#19. But God Will Save (4)
Unsettled dreams always begin in chaos. The moment I realize I'm dreaming is never entirely clear. Just as a person drifting off to sleep can't pinpoint the exact instant their consciousness fades, suddenly—without cause or reason—I'm standing at the center of a landscape that isn't reality.
Every time this happens, I feel a mix of satisfaction and regret. Satisfaction that I'm making productive use of my sleeping hours, and regret that I couldn't just have a deep, dreamless rest.
This is the complaint of a full belly, though.
Standing makes you want to sit, sitting makes you want to lie down—that's human nature. I'm no exception.
But hey, not needing to set an alarm every half hour is progress enough.
The night I killed the puppeteer, I had a nightmare for the first time in ages. One where the Round Table Master kept resurrecting no matter how many times I killed him, until I was the one slaughtered in the end. The surreal moment of smashing the puppeteer with a blunt weapon must have lingered in my subconscious as unresolved fear.
It confirmed once more that the helplessness from those days of hiding from the Round Table's pursuit had left a trauma etched deep inside me. A mental wound that could flare up again at any moment before I burned London to the ground.
"Still afraid?"
Ah, this damn voice again.
"Fear is the whip that drives all living things to chase their desires. I don't want to die. I don't want to hurt. I don't want to be cold, or old, or hungry."
"I don't want to be ostracized. I don't want to fall behind. I don't want to be weaker than others."
"I don't want to be robbed. I don't want to be dominated. I don't want to be hunted."
"So I want to rob. I want to dominate. I'd rather be the hunter than the hunted. I want power that excludes others, wisdom that outpaces them, and overwhelming force that crushes everyone. I want a life more comfortable and fuller than anyone's, free from any pain."
"I want to live that eternal life."
"You despise me as the me before I broke and the me that broke and remained, but our starting points are the same. Therefore, I borrow your voice to declare: weakness is the seed of evil, and a life born weak is akin to one born evil. Thus, evil is the law of nature, and domination and exploitation are inevitable human instincts. Acknowledge it. You are as evil as you are weak, so your path will converge with mine."
"Accept me. Devour me completely and digest me fully. Make me your new strength."
"Only then can you dream of being the fittest of the fit, the apex of the pyramid, emperor of kings."
Today, as always, the remnants of my mentor's spawn squatted in the corner of the dream like a mongrel tied in the yard during foul weather, whining its unwanted bullshit. I tried to let it in one ear and out the other, but whenever my focus slipped, that insidious nonsense wormed right back into my ear.
Disgusted, I set about tidying the chaotic landscape. It was like clearing my desk before starting work.
The dream's initial state—memories, scenes, and objects jumbled in disordered flow—always felt like stepping into a Salvador Dalí exhibition. No, without any neatness, it was more like a theme park ignoring visitor convenience.
The sun shining in the sky was, upon closer look, a luminous Vitruvian Man—Leonardo da Vinci's proportions of the human body. But unlike the original, this geometric figure immersed in light emphasized the eyes, heart, and brain, with seventy-two Latin letters encircling the outer circle, pointing to God.
It was the Round Table's symbol of the "Sun," representing the "human who witnessed the Great Flood."
From that ancient human's remains came the relics among relics: the Golden Age's Eye, the Golden Age's Heart, the Golden Age's Essence.
I banished the surreal elements—a looming ship of the line in the sky, a moon and stars crashed to earth, fossils nailed in midair, a cannon frozen mid-blast spewing fire and smoke, the Thames flowing like liquid—and crafted a stable environment.
Then I dragged an old grandfather clock from the dream's far edge and placed it nearby. Focusing my intent, the pendulum swung on its own, and the second hand ticked: tick-tock.
The dream clock matched my internal time sense perfectly. Not guaranteed to sync with real time, but useful for subjective allocation and use.
"I am always here."
"Waiting for you here."
Yeah, stay put there forever.
Ignoring the whispers disrupting my focus, I visualized the magical quandary I'd mulled over before bed.
Mana circuits in the soul and the spells they manifest follow strict rules. A grand magus's memory of circuits and spells rivals a national master's recall of hundreds of games.
That's why I could seamlessly continue waking puzzles in dreams.
