Chapter 593: Misalignment

The moment Beltira Augustus gasped aloud, Gawain’s suspicions were confirmed.

The unfamiliar woman before him was indeed the “old friend” from his memories—the Typhon High Princess from seven centuries ago, universally revered as a saint among the northern Druid factions.

Yet she had completely changed her appearance and identity; the only constants were a fragment of her voice and her soul.

She had truly lived for seven hundred years—and had become a high-ranking member of the Cult of the End of All Things.

A whirlwind of chaotic thoughts flashed through Gawain’s mind in an instant, but his expression remained unreadable. Striding forward decisively, he shaped himself within this dream-powered space into the likeness of Roland Augustus, the founding sovereign of Typhon.

But clearly, Beltira was not fooled by this “phantom” wearing her brother’s face. She remembered this was a mental projection, an illusion crafted by the mind—nothing seen here was necessarily real, especially not the resurrection of her brother, who had died beneath the Sentinel Tower seven centuries ago.

She didn’t know who was staging this farce, but it was obvious that this contact, which should have been strictly confidential, had been compromised.

Fixing her gaze on the imposing figure advancing toward her, she braced herself for battle. “Who are you?!”

“You truly disappoint me,” Gawain replied coldly, raising his right hand. A silver-white longsword crackled with electric light in his grasp. “To have chosen this path!”

He knew he had provoked Beltira’s wrath and was ready to fight openly. On this battlefield of the mind, he feared no direct confrontation—especially since his opponent was clearly a novice who had only entered the dream realm through magical rites or artifacts. If he could seize the minds of her or her companions, he might glean valuable intelligence.

Beltira spread her arms, and an invisible wind stirred around her. The two elves began chanting ancient, arcane incantations, summoning magical power. The gaunt figures in black robes raised their skeletal arms, each gathering their own strength.

Gawain lifted his sword—the very blade of Typhon’s founding king—and thundered a battle cry, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

These people were indeed novices in the dream world; they had no understanding of the true rules of combat here.

It was the power of the heart and spirit that truly mattered; surface-level magic and techniques were mere illusions within the dream.

But in the next moment, Beltira’s figure suddenly vanished from his sight.

The two elven sisters disappeared right after.

The gaunt, black-robed figures also quickly faded away.

Gawain’s smile stiffened. After a brief breath, he snapped awake.

He found himself lying on a cot in the Pinnacle Base, the familiar prefab roof overhead and the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the window. Amber’s soft snoring came from the next room.

Gawain: “??”

He paused, then realized what had happened—they had unplugged the network cable.

He swung himself up from the bed, refusing to dwell on this minor setback. Instead, he quickly analyzed the precious intelligence he had intercepted tonight.

This had been a chance intrusion, a misstep. After this loss, the Cult of the End of All Things would likely never give him a second chance to intercept their secrets. He had to treat the information he’d gathered with utmost caution and care.

Beltira Augustus was still alive today. Given her status as a Great Druid and the cult’s ongoing schemes over centuries, she must have used some forbidden technique to sustain her life—unlike Gawain, who had only recently risen from the grave. Though he hadn’t seen clearly, it seemed her transformation was more than skin deep; her body bore strange anomalies. He recalled glimpsing something like vines or roots beneath her skirt.

She had fallen alongside the Druids who once ascended the Ancestor’s Peak, becoming a high priestess of the cult.

The two elves with her were likely fellow cult priests of similar rank.

The gaunt, black-robed figures were the cult’s signal targets in the wasteland. Whatever they were, they were active there, gathering data and transmitting it to their comrades outside.

They mentioned something called the “Divine Blight Mutagen”—a phrase etched deeply into Gawain’s memory.

This was probably the cult’s ongoing project, their ultimate goal.

They knew of the Divine Blight. They were studying it.

Originating from the ancient Gondor Empire a thousand years ago, it was the ultimate plan to help humanity survive the magical cataclysm. Gawain had assumed all records of it had been lost to history, buried beneath the millennia-long blockade of the Defiant Fortress. Yet it had secretly persisted.

What were these cultists planning? To complete the unfinished work of the old Gondor Empire?

Could this be the “Great Evolution” that Pittman once mentioned—the cult’s ultimate pursuit?

Wait—these cultists’ ambitions were more than just a biochemical experiment. They were called cultists because they dared not only to dream but to act. If they truly recreated the Divine Blight, they would surely seek to spread it everywhere. Only then could the so-called Great Evolution be realized.

Gawain’s greatest relief was that his earlier response had been correct: he hadn’t revealed himself but had used the image of Roland Augustus to confuse their vision. At the same time, he had set another decoy—he believed this second smoke screen, if used properly, could yield unexpected advantages.

