Chapter 300: Got You Caught
The scene before him gradually stabilized. The resplendent palaces and spires of the Dream City reappeared once more in front of Gawain.
Watching the endless stream of Everdreamers’ “avatars” passing by and the city quietly humming along, Gawain couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.
It seemed the disguises he’d set up within the network were working perfectly. The backdoors he’d planted to infiltrate the system hadn’t been detected by the Everdreamers.
But then again—before computer viruses existed, who even knew what antivirus software was?
This wasn’t his first time sneaking into this world—it was his third. His objectives within this psychic network had become clear.
Steal technology, plant backdoors, monitor the Everdreamers’ movements, and if possible, subtly influence them through this network—guiding this peculiar cult to develop along the path he desired.
Gawain skirted the crowds and reached the area where the node crystal floated. After connecting to the main channel, he first confirmed that the “testing ground” he’d left behind was still intact. Then, quietly severing the hidden connection, he began searching for any technical data with the crystal’s assistance.
Though previous attempts had yielded no useful information, Gawain hadn’t come away empty-handed. By analyzing and absorbing the Everdreamers’ knowledge he’d devoured, and through experience stealing resources within the psychic network, he had begun to grasp the network’s principles and structure. He realized he could exploit its vulnerabilities far more than he’d initially imagined.
This network was directly linked to each Everdreamer’s mental world—in other words, it theoretically connected straight to every Everdreamer’s thoughts and memories. Of course, the Everdreamers themselves understood the risks, so they protected and isolated their consciousness when connecting, to prevent anyone from reverse-invading their minds. But to Gawain, their defenses were clearly insufficient.
Perhaps it was because the Everdreamers never imagined someone would violate their own sacred network. Or maybe Gawain’s own soul mutation was so severe that his subconscious control was extraordinarily strong—making all their deceptive, hidden shields in this psychic network seem almost nonexistent to him.
The softly glowing node crystal floated silently before him. Gawain stared at its surface as his mental energy spread out. Beneath the crystal’s deceptive exterior, he sensed the truth: massive amounts of data were being exchanged, distributed, and reconstructed here. Countless Everdreamers’ thoughts churned beneath the data sea—some powerful, some weak. The strong minds were tightly linked to the network’s structure; even a slight disturbance could trigger a full network alarm. But the weaker ones…
They were like seaweed and plankton drifting between the waves—unprotected and unguarded.
These were the lower-tier Everdreamers, the most basic cult members. Their greatest value to the network was contributing computing power and acting as a “buffer” to absorb data pressure during intense network fluctuations. For this immature network, such fluctuations were common, and the Everdreamers had chosen the simplest, most brutal method to maintain overall stability.
Gawain cautiously let his consciousness spread further. Using the node crystal’s jumps, he gradually mapped the threads of these thoughts and roughly gauged the strength of their owners. He even began attempting to read their shallow memories—one of the Everdreamers’ most basic abilities. Though he’d acquired this knowledge through devouring, this was his first real application.
He had to be extremely careful—if his infiltration was exposed, who knew how violently these cultists, already on edge about “extradimensional wanderers,” might react? They might just yank the server lines out in a panic…
A vague vision formed in Gawain’s mind. Within the hazy outline of the Dream City, countless points of light flickered and flowed. Most clustered in the city’s outer layers, fewer in the inner layers, and a few especially bright ones gathered in the large palace at the city’s center.
He carefully avoided the overly powerful or centrally located lights and began targeting those that seemed more suitable.
He glimpsed fleeting shallow memories—strange crowds holding gatherings, dark and desolate ancient castles in daily life. Among these rapid flashes, one scene stood out.
An isolated, elderly mage. A paranoid man who had gone astray. A person seduced and corrupted by the Everdreamers, willingly becoming a slave of the dream…
He edged closer.
In the southwestern border mountains of the Typhon Empire, an ancient mage tower stood silently atop a jagged peak. The dim twilight cast a muted glow over the tower’s black roof, tracing a faint golden outline along its weathered walls. Yet this light did nothing to dispel the oppressive gloom that clung to the tower—it only made it seem as if the tower had been torn from the sky, eerie and unnatural.
The mountain villagers at the foot of the peak lived in fear of the mage tower. They knew a terrible sorcerer dwelled within. At night, the silhouette of this dreadful mage could be seen in the highest window. The ignorant villagers took the strange mountain winds, lightning, and mists as signs of the mage’s wrath, warning their children never to approach the summit—lest they be bewitched, turned into stone statues, or trapped as talking owls kept by the mage. Such was their imagination of magic.
In truth, their fear was not unfounded. The black tower did house a terrifying, mentally unstable old mage. Rumor had it he came from the imperial capital, Aldern, exiled here by the emperor for studying forbidden knowledge. He lived in isolation, was temperamental, and never spoke to the villagers. He had a few equally grim apprentices who only came down the mountain to buy food or conduct other business. The villagers often smelled blood on the black-robed apprentices, fueling even darker rumors about the tower.
Mary, thin and dark-haired, carried the food she’d purchased, leaving the village under fearful gazes. The anxious, speculative whispers seemed to swirl around her ears. She tightened her black mage’s robe and pulled her hood against the chilly mountain night, walking alone along the mountain path.
There was only one road from the village to the tower, but countless times she’d felt the urge to flee. She looked up at the tower’s gate now in sight, then glanced back down the path.
She touched the metal clasp at her neck, forced herself to look forward, and slowly approached the tower.
The heavy door swung open automatically. The dark doorway made her instinctively step back, but the next moment, a bony arm reached out from the shadows and pulled her inside.
A hoarse, ancient voice came from nearby: “Don’t dawdle. The master won’t be pleased.”
Mary nodded and quickly handed the basket to the servant, as gloomy and decrepit as the tower itself. Then she trudged toward the second floor.
The old mage, cloaked in black, sat in his magical laboratory. Strange, blood-red runes covered the walls and floor, flickering with uncertain light. As Mary entered, he slowly lifted his head.
His sparse white hair looked dried and shriveled. His wrinkled skin bore the marks of time. He seemed on the verge of death, yet Mary knew he was far from it—she even suspected this terrifying old man might live forever, outlasting her own life.
“You’re back… get to work,” the mage said, his cloudy eyes glancing at Mary. His voice was low and slow, like a dream mumble, with a strange sluggishness. Mary knew this was because he was in a special “connection” state. She didn’t understand what that meant—her master never let her near that knowledge. She only knew it was a kind of magic utterly different from traditional spells. When her master Daniel entered his most frenzied phase, he suddenly gained this “spell” and became obsessed with it, angering the imperial mages and forcing him to retreat to this desolate borderland…
Whenever in this “connection” state, the old mage’s reactions were slow, but it was only an illusion. His mind remained sharp and his reflexes quick. The smartest choice was immediate obedience to avoid punishment.
Mary complied and hurried to a corner of the lab. A dissected specimen lay on the table, maintained in optimal condition by magic. Mary recognized it as a monkey, common in the mountains.
She began following her master’s instructions mechanically—peeling flesh, connecting nerves, immersing in magical oils—even as the specimen twitched faintly.
Midway through her routine, a strange noise came from the old mage’s direction.
Startled, she looked up to see her master’s eyes wide with terror. The fear rapidly spread across his gaunt, aged face. The man who usually inspired fear now looked as if he’d seen something unspeakably horrifying, his mouth opening in a strange hiss. After two stiff seconds, he suddenly stretched out his arm, as if to block something, and uttered an inexplicable phrase:
“Don’t move. I’ve got you.”
That was not the tone he usually used.
(End of chapter)