novelODS Chapter 46 Dream within a Dream
Chapter 46 Dream within a Dream
The fire spread through Dugu City.
The house was set ablaze, flames licking the greyish-white stone walls, spitting out golden-red tongues in the darkness.
The orange-red light reflected on the sea surface of the harbor, turning the entire seawater into the color of molten iron.
The thick smoke rose high, obscuring the stars, and even the brilliance of the twin moons, Mather and Sequinda, was swallowed by the blackish-gray smoke.
There was a burnt smell in the air, a sweet, cloying odor unique to charred flesh, and an indescribable aura of the dead, like sulfur mixed with rotting flesh.
The cries of war echoed.
A chaotic, torn sound, each note carrying a different emotion.
The sounds of clashing weapons echoed through the air.
The dull thud of an iron sword cleaving through bone, the crisp sound of a steel shield shattering a skull, the splatter of a battle axe cutting into rotting flesh, and the snapping sound of a spear piercing a dead man's torso like a dry branch breaking.
These sounds mingled together, gushing from every alley, every rooftop, and every smashed window in Dugu City, converging into an invisible, noisy, and deafening river.
Lonely City has been transformed into a realm of the undead by Potema.
The flag on the city wall was no longer the silver wolf-head flag of Dugu City, but a dark red flag embroidered with twisted runes.
The streets were filled with the dead.
The skeleton wandered around, its eye sockets burning with eerie blue flames, its steps stiff but unwavering;
The ghouls crawled, tumbling out of broken windows, climbing up from collapsed cellars, and squeezing out from cracks in the walls scorched by flames.
The soldiers of the Imperial Legion were locked in combat with these things.
……
Magnus Septine casually chopped off the head of a skeleton soldier.
His sword gleamed with a dim blue light in the darkness, an enchantment imbued with the power to dispel the dead.
Each strike not only physically destroys the skeletal structure, but also tears apart the necromantic energy that drives it with a more fundamental and primal force.
His sword drew a short arc in the air, shaking off the bone dust and black mist clinging to it, before hanging down at his side.
Magnus was a tall man with broad shoulders and a thick back. There were several deep scratches on his chest armor. His face was angular, with an old scar that ran from his left brow bone to his cheekbone. It was a scar he had left on the battlefield of High Rock when he was young.
His hair was dark brown and cut very short, with his sideburns completely white.
Magnus looked at the Blue Palace in front of him.
The palace stood at the highest point of Dugu City, its gray stone walls tinged with gold and red by the firelight.
The silver wolf-head flag on the tower had long been replaced by a dark red flag embroidered with twisted runes, which now resembled a burning, inextinguishable sail amidst the flames and thick smoke.
He stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the tall, closed, bronze door.
The emblem of Dugu City was carved on the door, which now gleamed with a dark red luster under the firelight.
A soldier knelt before him.
His armor was covered in dust and black mist, and there was a cut on his face from a bone spur, from which blood seeped down his jawline.
He knelt on one knee, head bowed, his voice hoarse but clear.
"Your Highness, all parts of Dugu City have fallen. There are still small groups of undead troops remaining inside the city, and Prince Pelagios is leading us in the final mopping-up operations."
Magnus did not look at the soldier.
His gaze remained fixed on the bronze door.
"I understand," he said.
He sheathed his sword, the sound of the blade rubbing against the scabbard's edge clearly audible amidst the crackling of the flames.
His movements were slow, but steady.
He lifted his foot and stepped onto the first step.
"Your Highness."
A guard stepped forward and stood half a step to his side.
The guard was almost a head shorter than Magnus, but his body was taut, like a bowstring that could snap at any moment.
His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. He looked at the tightly closed bronze door, then at Magnus.
"The situation inside the palace is unknown. Let the soldiers go in first."
Magnus did not stop.
His shoes made a crisp, dull sound as they stepped on the stone slabs.
“It’s alright,” he said. “Potterma is my sister. I know her. She won’t let dirty spirits set foot in her temple.”
Magnus continued upwards.
Behind them, in the square, the soldiers were still fighting the remaining undead.
The sounds of swords cleaving through bone, shields shattering skulls, and flames crackling as they spread across the eaves blended into a chaotic and frenzied symphony.
