Chapter 810: Between Illusion and Reality

The god is dead… and now, at last, it has begun to rot…

The old man before them spoke this seemingly ordinary sentence with such casual ease that everyone present felt an indescribable chill ripple through the air.

Magnum’s hands rested on the table, fingers interlaced tightly, his eyes fixed intently on the man who called himself “Duvalet.” “Which god do you mean?”

The old man smiled calmly. “Who else? The Overarching Narrator.”

At the mention of “Overarching Narrator,” both Yuri and Magnum’s pupils constricted sharply, but nothing unusual happened in the room. It was as if they were simply engaged in a normal conversation.

Gawain, meanwhile, finally caught a glimpse of the tattered pattern on the old man’s worn robe—a shattered earth, overlaid by a symbolic handprint…

“You’re a priest of the Overarching Narrator, aren’t you?” Gawain asked evenly. “But why say the god is dead?”

Duvalet didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a pastry from the lavish spread on the table and placed it before Narithil. The white-haired girl said nothing, simply lowered her head and ate quickly and quietly, as if she had been starving for a very long time.

“The god has been dead for many years,” Duvalet said slowly, his voice heavy with the weight of time. “Even before the world’s destruction, the god had already begun to die. When it realized the truth behind the world, it went mad. And when a god goes mad, it dies… It took a century to die, and another century to rot. After that, the world became what you see now.”

As he spoke, Duvalet adjusted his threadbare robe. Gawain noticed that the edges were not only ragged and filthy but draped with cobwebs—proof that its owner had wandered through many desolate ruins, and had lingered in some not long ago.

If Sandbox One is a post-apocalyptic world, then how long has this priest of the Overarching Narrator, Duvalet, been wandering in this ruined realm?

Though the situation was strange, Duvalet seemed simply to want someone to talk to. Gawain decided to seize the opportunity to gather more information and continued, “Are there others in this world besides us?”

“People? They’re long gone…” The old man’s voice was low and somber. “The world has ended, civilization is over. There are only ruins, and Duvalet and Narithil wandering among them.”

“Is everyone dead?” Yuri asked. “Or… disappeared?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ve all returned to the Lord’s side.” The old man gave a vague answer, then took another piece of food and placed it before Narithil, who continued eating silently and quickly, as if the conversation around her was of no concern.

“How long have you been wandering here?” Selina joined in gently.

“I can’t remember. Probably since the world ended,” the old man said calmly. “I recall some vague memories—when this city was bustling and alive. Back then, many people lived in these houses. Merchants from the swamps, forests, plains, and coastal city-states filled the streets. There were festivals and heroic plays, philosophers debating on high platforms. The temples were bright and spacious, sunlight streaming through clean windows onto the pulpits, and the faithful were calm and joyful…

“I remember news coming from the south—scholars had created devices to gaze at the stars. Sailors from the west coast discussed strange fish caught in the deep sea at taverns. A dancer from the oasis region arrived in town, and half the city was talking about her beauty…

“Ah, those were good times… but they’re all gone now.”

The old man shook his head and took a sip from a glass of fine wine that Yuri had handed him, exclaiming in surprise, “Oh, this flavor is incredible… Narithil—”

The white-haired girl, still focused on her cake, looked up at the wine glass in his hand. After receiving his approving nod, she took the cup cautiously and sipped.

The next moment, she spat it all out, making a series of disgusted sounds—clearly, she hated the taste.

“I’m curious,” Gawain broke the silence, looking at the calm old man and the strange girl. “Before we arrived, what were you eating? Is there still food in the city?”

“We haven’t eaten in a long time,” Duvalet smiled wryly. “That’s why Narithil is so hungry.”

…

In Typhon, Orlandel region, night had fallen. Stars lit the sky, casting a faint glow over the sparsely lit countryside and the “Throat of Orlandel” at the region’s center.

In an unnamed village, a shepherd who had just fallen asleep tossed and turned, as if wrestling with an invisible dream. Soon, his breathing steadied, deep and even, as if the dream had been stripped away and he had entered a deep, dreamless sleep.

Outside the window, a shadow flickered briefly.

The village was silent, all lights extinguished. Two figures cloaked in black robes moved slowly through the streets, bathed in starlight, walking from one end of the village to the other.

One hooded figure’s voice, young and male, spoke softly: “The last village’s dream control is complete. They’ll sleep well tonight. No one will enter their dreams.”

The other figure nodded. A calm female voice replied, “Even so, we must patrol all night to prevent anyone from breaking through the control and entering dreams again. His Holiness the Pope demands an absolute ‘dreamless vacuum’ across Orlandel. If even one person dreams, their dream could become a springboard for accidents.”

“Do these ‘dream isolation zones’ really work?”

“Whether they do or not is for His Holiness and the Outlanders to worry about. Our job is to do it. Better to hope tonight’s operation goes smoothly and we don’t have to use our defenses.”

“True enough…” The young male priest of eternal rest glanced toward the village outskirts under the starlight. The quiet village occasionally stirred with the sound of wind through grass, making the silence feel even deeper.

“They say… seven hundred years ago, dream priests were responsible for this kind of work,” the male priest said suddenly.

“What kind of work?”

