Chapter 710: In the Depths of Slumber
Bard stood silently in the vast, deathly still underground chamber, his nerves taut and eyes sharp with focus.
The communicator fixed to his armor strap emitted only a hollow, eerie wail.
Though he didn’t understand the device’s inner workings, his knowledge of magic told him one thing: the transmission spell had been completely blocked. But when had this happened?
The crystal still glowed faintly, the runes on the device’s surface pulsed as if functioning normally. This “everything is fine” illusion lulled him into a false sense of security, making it impossible to tell exactly when the signal had been cut off… Perhaps he had been down here too long, and the Cecils on the surface had long since lost the feed he was trying to send.
Bard took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm the rising tension. He didn’t recklessly try to call out again or press forward. Instead, he cautiously stepped back, preparing to retrace his path.
Maybe it was the signal jamming, or maybe the distance was too great for the transmission spell to work. If it was the latter, returning the way he came should fix the problem.
But no sooner had he taken a step back than the scene before him shifted.
The shattered council chamber suddenly burst into light. Brilliant magical crystal lamps illuminated the entire hall as if it were midday. The massive cracks in the ceiling and nearby walls had vanished without a trace. The broken stone tables and chairs lay restored, pristine and intact. Around the long table, dozens of robed figures sat in tense, serious discussion.
Voices drifted from the gathering:
“The pseudo-god’s body is malfunctioning. We can’t control it. This is an unexpected development…”
“How is the High Priest?”
“He barely escaped from the pseudo-god’s body. His injuries are severe; he’s resting deeply now, but his consciousness has returned.”
“And the creature?”
“It’s trapped below for now. It shouldn’t break free anytime soon. Priest Beltira is working on returning it to dormancy.”
“Good, there’s still hope. As long as we—”
Bard’s muscles tensed as he stared at the surreal scene. Then, in the blink of an eye, the council chamber flickered. The figures shifted their positions, and the conversation changed:
“…The High Priest has ordered a halt to the pseudo-god’s awakening and demands a thorough review of all project data.”
“Based on current information, the intelligence from the wasteland was flawed. Fortunately, we caught it in time…”
The image blurred again. This time, fewer figures gathered, discussing how the church should rebuild after successfully destroying the rogue pseudo-god.
Suddenly, Bard understood what he was witnessing.
This “council chamber” was replaying events that had never actually happened in reality. Every scene shared a common thread: what if that critical project hadn’t spiraled out of control? What if the prelates conducting the ritual had caught the mistakes in time? What if everything had gone well, what if it could still be saved…
He looked at the figures around the table and realized he was trapped in a dream woven from obsession. Deep beneath the roots of the great tree, the spirits of the doomed prelates—those who had perished during the pseudo-god’s awakening—were bound by their lingering will. And he had unknowingly fallen into the shared dream they had spun.
Bard’s heart pounded. He was in grave danger. Dreams were notoriously impervious to ordinary supernatural powers. No matter how strong one’s abilities, once fully trapped in a dream, only a master of the spiritual realm could resist. Even the mightiest would be rendered helpless. The Sleeper’s terror lay in this very power—and Bard feared he had already missed the best chance to wake.
Worse still, time in the dream world rarely matched the outside. He had no idea how long he’d been trapped, nor how long he might remain—perhaps only moments had passed above, while he could be stuck here for centuries. His soul might perish in this dream before he ever awoke.
As panic surged, the scene flickered again. This time, his viewpoint shifted from the hall’s entrance to the council table itself—he was sitting there, facing the heavy stone table, surrounded by solemn prelates.
As a mid-level cleric, he had no right to sit at this table. He had dreamed of rising to prelate rank, imagining what it would be like to sit in the council chamber. But now that he truly was here, a cold dread washed over him.
The worst had happened—he was merging with the dream.
He was dreaming.
On the surface, Gawain and the others had waited silently for ten minutes. The magical network terminal still showed no change.
The screen displayed a rune-covered chamber, with two strange black pillars glowing with magical light.
An emergency response team stood ready near the entrance. Druids prepared to cast spells on the tree’s roots, hoping to connect through the life force and confirm Bard Wendell’s status. But Gawain had not yet given the order; everyone remained on standby.
The situation below was complex and strange. Acting rashly could worsen the damage. Meanwhile, Gawain tried to deduce what had happened to Bard from the frozen image.
The communicator was worn near Bard’s collar. Crafted by Nicholas “Egg” himself—well, without hands, but still a masterwork—it was highly sensitive, able to pick up the faintest sounds and transmit them.
After amplifying the audio, Gawain clearly heard Bard’s steady, deep breathing.
That breathing proved Bard was alive—and revealed something else.
“He’s asleep…” Gawain frowned, uncertain. “Not obvious, but he’s snoring.”
A hush fell. The atmosphere grew eerie.
