Chapter 161: The Traveler of Time Steps Out of the Carriage.

Chapter 161 The Time Traveler Steps Out of the Carriage.

For the next two days, the duke's manor seemed to return to its usual calm.

But those in the know understood that Hekate had merely chosen to lie low under the pressure brought by the Prophet—like moss silently spreading in damp, shadowy corners, a thin layer, barely noticeable, yet by the time its presence could no longer be ignored, it had already densely spread, covering the entire room.

She made no further moves, but that did not mean the crisis had passed.

She was simply waiting, patiently waiting for this Harvest Season, destined to end in tragedy, just as she had done for the past decade or more.

Meng Siyou dared not relax for a moment, well aware of the truth that "when the boss is quiet, they're up to no good."

Using the two days before the Harvest Season, he meticulously investigated every corner of the manor, familiarizing himself with the duties, movements, and relationships of every servant, making sure no oddity escaped his notice.

Eight o'clock in the evening.

As the clock chimed, the bustle of servants through the manor vanished once more, leaving only the soft, eerie ticking of the clock hands.

Meng Siyou pushed open the door, certain he had returned to that duke's estate where the living avoided and the dead wandered.

What did this strange space truly represent?

While skillfully using ink to blind the eyes of portraits and sculptures, Meng Siyou pondered the question.

If the entire game world was a nightmare reflected in a painting, could this space be a deeper "dream within the dream"?

Dreams were often discontinuous, leaping unpredictably—perhaps on the surface of His dream, scenes from childhood and the myriad people He had encountered replayed endlessly;

while in the deeper layers of the dream, His subconscious knew that no living souls remained in this land, and only the NPCs who had died on the surface might wander like mindless shells in the depths...

Since this was the deeper layer of the dream, was it possible that more clues were hidden here?

Hearing the sound of something skittering nearby, Meng Siyou immediately ducked into a corner, peeking cautiously from cover.

It was the maid who had fallen to her death, her matted, dry hair framing her face as the long spider legs on her back moved, causing the ends of her hair to sway gently in the air.

Unlike last time, another figure followed behind Mrs. Aisell—Anna, her eyes gouged out, a girl in a bloodstained nightgown.

Even in death, Anna's slender fingers remained deeply embedded in her eye sockets, endlessly digging and scratching, her murmurs unending:

"My eyes... my eyes itch so much... something's growing inside..."

"Can someone... please look... what's in my eyes...?"

Meng Siyou hid in the shadows until the girl's pleading, tearful voice faded into the distance before moving forward again.

Passing through the lavish gallery and grand hall, Meng Siyou climbed the stairs to the second floor. Last time, chased by Mrs. Aisell, he had only managed to explore the first floor in haste. This time, he intended to investigate the second floor.

For the painting's reflection, the studio must hold many memories. It was the first room Meng Siyou entered.

The moment he pushed open the door, a blast of scorching heat rushed at him, making him pause.

On the wall directly opposite the door hung an almost life-sized painting frame. Within it, a fireplace blazed fiercely, its flames devouring greedily the towering pile of coal and wood, casting out light and heat from the canvas.

The enormous painting was alive!

Beside the fireplace, a woven wicker rocking chair swayed gently, occupied by a woman cradling an infant.

Long golden hair flowed like a waterfall over her shoulders, its spiraling curls reflecting the bright firelight. Her head was bowed, lips curved in a tender smile as she held the swaddled infant tightly with one arm while gently patting its back with the other, looking exactly like a loving mother lulling her child to sleep.

The painting was vivid and complete—except for the woman's eyes, which remained unpainted, leaving blank spaces on her face that exuded an indescribable eeriness.

Meng Siyou recognized her: the golden-haired lady standing before the rose bushes in Ernos's earlier painting—the Duchess, Hekate!

"Sleep, sleep, my dear child..."

The rocking chair swayed as Hekate's soft voice echoed through the silent studio, the lullaby's melody paired with unsettling lyrics sending chills down the spine.

"Skin the devout of believers, tailor it into robes for you;

Tear out the maddened hearts of kin, dye your scarlet cloak with their blood;

Burn a city's treasures to forge a crown of splendor for you;

Burn for three days and nights, casting your flawless form in its flames;

Steal the wrath poured forth by the gods, paving your ascendant steps..."

"Sleep, sleep, my child."

Hekate hummed lightly, a pleased chuckle bubbling in her throat. "You were born to rise higher than any other, to become the reflection swimming in the painting, the ruler of colors..."

The infant in her arms was tightly swaddled, its face hidden, but its movements gradually stilled, as if sinking into peaceful slumber.

Hekate caressed the baby's face, then slowly bent down, pressing her ear to its chest, murmuring, "I love you—my dearest child, my most perfect creation."

For a moment, the studio fell silent—but it was merely the calm before the storm.

In the next instant, Hekate raised her hands and, without hesitation, threw the baby into the roaring flames of the fireplace!

The baby awoke with a start, screaming as its limbs flailed weakly, unable to escape the fire's destructive embrace.

As the swaddling burned away, Meng Siyou watched in shock as the infant's tender skin split inch by inch under the flames, yet remained oddly intact—like a shattered statue pieced back together, broken yet whole.