“Walking through the night, soothing disturbed dreams, healing those who suffered trauma—just like what we’re doing now.”

“Sounds about right.”

“I never thought I’d be doing this after coming out of the catacombs. My great-grandfather once kept a dream priest’s talisman, but it was destroyed by my father’s generation,” the young priest shook his head. “They say after this event, we might get new identities and be able to operate openly—but we’ll have to relocate.”

The woman beside him was silent for a few seconds before shaking her head. “Don’t talk about this outside.”

“Right.”

The male priest smiled faintly, nodding as he looked out toward the vast wilderness beyond the village.

In the distance, a jagged, broken earthen ridge undulated under the night sky. Starlight revealed what looked like a rift or deep pit.

Orlandel, the former imperial capital of Typhon, now lay quietly buried at the bottom of that massive chasm.

…

Deep within the ancient catacombs, Archbishop Semler—stern and somber, with thinning hair—patrolled the deepest containment zone.

Newly installed magic-net devices powered the crystal lamps, illuminating the darkest, most secluded area. The bright light seemed to push back the oppressive atmosphere brought by the Overarching Narrator.

As Semler passed through the lower assembly hall, a priest who appeared newly arrived hurried to him, bowing slightly.

“Archbishop, the dream control on the surface is complete. The dreamless vacuum now covers the entire Orlandel region.”

“Good,” Semler nodded. “Maintain dream surveillance over Orlandel. Deploy the reserve spirit knights to support any breaches.”

“Yes, Archbishop.”

“Also, send orders to reinforce the guards at the connecting passage beneath the Throat of Orlandel. If there’s a ‘Level Zero’ leak here… destroy the dome if necessary.”

The priest hesitated. “Archbishop, that could cause irreparable damage to the upper palace, and might expose the entire catacomb…”

“The upper levels can be sacrificed. All our critical facilities are in the middle and lower levels, protected by elemental blessings and reinforcement spells. They can withstand the dome’s collapse. We’ll deal with the fallout after sealing the catacombs. As for exposure… that no longer matters.”

“Yes, Archbishop.” The priest nodded slowly but couldn’t help asking, “But… will destroying the dome really stop the Overarching Narrator?”

“How can a pile of rubble stop an invisible, immaterial god?” Semler scoffed, shaking his head. “But rubble can stop the Narrator’s ‘followers.’ That’s enough.”

The priest felt an indescribable pressure but took a deep breath and nodded firmly.

After the priest left, Semler stood alone in the empty corridor of the containment zone for several seconds before shaking his head and heading toward the area housing the psychic choir members.

A spirit knight clad in heavy silver-white armor, his helmet adorned with mysterious runes, bowed before him. “Archbishop.”

“Everything normal?” Semler asked sternly.

A muffled voice came from beneath the helmet. “All normal, Archbishop.”

“Any contact with the outside?”

“None.”

“Good.”

Semler nodded and passed the spirit knight, arriving at the outermost room of the containment zone. He gently knocked on the metal door, decorated with runes and inlaid with mithril and purple copper—materials that channel magic. The knock echoed far down the deep corridor.

Two seconds later, a gentle, melodious female voice called out, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Semler,” the solemn archbishop replied. “Lady Wendy, I’ve come to check on you.”

“Ah, Archbishop Semler,” Wendy, who had been leaning against the corner of the room, watching a spider spin its web with mild boredom, stood up, dusted off her skirt, and moved toward the door. “Things are going well here—the annoying noise hasn’t come back for quite some time. But this room is honestly a bit dull; only the spiders keep me company.”

“Just hold on a little longer,” Semler replied, hearing Wendy’s calm, clear voice from inside the room. She sounded rational and lucid, which eased his mind somewhat. “We’re at a critical stage now. When the sun rises tomorrow, everything will get better.”

“Let’s hope so.”

…

Near the temple in the desert city-state of Nim Sandro, the only house with its lights on was where a white-haired girl named Nariel had already fallen asleep, curled up in a pile of hay against the wall. Nearby, the old man Duvalet sat cross-legged on the ground like a guardian, seemingly deep in prayer.

Yuri watched the scene and whispered quietly to Selina beside him, “Honestly, when that Duvalet said Nariel was starving, I was ready to fight. I never expected she was really just hungry…”

Selina’s reply was brief: “The more normal it seems, the more suspicious it is.”

“…How much longer do we have to ‘keep company’ with these two?”

“That depends on the outsider… Gawain Cecil’s decision.”

Selina’s voice was soft as her gaze settled on Gawain not far away.

Gawain stood up and approached Duvalet, who appeared to have just finished a prayer.

“The gods are dead,” he said to the weathered old man. “Who exactly are you praying to now?”

Duvalet smiled and shook his head. “Out of habit,” he said. “You see, faith… has its own inertia.”

There was a complicated tone in his voice when he spoke of faith’s inertia.

Gawain couldn’t begin to understand the psychological changes someone wandering a desolate world for so many years might undergo. He just shook his head, waved his hand, and brushed away a spider that scurried across a nearby pillar.

“There are many spiders out here at night,” Duvalet said. “But don’t worry, they’re all gentle and harmless. They even avoid people on their own.”

(End of chapter)