The main hall of the Blue Palace was very dark.
Moonlight streamed in through the skylight.
It landed on the deep red carpet in the very center of the hall, on the huge stone pillar supporting the dome, engraved with the names of the successive Sepulchin emperors, and on the empty throne where only a woman sat at that moment.
Pale white, cold, like a thin layer of frost.
Magnus stepped into the main hall of the Blue Palace.
His boots echoed crisply and rhythmically on the marble floor.
He stopped in his tracks.
He looked at Portma, his sister.
The woman sat on the throne.
Made of dark oak, the chair back is carved with golden dragon patterns, and the armrests are inlaid with dark red gemstones.
She sat in her chair and ruled the city for nearly a hundred years.
Moonlight streamed through the skylight and shone on Potema's face.
She wore a dark blue long dress, the hem of which spread out at her feet like a still lake.
Her hair was dark brown, coiled at the back of her head, with a few stray strands hanging down from her temples, gleaming with an amber luster in the moonlight.
Magnus stared at that face for a long time.
A century has passed without leaving any trace on Potema's face.
Her skin was still smooth, her eyebrows were still well-shaped, and her lips were still full.
Those deep brown eyes were exactly the same as he remembered.
Even brighter, younger, and more—unreal—than I remember.
Like a painting.
A painting on the wall that doesn't resemble a living person.
"You're getting old, little brother."
Potema's voice came from the throne.
The corners of her mouth curled up slightly.
Magnus looked at her without saying a word.
His hand moved off the hilt of the sword and hung at his side.
"I can't compare to you," he said. His voice was soft and flat, yet carried a complex weight.
Magnus looked at her,
"It seems the rumors were true; you did indeed sign a contract with the Demon God."
Portma did not deny it.
She did not avoid his gaze. She looked at her weathered younger brother, whose deep brown eyes shone in the moonlight like two gems that had not been touched in a long time.
"Mortals are ultimately limited," said Potema. Her fingers curled slightly on the armrest of the throne.
"What's the difference between a demon and a holy spirit?"
Magnus frowned slightly.
"You are Septim, with dragon's blood," he said, his voice harsher than before, like a sword still in its sheath, its blade vibrating. "You have betrayed your god."
"Stop talking to me in that lecturing tone. I'm your older sister." Portma's voice rose, taking on a sharper tone.
Magnus's brow furrowed even more. He looked into Potema's deep brown eyes.
"Father will too—" he began.
"Don't mention that person's name."
Potema's voice suddenly became agitated. She leaned forward slightly from her throne, her hands gripping the armrests, her knuckles turning white.
Her eyes were like two burning flames, consuming and devouring everything.
"That man who only cares about power," she forced out of her throat, "what right does he have to tell me what to do?"
Magnus fell silent.
He looked at Portma, and his lips moved.
He had seen this posture before.
Long ago, in the capital, back when they were still children.
When Potema was fourteen, she broke off her aunt's engagement and married into the Dugu City in her aunt's place.
That night, she stood in her father's palace, wearing an ill-fitting, oversized wedding dress, her hair not yet styled and loose over her shoulders.
Her father sat on the throne, looked at her, and said, "Do you know what you're doing?"
Portma leaned forward slightly, her hands braced on the table in front of her, her knuckles white, and her eyes blazing with anger.
She said, "I know." Then she left.
It's been a hundred years.
She never returned to the capital.
Magnus's fingers curled slightly at the side of his leg.
He opened his mouth, but his voice was softer than he had expected.
"Come back to the capital with me, sister."
Portma paused for a moment.
It was only for a moment. She straightened up from the throne and leaned back in her chair.
She lifted her hand from the armrest and placed it on her knee.
She looked at Magnus, her younger brother who was almost ten years younger than her, a head taller, and whose temples were completely white.
The corners of her mouth curled up slightly.
"Heh, the capital." Her voice was soft, almost as if she were talking to herself. "Let's see how many years it's been. Since I left that hellish prison when I was fourteen—"
"It's been so many years!"
Her voice echoed in the empty hall.
No. I won't leave.
Her voice lowered.
