"Dear Officer, I'm a veterinarian… Well, you might not know how lucrative this profession is in Backlund. In short, it's far more profitable than most doctors. After all, the pets of noble families are worth hundreds of gold pounds at least, and you know, many so-called respectable gentlemen and ladies don't have that much in their entire savings."
"And?" Dunn nodded slightly, following Snow's lead.
"And? A young, wealthy, and good-looking man having a bit of charm with the ladies is perfectly normal, right?" Snow gestured flamboyantly, exuding a roguish charisma.
Dunn, an experienced Nighthawk, had delved into countless dreams and was no stranger to such theatrics. Before he could respond, Snow's demeanor suddenly dimmed, like a painting losing its vibrancy. In a tone akin to a drunken rambler, he continued, "But who could've guessed that woman was the mistress of a Waltz Party boss? If I'd known her connections, I wouldn't have touched her with a ten-foot pole! I even suspect they set me up! Let me tell you, Backlund's gangs aren't like Tingen's petty thugs—they're the real deal, killing without batting an eye!"
As Snow's emotions veered toward hysteria, Dunn quickly interjected, "If you're that afraid, come with me to the station. Once we confirm you're in the clear, we'll offer protection."
"The station? Fine. Do you have private cells? Preferably one where no one can visit! Oh, and the food better be decent—fish and chips are the bare minimum. You can't expect a middle-class man earning over 50 pounds a month to eat slop…" Dunn's lips twitched at Snow's words. He'd seen dream logic derail before, but this level of theatrics was a first.
Still, he didn't lower his guard. Maintaining the dream's flow, he escorted Snow toward the station.
…
About fifteen minutes later, when Klein saw the Captain and Leonard reappear at the inn's entrance, his tension eased. As they climbed back into the carriage, he couldn't help but ask, "How'd it go?"
"In the dream, he acted normal, with no obvious contradictions in his words. I gave him multiple chances to flee, but he remained compliant, even hiding behind me during a dangerous moment, as if I were the safest place. That aligns with what you'd expect from a moderately wealthy civilian trusting the police," Dunn replied.
"Right, only someone guilty would seize a chance to run—like I did…" Dunn's words stirred memories of Klein's own dream experiences, prompting a wry thought. He turned to Leonard.
Catching Klein's gaze, Leonard shrugged. "No extraordinary items in his room. No signs of climbing on the windows. There was perfume in his luggage, but just regular men's cologne—not the essential oils or hydrosols used in ritual magic. The only thing remotely occult is a silver antique dagger, but it's just three or four hundred years old, nothing extraordinary. If there's anything off about him, it's that he's too handsome! Only slightly less dashing than me… Okay, fine, I'll admit he's a tad better-looking."
Leonard's characteristic levity lightened the mood. As the carriage rolled forward, their conversation shifted to Klein's upcoming onboarding task…
Watching the carriage depart, Snow, now free from the dream, gently stroked his black kitten as it licked its paws. Though he was likely in the clear, he remained vigilant, sprawling lazily on the bed, lost in thought.
"Hanass Vincent is dead, and I've intercepted the notebook. The two events that would've weighed on Dunn's mind are gone. Now, let's see how that hack of a scriptwriter rewrites the story…"
As Snow mused, an image of a white horse made of clouds galloped through his mind. With its thundering hooves, whispers began to echo in his ears—
"Lord of the Mysteries is just a novel. Many have read it without being tainted or watched by higher beings, so I won't be tainted or watched for knowing its story…"
The layered, repetitive whispers battered Snow's nerves. His spirituality drained like a breached river, yet, bizarrely, a quarter of his total spirituality was siphoned every second, only for it to stabilize at three-quarters capacity.
The whispers persisted for a full minute before fading. Snow exhaled, emerging from his half-meditative state.
"Damn that cursed pen! It's going to be the death of me. Can't a writer catch a break?"
Rubbing his throbbing temples, Snow steadied his mental state. The Lord of the Mysteries world was a brutal place—no overpowered cheat code, no matter how grand, guaranteed survival for a transmigrator.
Yes, Snow was a transmigrator, and a particularly unfortunate one. In other worlds, knowing the plot was like having a key to boundless resources. In the Lord of the Mysteries world, knowledge itself was a poisoned chalice!
Transmigrating here was bad enough, but the worst part? The moment he awoke, he faced a deranged beauty pushing a viscous, bubbling green liquid toward him—straight out of Gul'dan's cauldron, no less. It was practically a "Drink this, it's your fate" moment.
Thankfully, his cheat was formidable, or he'd be another lunatic in that beauty's entourage by now.
As for his cheat? It was no small thing. First, a Source Matter called White Horse, Not Horse. Second, the corresponding Sequence's Uniqueness—One Foot of the Staff.
This Source Matter and Uniqueness didn't belong to the original novel's twenty-two pathways or the foreign sequences from the cosmos mentioned in the story.
If Snow had to classify it, it felt more akin to the pre-Blasphemy Slate promotion paths of supernatural species—
In other words, "cross-pathway potion consumption."
(End of Chapter)