Chapter 266

The influence of nightmares isn’t limited to just the mind.

Cold sweat drips down, the heart races wildly, blood pressure spikes, and pains erupt from overstrained muscles, causing severe cramps. Unbeknownst to oneself, hands clench so tightly that nails dig into flesh.

This happens because it’s the mind that drives the body.

If the mind can be affected, then it can also impact the body.

If even a fleeting dream can leave a brand like a hot iron, then killing the person becomes a real possibility.

Curses that harness dreams work on such principles. They breach the mental barriers against intrusive, chaotic forces, allowing evil spirits to invade and lure people toward death.

A person cursed by this is stripped of their physical form by malevolent spirits that infiltrate through dreams, leading to a breathless demise in their sleep.

They may spring up while asleep, leap from rooftops, or toss themselves over railings. With cautious steps, they might find themselves plunging into deep waters, devoid of any places to stand, or release gas and ignite it, causing their home to explode.

At times, they might even control their hands to choke themselves to death…

Truly, it’s a terrifying curse.

But there’s an ironic twist.

This curse… this black magic lacks the power to harm a person on its own.

The nightmare-related curse merely exploits the nature of evil spirits.

It’s the evil spirits that ensnare people.

It’s the evil spirits that seize control of the body.

And it’s the evil spirits that drive people towards death.

The dream curse exists solely to let these malevolent entities infiltrate.

Isn’t it laughable?

That a curse capable of killing someone in their sleep ultimately hinges on the power of evil spirits to cast that curse.

That’s why the dream curse, like a brief flicker of divine purity, fades away.

The more people spread it, the more shamans learn of it, the quicker it dwindles.

Eventually, the dream curse, a method of “breaching the mind’s defenses through dreams to let evil spirits invade,” became something fit for textbooks.

Obsolete.

A curse devoid of any efficiency.

A form of magic no one dares to use anymore.

Like the setting sun, it’s now a type of magic that no one seeks out.

Yet even in the old and abandoned, there can be a semblance of usefulness.

The Creator did not create anything without purpose.

Even though humans are foolish and dim-witted, if they keep probing into the uses of what God has created, its utility will eventually reveal itself.

As light guides through the darkest depths,

so too does truth soar down from the heavens to lead the ignorant.

“Every existence has its own reason, and all of this is a grace from God. God did not create the useless, and there isn’t a place untouched by His hand, from the trivial to the sublime, all embody their own reasons and missions. This is the grace of the Creator and the blessings He bestowed.”

And at the end of this, happiness awaits.

“Don’t you think so?”

All of this is profound love.

*

“…!”

When William opened his eyes, he found himself in reality, not a dream.

Reality was different from a dream.

The outfit he wore was a suit, not the ratty clothes from his dream.

Unlike the stench of alcohol from his dream, he emanated a pleasant scent.

There were no evil whales attempting to enter the abandoned hospital.

No savior suddenly appeared to rescue him.

There were no evil spirits threatening him.

Instead of the ominous noises of spirits menacing on skewers, he heard a lovely pipe organ playing.

William had safely returned to reality.

Escaping from the threats of dreams,

and realizing the “prediction” he witnessed.

Yet, one thing remained unchanged…

He was tied up, and he was not safe.

And there was a figure in front of him.

Not a spirit, but a person.

Moreover, someone familiar to William.

“Have you awakened, Young Master William?”

Thomas B. Stevenson.

The Anglican Diocesan Bishop of Winchester and the sixth-ranking priest of the Anglican Church.

He stood before the tightly bound William, sporting his usual warm smile, with an expression brimming with compassion and love.

There wasn’t a trace of malice on his face, and his eyes were filled with empathy and affection.

Thomas looked at William, who was all tied up, as if nothing were amiss.

“….”

Seeing Thomas behave as if everything were perfectly normal left William dumbstruck.

But soon he thought, ‘I’m tied up, and this guy is just standing there watching me.’ He began to shake his body wildly, struggling desperately to free himself. During all this, he made noises through his muzzle, as if demanding this foolishness to stop and to be set free.

“Haha, Young Master. You’re getting overly excited.”

Thomas, noticing his plight, showed an awkward expression, finally ceasing the pipe organ music.

Then he rose from his seat and approached William.

Step.

Step.

He walked towards him in shiny, old shoes, approaching the flailing William, kneeling beside him. He then moved his roughened hands, which had been worn from volunteer work.

“Dear Young Master, if you thrash about like that, you’ll wrinkle your clothes.”

But Thomas’s hands did not reach toward the ropes binding him.

Instead, he adjusted William’s tie and brushed off his crumpled suit.

Then he beamed down at William, who wore a dumbfounded expression.

“Ugh, ugh!”

Of course, William expressed his anger.

Did he think he was playing with him? He shook himself like a madman, even attempting to kick Thomas’s ankle with his firmly bound feet. Watching this, Thomas sighed softly, poking at the wound on his palm with his fingers.

Squelch.

Thud.

Thud.

The sound that fingertips made as they sank into the deep wound was chilling.

Blood welled up from the deep cut, creating a spine-tingling sound.

Just hearing it made one feel as if the pain of poking the wound would reverberate through them, sending chills down their spine.

Yet, Thomas endured that horrific pain with nothing more than a slight twitch of his brow.

His smile remained intact, devoid of any trace of suffering on his face.

“This wound on my palm is akin to a stigmata. The blood that flows from that wound shall carry sanctity and power.”

Thus, Thomas lightly bore the agony, drawing forth a copious amount of blood, positioning the hole in his palm downwards to let it drip onto the floor.

The drops of blood fell on the ground with a soft plop, forming a small puddle. Once there was enough of it, he chanted once more.

“nonne omnes sunt administratorii spiritus in ministerium missi propter eos qui hereditatem capient salutis.”

And then the blood began to stir.

As if vibrating, it trembled, forming curves, with little bumps suddenly rising, as if they were the essences of fingers that transformed into poles, which then intertwined together to form a pillar.

The created pillar slowly grew thinner, twisting in a spiral, appearing sturdier than anything else; it shot up like wood but bent like a whip, resembling the rope held in the hands of the Son of God.

Thomas used the blood rope to wrap around William’s body. Then he effortlessly lifted William and placed him securely onto a chair.

“Ugh!”

Clattering.

Clattering!

Even while seated, William twisted and squirmed in defiance.

As if screaming for Thomas to release this confinement without further ado.

“Oh dear. You seem to be too excited. It would be best to calm down for a moment.”

Thomas spoke to William in an endearing tone.

As if soothing a mischievous child.

He used the blood rope to firmly bind William to the chair, ensuring he wouldn’t topple over, sending the remaining blood down to the legs of the chair, anchoring it to the ground.

To prevent the chair from toppling while William struggled.

Thus, William found himself unable to budge from the chair, tightly bound, unable to escape no matter how much he thrashed about.

Thomas watched this scene and laughed.

It was a laugh that seemed to convey relief at finally feeling at ease.

“Please stay like that for a while. It’s a fine day, and we wouldn’t want your clothes to get wrinkled.”