals with the End of All Things. Both the End of All Things and the Stormborn are brutal and bloody sects. The Sleeper who associates with them can’t be benevolent.”

“I’m getting more creeped out the more I hear,” Amber said, rubbing her arms as if trying to shake off the goosebumps. Then she looked up at Gawain curiously. “So you were dragged into their ‘nightmare’ just now? And then? You escaped?”

Gawain smiled. “We had a battle in the realm of consciousness. That guy died—probably not a big shot.”

Amber made a sound of understanding, and Hetty looked at her great-great-great-grandfather with admiration and trust. Only Pittman eyed Gawain skeptically. “A Sleeper cultist capable of mental projection… a small fry?”

“Not as strong as me, anyway,” Gawain shrugged. “And he’s dead now. How powerful he was doesn’t matter.”

Hetty looked worried. “But the key question is why a Sleeper cultist would attack you… The last End of All Things incident could be called an accident—the fallen druid’s real target was Tansan Town. But this time, the Sleeper clearly came for you. That mercenary leader shouted your name clearly when he was ‘possessed’!”

Gawain’s expression turned serious. He knew Hetty’s concern was justified.

Gawain Cecil, risen from the dead, had indeed begun to attract the attention of certain dark forces.

Though the memories extracted from the cultist’s lingering soul were sparse, they revealed some of his recent thoughts and experiences. Gawain was certain the cultist had operated in the southern region for years, leaving nightmare coordinates in the minds of thousands of victims. The mercenary leader was just one of them. His capture during the slave raid was a coincidence—but the Sleeper cultist behind him had been watching Gawain for a long time.

From their conversation, it was clear the cultist was obsessed with one of Gawain’s secret voyages and the so-called “Eternal Dark Sea.” After Gawain’s resurrection and the spread of that news, the cultist had likely been planning this encounter.

And the mercenary leader who fell into Gawain’s hands was just a perfect opportunity—one the cultist never expected would lead to his own downfall.

A Sleeper bishop had died so abruptly and mysteriously, but that didn’t mean the harassment was over. Gawain suspected other dark cults or secret organizations were watching him. The “Eternal Dark Sea” and the “secret voyage” probably involved a huge secret—one that could drive even the most cautious and hidden cult bishops to take risks, naturally attracting the curiosity of other lurking forces.

But the problem was, Gawain himself was just as curious about what this “Eternal Dark Sea” really was!

At this point, the only comfort was that the Sleeper bishop had died cleanly and quietly, without causing a stir on Cecil family lands. Perhaps that would serve as a warning to some watchers.

If anyone else dared to cause trouble, Gawain had no choice but to keep going. After all, he had a family to protect—he couldn’t just run away at the first sign of danger.

Pittman glanced at the serious Gawain, then at the worried Hetty. He sighed softly and said with a grave expression, “Your Grace, I think it’s time you seriously consider my resignation…”

“If you really wanted to run, you’d be gone by now. Are you the type to politely notify your boss before fleeing?” Gawain shot a glance at the “disgrace of the druids,” then waved him off. “Since you’re here, you might as well stay. A few small fry won’t cause much trouble. I don’t believe those tail-tucked cultists who’ve been hiding for seven hundred years would dare to muster an army against us now.”

Then he looked over at the mage mercenary sitting nearby, still dazed.

Hetty immediately asked, “Ancestor, should we continue the interrogation?”

Gawain shook his head. “No need. Keep him locked up and reassess later.”

He hadn’t considered executing the mage mercenary, but he wasn’t about to release him either. If the rescue of the refugees in the northern wilderness was a battle, then this mercenary was a prisoner of war of the Cecil family. According to the laws of this era, such prisoners were treated as slaves, forced into lifelong labor to compensate for the weapons and manpower lost in their capture. But Gawain hadn’t yet decided what kind of labor to assign this “prisoner-slave.”

The Cecil estate was short on hands, so Gawain didn’t mind using this captive as labor—it was more cost-effective than execution or exile. But since the prisoner was a level-two spellcaster, throwing him into the western mines would be wasteful and risky. So what exactly to make him do… that required careful thought.

Hetty had no objections to Gawain’s plan but remained concerned about the mercenaries’ motives for raiding refugees in the northern Whitewater River wilderness. “Are we not going to investigate why the Kant family hired these mercenaries to capture refugees?”

“Oh… right,” Gawain rubbed his forehead, realizing the mental battle with the cultist had affected him—he’d completely forgotten the original purpose of interrogating the two mercenaries. “I’m a bit exhausted and spaced out. Okay, Hetty, Pittman, this is on you. While the potions and rituals are still effective, find out why the Kant family is capturing slaves in Frostmoon. I need to rest. Just report the interrogation results to me later.”

After settling matters here, Gawain returned to his tent.

He was truly tired—the mental exhaustion from the deep spiritual battle had only now surfaced, making him realize the fight with the cultist hadn’t been as easy as he’d thought.

Even as a satellite spirit, marshaling that vast memory to consume another mind wasn’t simple.

Not long after returning, he fell into a deep sleep on his bed and quickly entered a dream.

He “opened” his eyes in an unfamiliar place, standing in a long corridor.

The corridor was typical of Ansu style, with the same interior and support structures favored by southern nobles in their castles. The supporting pillars on both sides were half-embedded in the walls, each adorned with a glowing magic crystal lamp.

But this was neither the old Cecil family castle nor the Leslie family castle in Tansan Town—none of the castles Gawain remembered looked like this inside.

Almost immediately, Gawain realized he had likely entered another dream—this time fully conscious. The recent encounter with the cultist put him instantly on high alert, and he muttered inwardly:

“Why another wave so soon? Are these cultists some kind of grandkids out to save grandpa?”

But soon he noticed this dream was different from before—he hadn’t woken up in a chaotic void, nor had anyone intruded mysteriously into his dream. He felt he could wake up anytime he wanted. Compared to being dragged into a fabricated space by the Sleeper, this felt more like a normal dream.

The only difference was his unusual clarity.

No, there was more…

Gawain looked at his hands thoughtfully and deliberately shaped the form of an object in his mind. The next moment, he found a can of soda in his hand.

In this lucid dream, he seemed able to create whatever he imagined.

(End of chapter)