City of Dreamers (4)
Ah, damn it.
Oscar groaned. So that's why I was feeling drowsy earlier…
He was inside a dream again. This was exactly why he'd given up his room to Veronica—and yet he'd gone and fallen asleep anyway.
Well, I have been running on empty for a while now.
The last time he'd slept properly was when he'd collapsed back in Baran City. After that came the grueling forced march of their training camp, and even there he hadn't truly slept. Thirty minutes of meditation with his eyes closed per day was all the rest he'd allowed himself. It was only natural the exhaustion had piled up.
But this place…
As Oscar surveyed his surroundings, his eyes narrowed. Spread out before him was a small mountain village—or rather, it would be more accurate to call it the ruins of one.
"…"
Fwoooosh! A massive fire demon was devouring the entire village.
The acrid stench of smoke, the smell of burning flesh, the thick, sticky reek of blood—it all drifted past the tip of his nose.
Majiro Wilson, the Brain of the White Tower, approached with a slow shake of his head as he examined the scene. "This is a nasty one. Judging by the methods and the traces, it's clearly the work of the demons."
No kidding.
As mad as the world had become, no one else would slaughter a village of this size.
"Any survivors?"
"…None."
It wasn't as if this was the first ruined village he'd ever seen. But this time, his mood was fouler than usual—because they had visited this very village only weeks before.
A demon scouting party found this place while we were staying here.
They had dispatched the scouts in an instant and saved the villagers. He still remembered it vividly: the village chief clutching his hand with those deeply wrinkled fingers, weeping as he swore that the White Tower would be his benefactor for the rest of his days.
"…Persistent bastards."
Once the demons marked a target, they never gave it up. Even in failure, they would repeat and repeat until they succeeded. Such relentless tenacity—that was the lesson he and the White Tower mages had learned in blood that day.
I should have evacuated them to a major city no matter what it took.
Even if the villagers had protested—this was their lifelong home, they would have said—he should have overridden them and forced the evacuation. It would have been the right call. But he had failed to foresee this outcome, and that error in judgment still weighed on his chest like a stone.
"…"
Wearing a hollow expression, Oscar turned his head to one side.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The corpses scattered throughout the village began shuffling toward him.
Needless to say, none of this had actually happened.
…A corrupted dream.
Oscar watched the advancing legion of the dead with translucent eyes. Among them, he could even make out the figure of the village chief, with those deeply wrinkled hands.
When morning came, his eyes opened on their own. The clock read six a.m. He'd slept a good seven hours, though he couldn't quite tell whether the fatigue had lifted.
If anything, it feels like it's piled up even more.
Fair enough. He'd spent the entire night brawling in his dreams with zombies that possessed magic resistance.
After washing up briskly, Oscar stepped out of the annex, and the frigid air plunged deep into his lungs.
"Whoa."
The snow had fallen heavily through the night, and the world beneath a brilliant blue sky had been painted pure white. As he admired the pristine landscape, Oscar made his way slowly down the snow-covered path.
Crunch. Crunch.
Each step left footprints behind him. It made him feel faintly guilty, like he was committing some small sin—and yet, somehow, it put him in a good mood.
"Hmm?"
A short while later, Oscar visited the garage, intending to head into town, and cocked his head. Bill, who was supposedly always there outside of the early morning hours, was nowhere to be seen.
…Maybe he's a heavy sleeper?
Waking a man sleeping soundly felt rude, but just standing around waiting felt awkward too.
I'll jog into town. Kill two birds with some exercise.
Thirty minutes would be plenty to reach the town at the foot of the hill.
Only a few minutes after Oscar had broken into a brisk run did he feel the first whisper of something off.
"…"
No one was around.
Even accounting for the early hour, not seeing a single soul was strange. Accelerating his pace, Oscar shot down the hill and arrived in town in no time.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
His voice echoed through the empty streets. Nothing answered back.
In this entire city, he was the only being making a sound.
This is definitely…
Something was terribly wrong. His expression hardened at once, and from that moment, Oscar began tearing through the shopping district like a madman. Every shop had its doors shut, the streets were deserted, and even the plaza with its fountain stood utterly empty.
"Haa… haa…"
After sprinting for what felt like ages, the first place he found people was the inn.
"Hey—are you all right?!"
Dozens of people filled the dining hall on the inn's first floor, but every one of them was slumped asleep in their chairs at the tables. One man was even frozen mid-bite, a fork still in his hand, food in his mouth, fast asleep.
"Pardon me a moment."
Oscar placed a hand on one man's head and let his mana flow into him. His eyes narrowed.
…It's magic.
The people hadn't fallen asleep for no reason. This was magic—and of such a high caliber that the current him couldn't hope to dispel it.
Which means someone cast this spell over the entire city. Over more than five thousand people.
Nothing short of a high-tier mage, at minimum, could pull off such an absurd feat.
But that raised another question.
Why am I the only one awake?
Sure, he'd been a great mage in his past life—but right now he was nothing more than a mere 3rd-Level beginner mage. If a high-tier mage had unleashed their power in earnest, no amount of resistance should have been possible.
