Chapter 128: Chapter 132: Edge of the Dreamscape
“Would you like to take a look at the edge of your own Dreamscape while awake? What does it look like?”
Duncan said with a smile, but his words sounded to Sherry like a low, tempting call that seemed to emanate from the dark depths of the sea. A shudder rose within her heart, and she instinctively resisted the suggestion, yet an irrepressible urge surged within her—
In this nightmare that had tormented her for eleven years, outside this locked cabin, on that street she had never laid eyes on eleven years ago… what could possibly be there?
She subconsciously took a slight breath and turned her head towards the small window nearby.
A withered, blood-like crimson hue filled the little window, obscuring any view of the street outside—in that dawn illuminated by a great fire eleven years ago, she never managed to glance outside. Thus, in this Dreamscape, the scenes beyond the window remained shrouded in chaotic light, indistinct and vague, even the living room outside this room. Looking through the doorway, all she could see was a dim, hazy darkness.
The Dreamscape reflected her own memories and cognition. Eleven years ago, she couldn’t escape this cabin. Today, eleven years later, was it really possible for her to walk out of this room?
“Can a person really walk around in their own Dreamscape…” Sherry murmured uncontrollably, “I have no idea what’s outside… Could it be just emptiness out there?”
“A Dreamscape is the projection of a person’s subconscious, and the subconscious tends to remember some ‘details’ that even the person is unaware of,” Duncan’s voice came from the direction of the doorway, “Perhaps you were trapped in this room eleven years ago, but the light and shadows from outside the window, the sounds, and the things you remembered through ‘Intuition,’ all fill in your Dreamscape. Among these details, we might glimpse some clues.
“Of course, the decision is yours. If you refuse, I won’t continue to probe into your Dreamscape—I’ll stay here, and rest assured, as long as I’m here, this nightmare will not continue. Sleep peacefully, and tomorrow there will still be a bright morning.”
Sherry bit her lip lightly, then, as if summoning great strength, made up her mind, “I… want to go out and see.”
“Alright,” Duncan nodded, stepping aside to clear the doorway, “I’ll accompany you.”
A Subspace Shadow, a roaming disaster, had proactively offered to walk with her—an invitation that should have been terrifying. Yet, for some reason, Sherry felt a sudden release of tension this time.
It was as if a warm light had suddenly appeared in this endless, dark nightmare, allowing her to relax a little.
She felt she must be going mad, slowly losing her mind in the company of the Evil God.
Duncan followed behind Sherry, and they both stepped through the wooden door of that small room, entering Sherry’s living room from her childhood memories.
The Abyssal Hound was also beside them, looking very tense, carefully watching the surroundings and occasionally cocking its ears to listen, attentive to any unusual sounds from the street.
Surprised, Sherry asked, “What are you doing, Abyssal Hound?”
“Scouting,” replied Abyssal Hound in a grave tone, “We’re moving into unknown territory within the Dreamscape… ahead lies regions that don’t exist in your memory. Theoretically, the further we go, the more likely we are to encounter manifestations of your subconscious imagination and intense emotions. And in a state dominated by fear, these imaginations and emotions tend to create some… less than friendly entities.”
Sherry was amazed, “You know about this too, Abyssal Hound?”
“A bit,” Abyssal Hound shook its head, “I am, after all, a bona fide Profound Demon…”
Duncan, however, wasn’t paying attention to the conversation between Sherry and Abyssal Hound. He was busy observing the living room for any clues.
A hazy, chaotic darkness enveloped the rather shabby hall as if an unyielding mist pervaded the space. He saw wooden shelves placed against the wall, tables and chairs on one side of the living room, and an old wall clock, its hands blurred and twisted like flickering smoke, spinning senselessly round and round.
In the center of the living room floor, deep scratch marks were visible.
They were the traces left by Abyssal Hound when it had burst in years ago.
Beyond that, there was no blood, no bodies, nor any signs of fire damage—the “fire” seemed constrained to the street outside, or perhaps it never spread to the interior of the room in Sherry’s subconscious.
They passed through the living room and approached the main door.
This door was broken with a large hole, only the frame and some fragmented woodwork still clinging to it, clearly also the work of the Abyssal Hound.
