Chapter 592: Dream Thief
Night had fallen, and the endless winds that swept across the wasteland had somehow stilled. Amid a strange, persistent buzzing, Gawain suddenly opened his eyes.
Before him stretched a rolling, decayed landscape. Strange auroras and starlight shimmered over the earth, and the cold, dry air carried a faint scent of rust. He wasn’t lying on his bed in the Pinnacle Base as he should have been—he was standing in this unfamiliar, desolate world.
No one else was around.
Frowning, Gawain quickly scanned his surroundings, then a vague realization dawned on him—this was likely a dream, or some kind of psychic projection.
A creation of the Sleeper?
He looked down at himself and saw he was clad in full armor, though his familiar Pathfinder longsword was nowhere in his hand. Clenching his empty fist, he willed the sword to appear, and a dark blade materialized in his grasp.
This was indeed a mental realm crafted by the Sleeper, but it wasn’t the psychic network, nor was it anywhere within the “City of Dreams.”
Curiosity and surprise welled up inside him, but Gawain felt no panic. He had dealt with the Sleeper’s power before and could sense his current state—his mind was clear, ready to exit the dream at any moment. Within his mental perception, there was no hostile or watchful presence. This suggested he hadn’t been pulled in forcibly, but had “accidentally wandered” in.
He kept alert, observing the shifting dreamscape while speculating on what had happened. He clearly remembered falling asleep in his room at Pinnacle Base, and hadn’t connected to the psychic network before sleeping. So it was very likely that after falling asleep, he had inadvertently stumbled into a Sleeper psychic channel. Given his own mental imprint and knowledge of the Sleeper’s secret arts, this was plausible. But this was the wasteland front!
Why would a Sleeper psychic channel appear so close to the ruins of Gondor? Were those cultists lost in dreams also eyeing the wasteland?
The thought flashed through Gawain’s mind as he cautiously expanded his senses, trying to locate the Sleeper’s true form within this space, hoping to capture a mind to interrogate. But just as he began, several sudden presences made him stop.
The eerie auroras and starlight above condensed, casting clear beams of light. Within these shafts, three figures gradually took shape.
Gawain quickly used his dream-altering power to vanish his form and presence from the air, though he doubted his hurried disguise would fool them. Within the psychic network, he had built a perfect backdoor system, able to do as he pleased, but that didn’t mean his Sleeper arts were superior. Outside the network, in a new realm where his permissions didn’t apply, he had no confidence he could outmatch a true Sleeper.
He only intended to momentarily confuse them, then strike when the opportunity arose.
Though he might not be a technical match for a real Sleeper, he was skilled at brute force hacking.
To his surprise, the three figures showed no reaction—they seemed completely unaware of his nearby presence. Upon entering this space, they even appeared somewhat disoriented, rubbing their temples or murmuring softly.
Like three clumsy novices.
Seeing this, Gawain suppressed his urge to attack and instead observed carefully.
The three were all women. One wore a green priestess’s robe, stripped of all religious symbols, her features striking yet distant and cold—a human woman. The other two were nearly identical elven sisters.
Their attire and aura were unlike any Sleeper Gawain had encountered…
No, they probably weren’t Sleepers at all.
He sensed no Sleeper psychic waves from them. Instead, their connection to this space was fragile and unstable, as if they were complete novices forced into this dream realm by some magical device. They were “visitors.”
As Gawain speculated on their identities, the human woman suddenly spoke: “Why haven’t they arrived yet… Are you sure this is the right time?”
The moment her voice reached his ears, Gawain’s heart skipped. He recognized it! He’d heard this voice somewhere before!
Then he realized the familiarity wasn’t from himself, but from Gawain Cecil’s memories: this woman was someone Gawain Cecil knew!
Yet when he looked closely, the face was unfamiliar—no one in Gawain Cecil’s memories matched this woman.
He didn’t have time to ponder who she was, because the elven sisters spoke in unison: “Wait a little longer—they’re trekking through the wasteland. They can’t always arrive exactly on time.”
Trekking through the wasteland?
That phrase caught Gawain’s attention again. Almost as the sisters finished speaking, he sensed new presences entering the space.