Thus, the "code" cluster I summoned was a thread from the Kingdom of Mycelium.
More parsed and dismantled than before, but far from full solution or extraction.
Next, I called the puppeteer's sword into the dream. The ritual blade, honed from ground bone, manifested as a phantom matching my real-world understanding.
Its hilt bore a glyph: three dots in a circle.
Caput Mortuum, the "head of the dead" in occultism. The circle simplified a face, the dots eye, mouth, and... well, the third.
Likely the puppeteer's personal quirk when attaching the hilt to the unearthed blade.
No record in my mentor's memories means the Westbutton family monopolized it from excavation, keeping it secret from other grand magi.
The sword's core function extracted and stored souls, but first suppressed their magical power.
I figured that suppression could help me. Suppress the soul with the blade, then apply the Kingdom's "Neutralization" spell. Even for an Awakened with abilities online, I could interfere with and reshape their circuit structure.
Using a ritual sword as a scalpel, basically.
Today's lucid dream was too short for full resolution. Like a mathematician scrawling equations on a blackboard for days, I gripped the blade in one hand and stared at the tangled code threads, lost in long calculations and deliberations.
A complex knot before me, sharp knife in hand—but I couldn't just slice it like Alexander the Great.
If only I had the Golden Age's Essence; it'd be a huge help.
By the time I woke, splashed water on my face, and stepped out of my cabin, a subtle heat wafted up the corridor lined with passenger rooms.
The source: the vehicle deck below.
Becklux lacked vast open spaces, so my subordinates—accustomed to pre-breakfast training—laid mattresses on the car deck as an impromptu gym.
Suggestions to use shore facilities were nixed for security. Too early to reveal primitive magic beyond body reinforcement.
Among the secured vehicles, tarped cargo from two nights ago: relics looted from Darling Downs Forest Park.
Old treasures from the collapsed cave found tracking the puppeteer. The rest awaited smuggling from the Macau casino vault.
My men, spotting me led by Kyung-tae, paused and bowed.
"Boss!"
"Keep at it. Don't mind me."
With magic's return, pre-magic martial arts no longer sufficed alone, so they refined and innovated around Kyung-tae.
Their sparring offered me insights too.
With their pooled experience, they could stand in for a sect master...
No genius masters combat alone; improvement needs worthy partners for trial and error. Against mere civilians or street thugs, a genius hones only crowd-control tricks—shallow depth.
In that context, Kyung-tae and the rest qualified.
Thud—!
Even with mats, stomps and throws made the steel deck rumble.
Weight unchanged, but strength and speed vastly improved, so their footwork diverged from old military arts.
Watching their techniques sharpen moment by moment, I felt my horizons expand.
If caught off-guard, nine times out of ten I'd be dead.
Back when martial arts were instant-kill tools, secret techniques were just compilations of such moves. Unknown, they pierced defenses—one-hit kills. Once exposed, counters emerged, diluting lethality, hence secrecy and lineage restrictions.
Flash!
A brief, intense series of sparks swallowed the training area: Kyung-tae's "Ignition." The blinded partner hit the deck.
Even those I Awakened myself couldn't escape momentary blindness from flashbang-level light.
The seamless combo of motion, flash, and burn formed a martial art in itself.
By now, Ignition wasn't Kyung-tae's alone. Since slaying Westbutton, more subordinates unlocked new powers.
Reason for the ship feeling like early summer despite Korea's late autumn outside.
Odd, right? When I questioned the sudden fire-wielders, Kyung-tae shrugged:
"Maybe psychological? That day shook more than just me."
I nodded; possible. Magic isn't pure mental power, but...
They were all primed for new abilities anyway; stress might've catalyzed it.
The real surprise was Suyeon's "Electricity." Just minor directed discharges now—pathetic next to fire—but unexpected, deviating from my circuit design.
Made her a poor fit for Kyung-tae's group; no safe sparring partners for live practice, leaving her subtly dissatisfied.
Her expression blank, vitals steady, but experience read the emotion.
Our eyes met briefly; I nodded her over.
"Come here. If I'm good enough, I'll spar."
As a grand magus, I could train anyone adequately. Not optimal, but solid second-best.
My martial foundation was about that level.
"...Thank you."
Suyeon accepted after a pause.