"My foolish brother, do you think you've won?"
Her lips parted in a grin, and Potema laughed, the sound echoing through the empty hall.
The sharp, piercing laughter, filled with thirty years of suppressed anger and resentment, pierced Magnus's eardrums like ten thousand needles.
"Haha, it's still early..."
Magnus's pupils contracted sharply.
His body sprang up in that instant.
He strode forward, his boots making a heavy, rapid sound as they hit the marble floor.
He reached out, fingers spread, and grabbed at the woman on the throne.
He only grasped at the moonlight.
His fingers passed through Portma's body without encountering any resistance, as if passing through a cloud of smoke, as if passing through a beam of light.
Botma's body turned to ashes in the moonlight.
Ashes rose from the throne, swirling slowly and silently in the moonlight.
Magnus's face was very ugly.
His hand was still outstretched in mid-air, his fingers spread, maintaining that "grabbing" posture.
The moonlight fell on his palm, grayish-white, cold, and empty.
He stared at that void for a long time.
Then he withdrew his hand.
He turned around and walked towards the door.
His boots made a crisp, rhythmic sound as they stepped on the marble floor.
The sound echoed in the empty hall, like a farewell song without melody.
……
On the other side of Solitude, Pelagius was leading his soldiers to clear the city of the undead.
His face didn't resemble Magnus's; it was closer to his mother's, with softer lines. But his eyes—the same deep brown as his father's, very deep and bright—looked like two glowing embers in the firelight.
His armor was covered in black mist and traces of bone dust, and his sword had several nicks, marks left from slaying too many skeletons and ghouls.
His breathing was much heavier than usual, but his steps remained steady.
"It's a truly gruesome sight." He stopped and pulled his sword from the chest of a ghoul, a wisp of black mist trailing from the blade, which looked like a writhing snake in the firelight.
He looked down at the black mist slowly dissipating, then looked up at his surroundings.
Everywhere there were broken walls and ruins, burning houses, and buildings that had been smashed and burned down, leaving only empty shells.
There was a sweet, cloying smell in the air, like burnt candy, the distinctive odor of necromancy dissipating.
"The thought of living in this city full of the dead makes me want to vomit."
He flicked away the black mist from the sword, and the blade drew a short arc in the air.
His gaze swept across the end of the street—where several skeletons still roamed, their eye sockets burning with eerie blue flames, their steps stiff but not slow.
An old soldier walked up to him.
The man's armor was much older than Pelagios's; there were several deep and shallow scratches on his breastplate, a hole in his shoulder armor where an arrow had pierced through, and a burn mark on his left wrist guard.
He looked at Pelagios, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
"Your Highness, this is nothing." His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against a stone.
"We besieged Dugu City for ten years. During those ten years, we dealt with these undead every day. Heaven knows how Queen Dugu spent those ten years?" He paused, his gaze falling on the direction of the Blue Palace in the distance.
The palace, illuminated by the firelight, resembled a burning, silent, and enormous tomb.
Pelagios did not respond.
He gripped the hilt of the sword tightly, the notch on the blade gleaming dimly in the firelight.
"Let's get all this annoying stuff cleaned up quickly," he said.
Then he swung his sword again.
The blade traced a silvery arc in the air, cleaving the head of a skull that peeked out from behind the ruins.
Bone fragments scattered like shattered porcelain, somersaulting in the air before landing on the stone slab with a crisp sound, like dice hitting the ground.
As Pelagios sheathed his sword, he caught a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of his eye.
An old woman wearing a cloak.
The cloak was dark gray and old, with the hood pulled low, covering most of his face except for a dry, wrinkled chin that looked like a dried-out fruit.
She stood at the entrance of an alleyway illuminated by flames, her body slightly hunched, leaning on a wooden stick.
She stood there, motionless, like a silent ghost forgotten on a street corner, unnoticed by anyone.
Pelagios's gaze lingered on her for a moment.
The old woman seemed to sense his gaze; she raised her head slightly, and the shadow beneath her hood shifted.
For a moment, Pelagios felt he could see her eyes—eyes that lacked the cloudiness and smudgedness of an old woman's.
She looked at Pelagios with a deep, enigmatic gaze.