This time, no light fell from the sky. At the edge of the open ground, a cloud of smoke and dust rose. From within it, several gaunt figures staggered out.
Gawain focused, and under the starlight and auroras, he made out their forms: black-robed “people,” but hardly human. Their skin was shriveled and wrinkled, patterned like bark. Hollow eye sockets held two dim yellow lights instead of eyeballs. They had hands and feet, but moved stiffly like puppets. As they approached the three women, the sound of dry, cracking wood came from beneath their robes.
Gawain watched intently, puzzled. What were these things? Could these be the ones trekking the wasteland?
He instinctively lowered his presence again. Though they showed no sign of noticing him, he feared careless exposure might ruin this rare chance to witness the truth. His intuition told him these were part of the cultists scheming around the wasteland!
The human woman who had spoken first said again, “I thought you wouldn’t make it today.”
“We’re in the wasteland; it’s hard to judge time and distance,” one of the gaunt black-robed figures replied hoarsely. “We hope we’re not too late.”
“Not too late. I have some patience,” the priestess said. “How are things inside the wasteland?”
“The wasteland winds are as usual. The only change is a group of outsiders reinforcing the barriers at the border… not worth worrying about.”
“Still, be cautious. Avoid the borders for now—especially the northern border. There’s a troublesome individual reinforcing the southeastern Ansu barrier.”
Gawain thought for a moment. That “troublesome individual” was probably him.
He felt he was beginning to understand who these people were.
He hadn’t expected that after losing the “Dark Bridge,” they were using the Sleeper’s psychic connection technology to maintain contact with the wasteland… and those gaunt black-robed figures were the Inner Agents of the Cult of the End of All Things within the wasteland?!
Who—or what—were they, living inside the Great Wall?
Gawain couldn’t help but stare at the gaunt figures. The leader’s hoarse voice rasped, “We will be careful. How is progress on your side?”
“The data you provided has been very helpful, but the Divine Blight mutagen shows unusually high activity, causing mutants to respond poorly to commands and lose control. We need to confirm whether this is a normal effect of the environmental difference inside and outside the wasteland, or if there’s an error in your data.”
“Our data is accurate,” one of the black-robed figures said. “But it’s original data from the wasteland environment. You should adjust for the outside environment. We can assist with that.”
The priestess nodded solemnly. “That’s best. The High Priest will remember your contributions. No one will forget your efforts and sacrifices in the wasteland.”
The leader forced a stiff smile, his dry throat rasping, “It is the sacrifice of a martyr, Lady Beltira Augustus.”
“I no longer use that surname,” the woman frowned. “You should know that.”
“Ah, sorry, I forgot. The wasteland environment makes it hard to concentrate…”
Nearby, Gawain’s eyes suddenly widened.
Beltira Augustus!!
He knew the name. He “remembered” it. Now he understood why her voice felt familiar!
At that moment, he recalled hearing the name “Beltira” when gathering intelligence on the Cult of the End of All Things from Pittman. At the time, he thought it was a common name—there were many similar names in the northern and northwestern Typhon regions. But now he realized… this Beltira was the very same.
Beltira Augustus, sister of Roland Augustus, the founding sovereign of Typhon.
And, seven hundred years ago, the saint recognized by the northern Druid sect.
She was still alive?
Stunned, Gawain momentarily lost control of his aura. For a brief instant, the carefully concealed trace of his presence leaked out.
That tiny slip alerted the two elven sisters, who had barely spoken and seemed to be acting as guards or sentinels. They warned in unison, “Something’s wrong—terminate contact!”
He could no longer hide.
Gawain made a quick decision. Even if he escaped now, he had already raised the cultists’ suspicions—they knew their communication had been eavesdropped on, their secrets exposed.
He absolutely could not let them know it was Gawain Cecil who had uncovered their secret!
In that instant, he realized this psychic space wasn’t created by the Sleeper, but was a channel the cultists maintained using some Sleeper “friendly sponsorship” device. Without hesitation, he forged a new identity for himself, ended his invisibility, and strode forward boldly.
Beltira Augustus stared in shock as a tall, familiar figure materialized in the air. Even she gasped a single word:
“…Brother?!”
But then she snapped back to reality. “Wait—who are you?!”
(End of chapter)