But he also had to consider the possibility that the decoy might be seen through. After all, Beltira Augustus had been a clever woman in her day, and his hastily arranged decoy was not very sophisticated. Perhaps he should find a way to create further cover and contingencies through the Sleeper network…

As he pondered, he refined his cleanup plan, determined not to expose himself or reveal his ability to access the Sleeper’s network.

He didn’t know how the cult would respond to this serious disruption. They might become more cautious and hide deeper, or they might launch preemptive moves. The latter would actually be better—it could expose their weaknesses and allow for early elimination.

…

Deep within the Ansu territory, in the depths of a subterranean chamber, Beltira fought off a dizzying nausea and the sensation of her soul being torn away, quickly recovering from the aftereffects of the mental projection.

She lifted her head and saw the elven twins waking one after the other, their eyes meeting hers almost simultaneously.

“Mental projection isn’t safe. Our communication was intercepted,” she said grimly.

The twins responded in unison, “Fortunately, we hadn’t begun discussing the more confidential, critical intelligence. The eavesdroppers won’t know our next moves.”

“What matters is who it was,” Beltira said in a low voice. “They disguised themselves as Roland…”

“In fact… we sensed a faint aura,” the twins said. “It was the power fluctuation after using Sleeper’s secret arts. Though we were in a mental projection state, we’ve dealt with the Sleepers enough to recognize their way of wielding power in dreams.”

“Those cowards who weave illusions and drown in dreams,” Beltira’s eyes grew colder. “I always knew those lost in dreams were untrustworthy…”

But she quickly snapped out of her anger, forcing herself to calm down by regulating her nerves and hormones.

“Even those dream-addicted Sleepers aren’t fools or brutes. They wouldn’t be so stupid as to eavesdrop this way, nor would they get caught. The mental projection device was made by them—if they wanted to meddle, they could tamper directly with the magical apparatus…”

She looked at the twins. “Contact the Sleepers directly. Tell them there’s a problem with the mental projection device, that someone might be invading it—see what they say.”

Blind suspicion is foolish; blind trust is equally so.

Direct inquiry beats beating around the bush. She chose to communicate openly with the Sleepers. If an outsider was truly interfering, the experts would find them faster. And if the Sleepers themselves were behind it, confrontation would expose their hand.

The day of the Great Evolution was approaching. She had to eliminate all threats swiftly.

…

In the wasteland’s depths, the crawling forest began to move again.

Those eerie trees, covered in countless tendrils and branches with twisted faces, slithered forward under the night sky. Their pace seemed slow but was far faster than any human could match. Before long, the crawling forest slipped beyond the mental projection’s effective range.

“An upheaval…” the towering tree at the front murmured in a deep, chaotic voice, dripping with disdain. “Of no consequence.”

…

Gawain waited patiently until morning.

When Amber learned of his dream-world encounter the night before, she was stunned.

For this half-elf—his personal guard, head of intelligence, privy to countless secrets—Gawain did not hide his experience. What shocked Amber most was the existence of Beltira Augustus, this “ancient” figure.

“That Beltira is a human who’s lived seven hundred years?! And she’s still alive and kicking?!” The half-elf’s eyes widened. “You knew her back then? Even well?”

“I was close to her brother for quite some time—at least five years. She even called me ‘brother,’” Gawain said, watching Amber’s overly excited expression. He didn’t understand why she was so worked up. Even as head of intelligence, her enthusiasm was a bit too obvious. “But that was long ago. Things have changed. She’s now a leader of a cult, and that cult clearly has plans—that’s the real problem.”

Amber seemed uninterested in the real issue. Her next question was, “Is she one of those eighty-something princesses?”

Gawain was dumbfounded for over twenty seconds, feeling like slamming this half-elf against the wall.

But Amber’s keen sense of danger had already made the tension palpable two meters away.

“You should focus on serious matters,” Gawain shot her a sharp glare, then straightened his face. “Stand guard at the door. I’m contacting headquarters—no visitors for now.”

He planned to use the established magical network to connect with Hetty in Cecil City and make arrangements in advance.

—When it comes to handling large amounts of data transfer, or organizing multi-person meetings and experiments, the Mind Network and Origin Space are relatively convenient. But when information needs to be conveyed quickly, the Arcane Network terminal is still more practical than the immersion pods, which require prior setup. As for security, given that the Arcane Network communication technology is unique in this era, both methods are essentially equally secure—as long as eavesdropping is prevented.

The Arcane Network terminal sitting on the desk, reserved for High Mage Gawain’s use, soon activated. Thanks to relay devices set up along the way at several forward bases and along the “Black Forest Highway,” a clear and strong communication signal bridged the spatial distance, bringing the distant voice and image right before Gawain.

Heddy’s figure appeared in the holographic projection—her eyes shadowed with faint dark circles.

It didn’t look like a filter or an effect…

She must have been extremely busy lately, cutting into her rest time.

Gawain couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern and worry, mixed with a hint of guilt.

Because he was about to assign even more work to Heddy…

(End of chapter)