Fifteen minutes later, everyone gathered in the main palace.

Armed with the half-burnt violet-gold incense Roland provided, the Royal Guard pulled the Imperial Archmages from their dreams.

Upon waking, the Archmages were deeply embarrassed, loudly lamenting how they’d utterly lost face. Titans of the magical world, peaks of human strength—trapped in a blissful dream? Unthinkable disgrace!

They swore blood oaths: if they ever met Dimensional Dream, the Heavenly King of the Church of Annihilation, they’d tear him limb from limb.

As for the Severola royals slumbering in the dungeon—Queen Blanche, though non-magical, was a master of pharmacology. With sharp intellect and deep knowledge, she quickly identified the rebels’ weapon: a special drug laced with Severola bloodline essence.

This concoction, common on the black market, targeted noble houses. Mixed with a family member’s blood, it could knock out any blood-relative. Antidotes were simple, and noble families had strong defenses—so few bothered buying it. But this time, the rebels had planned meticulously. Silva had unwittingly handed them the perfect opening.

Thanks to Blanche’s antidote, all sleeping royals awoke and were met by the Royal Guard.

…

In the main hall, Royal Guard members placed a large bed and laid the sleeping Silva and Yenoa upon it.

Onid paced restlessly, face shadowed with fury. Royal kin rebelling? Cultists brazenly invading the palace? His precious daughter in danger? The ultimate insult to the emperor!

Thankfully, Roland’s presence kept things from worsening. Onid even found himself viewing the boy slightly more favorably—less urge to punch him, at least.

The transformation potion’s effect had faded. Roland, no longer disguised as Silva, sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, pondering.

Same dream magic affected everyone—so why could the Royal Guard and Archmages wake, but not Silva and Yenoa?

After the Guard recounted their experience, several scholarly Archmages immediately rummaged through ancient tomes stored in their spatial Arcane Gears.

One white-bearded Archmage finally found a passage:

“The dream realm has always been profoundly mysterious. Some call it a reflection of reality; others, a mind’s illusion. Some believe it’s another dimension, ruled by the Dream God.

Dream magic is the gateway. Once widespread in ancient times, the Arcane Order banned it after dark mages weaponized it for silent killings.

Today, dream magic is rarer than most dark arts. A true master may lack raw power, but can pull victims into dreams—killing them within blissful illusions.

If you meet a Dream Mage: distrust all that seems perfect. You may already be dreaming.”

The text ended there. Likely, the author had never witnessed it firsthand.

Regarding Silva and Yenoa: after long debate, the Archmages concluded—the two were too deeply ensnared in the Heavenly King Dimensional Dream’s illusion. External force couldn’t wake them; only their own will could.

But this dream magic was dark art. Prolonged slumber meant mortal danger. Awakening soon seemed unlikely. Time was running out.

Onid and Blanche paced anxiously, like ants on a hot griddle. Silva was their cherished daughter. Yenoa, though not blood-related, had become family through a solemn promise and over a decade of shared life.

Watching their daughters teeter on death’s edge, powerless to act—it would shatter any parent.

Blanche’s eyes reddened; tears streamed down her cheeks. She suddenly recalled months ago: Silva cursed by Cultist mages who sacrificed themselves. Then, too, they’d stood helpless.

Then, Roland appeared—and used forbidden arts to save her.

*Could he do it again?*

Blanche looked at Roland. Deep down, she believed he could.

At that moment, Roland opened his eyes and flashed a confident grin.

“Everyone,” he announced, “I have a bold idea.

Though I suspect none of you know it—I must ask: have you heard of *Inception*?”

…

Roland engraved a magic array and incantations onto a second mirror.

“Are you certain this mirror can reveal dreams?” Onid asked uneasily.

“Absolutely,” Roland replied, tapping the array. “This setup links to dreams within a five-meter radius.” His hands moved so fast they left afterimages.

Onid said no more. He summoned ministers to handle palace affairs—he would stay by his daughters’ side.

The empire’s hidden royal network activated layer by layer. Operatives across all ranks began feeding intelligence on the Church of Annihilation to the throne.

A Royal Guard member soon reported: “Your Majesty, we found a corpse outside the library. Informants confirm—he was one of the Church of Annihilation’s Three Heavenly Kings. The Cultists ransacked the entire library, searching for something.”

Roland’s victim on the library path was identified. The Seven Protectors’ bodies were recovered—headless, mutilated. Among the rebels’ corpses were Silva’s undercover agents, slain by Cultists. Their families would receive compensation, though grief would linger.

“Searching the library?” Onid turned to Roland, stunned. “How much do you know?”

Roland didn’t look up. “Not the time. We’ll talk later.”

He remembered the Goddess of Creation’s words. Onid knew about the World Stone, Silva’s Primordial Magic, Yenoa’s ancient forbidden magic. A long talk awaited.

Onid shot him an exasperated glare. *No one* spoke to him like that.

Roland finished the engraving, blew away the powder.

“All unrelated personnel, leave now. Who knows what dreams they’re having? Awkward if it’s… *that* kind.”

Most left promptly. Only Onid, Blanche, and a few Archmages remained.

Roland chanted a strangely intoned incantation. The mirrors rose, hovering midair. Their surfaces rippled like water. Images emerged.

Silva’s mirror: young Silva and young Yenoa playing joyfully in the palace gardens.

Yenoa’s mirror: the exact same scene.

Identical.

“Kid, are the mirrors faulty?” Onid frowned.

“The mirrors are fine,” Roland said gravely. “*They’re* the problem.”

His magic was sound. Only one explanation remained.

“Their dreams are intertwined. No wonder the incense failed.”

He began pulling items from his coat: dried bat wings, red-feathered duck skin, snake hide, water ghost whip, gorilla hair…

“Intertwined? What do we do?” Blanche’s voice trembled.

“Don’t worry,” Roland assured her with a steady look. He drew a chalk circle around the bed. “Since they can’t get out—I’ll go in and give them a nudge.”

Arranging the odd ingredients, chanting softly, he finally tossed the chalk aside. He climbed onto the bed, intertwined his left hand with Yenoa’s, his right with Silva’s, and sat cross-legged.

“I’m entering the dream. You’ll see me in the mirrors soon.

If I don’t appear… and they don’t wake… prepare a lavish funeral. And *Yenoa does not get buried next to me*.”

Before Onid could reply, Roland closed his eyes.

Consciousness plunged into darkness.

When he opened them again—everything had changed.

He stood in a place hauntingly familiar…