Which means…
It had to be a special kind of magic—something with a connection to him, specifically.
Just as Oscar's thoughts were about to touch on a certain point—
Crunch. Crunch.
Footsteps sounded from outside the inn. Naturally, Oscar immediately ducked behind the bar, suppressing both his mana and his presence.
"Hmm?"
Ring-a-ling.
Then, with the chime of the small bell hanging on the door, someone entered the inn.
"Strange. I'm sure I heard something over this way."
The voice belonged to a man, light and fairly casual in tone.
Creeeak. Creeeak.
Every step the man took made the worn floorboards groan, the sound ringing through the silent room.
Consistent stride, even weight distribution.
In other words: someone trained in combat. A knight, perhaps—or a veteran mercenary.
"Was I imagining it? Well, no point. No one could possibly be awake."
So he definitely knows something about this situation.
Subdue him first, then interrogate.
The instant Oscar finished deliberating, his ring flashed.
"Hah!"
At the same moment, the man whipped around and swung his sword. But the figure his blade cut through dissolved into wisps of hazy smoke.
"…An illusion!?"
The moment he realized he'd walked into a trap, a powerful gust erupted from behind and slammed him into the wall.
BOOM!
He smashed clean through the wooden wall and tumbled out into the snow-covered street, spitting up blood.
"Gah—khh! A mage? Then how… how the hell are you awake?"
"I'm the one asking questions."
Oscar stepped out through the hole in the wall and fixed the man with an icy stare. "Answer me. What did you do to these people?"
"Keh. Want to know that badly?"
The man rose unsteadily to his feet and smirked. Oscar shook his head.
"No, forget it. Better to beat the answers out of you."
"Hahaha! Getting cocky because you landed one little ambush, are we, brat?"
The man's grin twisted, and in a flash, his sword came around.
"A mage leaving himself open at this range—go to hell!"
Sword aura?
A faint but unmistakable layer of mana coated the incoming blade. So his opponent was a genuine expert, capable of wielding sword aura.
Judging by how pale it is, maybe a 4th-Level?
As always, Oscar moved to deflect the blade with a Wind Shield—then abruptly revised his plan. Pale or not, he knew better than anyone how devastating sword aura could be.
Ordinarily, dodging would be the only correct answer. But…
With the artifact his master had left him—the Breeze—there was no need.
Snatch! Oscar caught the incoming blade with his bare left hand.
"Wha—what the…!"
The man's eyes bulged wide, on the verge of tearing. His gaze darted instantly to his opponent's hand.
He's bare-handed?
Gripping sword aura with a naked palm and coming away unscathed? That meant this opponent was on an entirely higher level than himself.
Could he be a high-tier mage?
The moment alarm bells shrieked through the man's skull, Oscar murmured:
"The morning wind is cold. Cold enough to cool that boiling killing intent of yours."
"…What?"
"Wind Dart."
For a heartbeat, his low voice spread across the hollow street. Then a tearing scream burst from the gaping mouth of his wide-eyed opponent.
"GAAAAAAAAGH!"
It was the same spell he'd used to torture Gordon back in the day—a technique usable only at close range, one that forced wind into the victim's body and shredded it from the inside. This magic, without question, delivered the most excruciating agony an ordinary human could never experience in an entire lifetime.
"KYAAAAAGH!"
The man screamed so loudly it was a wonder his vocal cords survived. After a while, trembling all over, he began to beg.
"P-please… I'm begging you… please…"
Withdrawing the wind, Oscar looked down at the gasping man. "If you're ready to talk, nod your head."
"Kh… khh… khehe… khekek…"
What had first sounded like sobbing gradually warped into laughter. As Oscar's eyes narrowed, the man lifted his head and cackled like someone who had lost his mind entirely.
"…What's so funny?"
"Heheh, you stupid bastard. You think I'd actually answer? Just kill me. Nothing's going to change either way."
"…"
He withstood this torture?
Not to brag, but this was not the kind of pain an ordinary willpower could endure.
In my experience, only two kinds of people ever held out against this.
The first were the unshakably strong—those whose resolve never wavered even with a blade at their throat. The second were the already broken—things so far gone that calling them human would have been a stretch.
"Kheheh… heheheh."
Anyone could see this man was the latter.
Pressing his lips into a tight line, Oscar grabbed the man by the collar and shook him.
"Answer me! What did you do to these people?"
"Heheh. See this?"
The man held out the ring finger of one hand. As he channeled mana into it, the finger turned jet-black.
"I'm a member of the Black Finger."
"…Black Finger?"
At the name of an organization he'd never once heard of, the man's eyes went round with disbelief.
"Kek, so you really are a clueless country bumpkin. Then listen well. We of the Black Finger are…"
The man lowered his voice to a whisper.
"…the gathering of those who worship the Great Emperor."
"…What?"
The Great Emperor.
The instant that word left the man's lips, a killing intent so thick it choked the air coiled around the entire street. At the same moment, Oscar's eyes sank dead cold, and he spoke in a voice like frost.
"Worship who, exactly?"