Amber found it unsurprising. “Well, it’s not hard to imagine. I heard he used to slack off in the Rockhold prison, even mastered the art of using boogers to extend his detention. His nerve is something else. So it’s not shocking he’d fall asleep exploring underground ruins…”
Gawain glanced at Amber silently. Though he said nothing, the half-elf felt his gaze was full of affectionate exasperation.
She wanted to jab his elbow in protest but held back.
Before Amber could ramble on, Gawain warned, “He’s probably dreaming.”
“You can tell if someone’s dreaming from their snoring?” Amber blinked, confused at first, then caught on. “Wait… dreaming? Like the Sleepers’ kind?!”
No one was foolish. Gawain’s words triggered realization. Margarita, a female knight who had led raids on cult hideouts, thought of the Sleepers’ strange, dangerous powers and stiffened. Nearby, Pittman stroked his beard, frowning.
“Now that you mention it… it’s possible.”
The old man was a double cult survivor, having freeloaded at both the Sleepers’ and the All-Things-Perish cult’s mess halls. A veteran of the shadowy underworld, his words gave Gawain confidence: there was an invisible dream realm in the great tree’s roots, and Bard Wendell had fallen victim.
“But how?” Pittman looked puzzled. “This is the All-Things-Perish cult’s nest. They don’t have dream tech…”
Gawain frowned, recalling the sentinel tower expansion at the Grant Wall.
He had unexpectedly encountered members of the All-Things-Perish cult in the dream connection, including Beltira—who should have died seven centuries ago.
The cult did possess dream technology. Even if not, they surely had related devices. Among the three dark cults, the Stormborn’s behavior was the most mysterious, but the other two maintained close ties. It was normal for the All-Things-Perish cult’s lair to house Sleeper creations.
Pittman, despite his double cult background, had overlooked this. Perhaps he had only ever been a hanger-on.
He looked up, confused why Gawain was staring at him and sighing.
Gawain said nothing, but after assessing the underground situation, he had a plan—one far safer than sending people down.
“I’ll try to pull Bard out,” he instructed. “It’ll require focus. Keep watch around us.”
Amber was quick to respond. “Oh, you’re going to ‘meditate’ again? Protector duties? I’m good at that…”
In this endless dream driven by obsession, replaying the tragic self-deceptions of the defeated, Bard had lost count of how many times he had relived the cycle.
He sat at the unchanging council table, bright lights illuminating the hall. Prelates gathered, discussing shifting situations and future plans.
Bard spoke too, though he didn’t know why. His lips moved, uttering sentences he’d never thought before:
“…The missionary work in the eastern continent is progressing smoothly. We have already…”
Familiar faces spoke around him, and Bard felt a strange calm.
But deep down, he sensed he shouldn’t be so calm. He had a mission here.
What was it?
The scene flickered. One meeting ended; a new one formed. In this dream woven from countless obsessions, the leader and theme constantly shifted. Bard Wendell was only one of dozens of consciousnesses in the dream.
He sat again at the table, feeling his Adam’s apple move as if about to speak.
Suddenly, a hand rested on his shoulder, jolting him.
A long-lost clarity flooded his mind. Memories, seemingly forgotten for a century, surged back, along with the fear and tension from before he fully fell into the dream. But before he could sort through them, a calm, authoritative voice spoke behind him:
“Awake now?”
More terrifying than the dream itself was this sudden voice. Bard jumped up and turned to see the tall figure of Gawain Cecil standing behind him.
A wave of disorientation hit again. Reality and dream blurred.
Gawain spoke once more, his voice carrying a power that cut through the dream’s haze:
“Stay awake. You’re still dreaming, but your consciousness has returned. As long as you avoid unnecessary doubts and distractions, your spirit remains safe.”
“A dream? Oh, right, this is a dream…” Bard blinked, gradually shaking off the lingering effects of the nightmare and slowly regaining his ability to think clearly. Then, in the next moment, he finally noticed how out of place Gawain’s presence here was. “Wait a minute, this is a dream… so why are you here—”
“I’m still up there. Right now, I’m communicating with you through my consciousness,” Gawain explained casually, then began to survey the council chamber around them. The “meeting” inside was still unfolding repeatedly, but to him, it looked more like a series of absurd plays. “Interesting. I never expected the roots of this giant tree to hold a dream…”
Bard stared at Gawain in stunned silence. He had a vague sense that this dream was somehow connected to the “technical exchange” between the Everwake and the End of All Things. So for Gawain to project his consciousness directly into it was all the more shocking. Bard couldn’t fathom how he had done it.
Perhaps this was one of Gawain Cecil’s secrets.
And now, Bard was witnessing it firsthand.
A chill ran through Bard’s heart, making him even more cautious and alert.
Gawain noticed the change in Bard’s expression and probably guessed what he was thinking, but he paid it no mind. Instead, he turned his head with interest toward the other side of the hall, where the entrance stood.
A new figure was beginning to take shape in the dream.
Once the silhouette became clear, Gawain raised an eyebrow.
Bertilla Augustus stepped into the chamber.
(End of chapter)