Beyond that lay the street devoured by fire.
Sherry suddenly halted.
Having come this far, she realized all at once what it was she truly feared and resisted.
“Sherry?” Abyssal Hound noticed Sherry’s hesitation and curiously lifted its head for a look.
Clamping her lips tight as if she hadn’t heard Abyssal Hound’s words, Sherry stared at the street beyond the door, at that mist pervaded by distorted red light, feeling every cell in her body, every nerve tensing, shrinking back in fear.
It was as if she saw her parents who had never returned after leaving the house, lying right outside the front door. She didn’t even dare to imagine what the scene would look like, didn’t dare to think what might happen the moment she stepped out.
Then, she heard the sound of chains lightly clinking.
Abyssal Hound stepped forward, poked its head out toward the direction of the street, then retracted it.
“Sherry, it’s okay, there’s nothing scary outside, and if there is… you can’t really tell anymore.”
Sherry looked at the Abyssal Hound’s hollow eye sockets with some surprise, and she pursed her lips, “Thank you.”
Then she took a step out, stepping out of the door of her home from eleven years ago.
A thin fog filled the street, and within the thin, dark red mist, the outlines of houses and streetlights could be faintly seen, along with the twisted and undulating road surface.
In the distance, the buildings trembled unnaturally within the mist, their structures burned down to frames by the great fire, presenting shades of pitch black or dark red. Their edges quivered like formless flames, and from time to time, there were crackling and popping noises coming from nowhere, as if the fire was still spreading in unseen places.
Tiny sparks, dust, and ashes floated in the air, mixed with a pungent smell.
Duncan frowned slightly.
The fire on the street had already gone out, leaving only the traces of burning, with ashes everywhere and those suspicious molten piles in the corners of the street, proving the fire’s real existence.
But he didn’t see any clues that might be related to the Sun Shard.
But on second thought, this seemed normal—after all, this was just Sherry’s Dreamscape, a stage woven by her memory, perception, and imagination, not truly bringing everything back to eleven years ago.
With that thought, he followed Sherry at a slow pace down the street that had been scorched by the great fire.
Suddenly, his steps came to a halt.
Sherry turned back in surprise, “Mr. Duncan?”
Duncan furrowed his brows and waved his hand, listening intently to the sounds around him.
Just now, he had thought he heard a faint voice whispering something by his ear.
He listened carefully for a while, then suddenly walked over to a pile of ashes by the roadside.
It was a pile of twisted black ashes with some charred fragments that seemed not fully burned, even with sparks still silently burning next to the ashes. If one looked closely, they could barely make out the outline of a curled-up… “person.”
Duncan stared at the ashes for a long time, then slowly bent down, listening closely—
“…I… don’t want to… die…”
The heap of ashes murmured softly.
Duncan’s eyes widened slightly.
And Sherry, who was following closely behind him, also heard the whisper, her reaction being more straightforward:
“What the fuck is this?!”
Duncan turned back slightly, and Sherry hurriedly adjusted her terms, “Uh, I mean, this is so scary…”
“…I actually prefer the candid you,” Duncan’s mouth twitched. He had been startled by the murmur from the ashes himself but was completely overshadowed by Sherry’s outcry. Then his gaze fell on more piles of ashes on the street.
Quiet, continuous, overlapping voices murmuring accompanied the floating ashes and sparks on the street, entering the ears of both him and Sherry.
“I don’t want to die…” “Help…” “…to go home…” “Who will help me…”
A chilling sensation spread through the bottom of their hearts, and Sherry instinctively moved closer to the Hound, feeling her muscles tense up.
She dared to swing an Abyssal Hound at the Heretics, yet lacked the resistance to this pure eccentric evil.
Moreover, this was her own nightmare—the hardest thing to fight against is always the terror within one’s own heart.
But at that moment, she suddenly became puzzled:
Is this really my nightmare?
Is this purely a Dreamscape? On the “edge of a Dreamscape” that was far removed from her memory and cognition, why were there these “cries for help” that she should never have encountered or imagined?
Sherry looked at Duncan subconsciously but saw that he was also turning his gaze toward her, his deep eyes filled with scrutiny and thought.
“This might not be simply a Dreamscape,”
Duncan said in a grave voice.