To his astonishment, the flames twisted like snakes along the cracks, seeping into the baby's body.

Soon, the fire in the fireplace faded, shrinking into a listless flicker;

in contrast, the light emanating from within the infant grew ever brighter, liquid fire visibly flowing through its tiny form, yet not a single spark escaped—as though firmly trapped inside a vessel.

The infant gradually ceased its struggles, lying still in the embers.

Now, more than a living being, it resembled a beautiful, creative work of art—or even a newborn tiny sun.

"My child," Hekate murmured, facing the fireplace, her smile never wavering as she witnessed her child's painful thrashing in the flames. Her expression remained tender, loving, and proud. "My child... has finally grown."

Meng Siyou stood stunned.

Was this painting a metaphor for something?

According to Hekate's plan, Ernos would attain divinity in the flames of the Harvest Season.

To the "reflection in the painting," the sacrificial fire might hold a significance unlike any other.

Did the blazing flames in the fireplace represent the original, powerful scepter of the Nature Sculptor?

And by casting the child into the fire, was Hekate implying she would use it as a vessel to steal the "flames" of the realm of reshaping...?

At the same time, Meng Siyou noted that once the flames entered the infant's body, they could no longer escape through the cracks. Did this suggest Ernos possessed a unique constitution—one that allowed magical energy to enter but not escape?

As he pondered, Meng Siyou twisted his ankle slightly, and his heel suddenly kicked against something.

...What was it that had appeared behind him?

A shiver crawled down his spine. Holding his breath, Meng Siyou turned his head and came face-to-face with a deathly pale face!

—It was a multitude of ashen sculptures, blocking the doorway behind him!

These sculptures stood silently in the darkness, their figures tall or short, plump or slender—some were curvaceous and sturdy female figures, others were handsome and upright gentlemen...

Yet regardless of their appearance, all of them had stone-carved, vacant eyes, their arms bent in a gesture of cradling an infant, stiffly swaying in a mechanical rocking motion.

"My child... my dear child..."

Their mouths opened and closed, emitting a soft voice similar to Hekate's. The overlapping words wove together into an impenetrable, suffocating web of what they called "love."

"Mother loves you, Mother is perfecting you..."

"Mother has brought the most precious things in the world before you. Aren’t you happy?"

"How could you not understand Mother’s love? How could you not listen to Mother’s words?"

"Don’t be afraid, don’t suffer. There’s nothing in your mortal past worth remembering. Rest peacefully in Mother’s embrace..."

"You will become Mother’s most perfect child."

Layer upon layer of voices merged, echoing and reverberating, coalescing into a maddening chorus.

A subtle vibration thrummed through the air—as if a timid heart were beating.

It was the reflection in the painting...

Meng Siyou realized belatedly—was *He* afraid?

So, even halfway to godhood, He still feared the tender or stern words of a mother, still remained under the control of this "authority"...

Meng Siyou stood rooted, noticing that the sculptures seemed only to block his path, with no intention of actively harming him.

But before he could sigh in relief, he heard the rustling sound of Mrs. Ethel crawling closer, followed by Anna’s tearful plea for someone to examine her eyes.

Meng Siyou stared blankly into the sculptures’ eyes.

Hell, he was exposed to Mrs. Ethel’s gaze again!

"Quick, take out that omnipotent ink of yours!"

In his mind, Wu Suer let out a laugh, delighted by the chaos.

***

Meanwhile, the Duke’s mansion on the surface of the dream remained abuzz with activity.

A maid hurried past the gallery with a tray, failing to notice that a figure had inexplicably appeared in one of the portraits she brushed past.

A white-haired man strolled leisurely between the frames, his golden-red eyes burning like sunset embers, passing by the ancestors of the Iris family depicted in the paintings.

At one point, Wu Suer paused, as if listening to distant sounds. After confirming that Meng Siyou could handle the situation, he continued toward his destination.

Weaving through one portrait after another, the prophet finally slipped into the Seer’s room.

Inside, several mahogany chests were neatly arranged, their lids half-open, filled to the brim with clothes, books, and toys suitable for a young boy—these were the promised gifts from the Duke to the Seer.

Beside the chests, the Seer sat in an armchair facing the portrait frame, idly fiddling with a miniature carousel toy. Under the intricate gearwork, whimsical wooden horses leaped and spun tirelessly on a colorful disk.

The rhythmic clicking of interlocking gears was the only sound in the room.

Wu Suer paused within the painting, scanning the room, while the Seer outside looked up in return.

After just one glance, the Seer smiled faintly and said with unshakable certainty, "You’re not Wu Suer."

Inside the oil painting, the white-haired, golden-eyed High Priest paused, curious. "How could you tell?"

"To become the final victor, I must understand my enemies better than anyone else."

The Seer replied, "Your essence is far more composed than the real Wu Suer’s—lacking his fury, hatred, and sharpness, tempered in apocalyptic fires."

"Of course, more importantly, if Wu Suer had entered this instance, he wouldn’t have appeared before me so easily. Before the final battle, kings do not meet—to avoid unnecessary conflict or waste. This is an understanding shared among us claimants."

As the Seer spoke, the High Priest in the painting seemed to blur like watercolor. His pale hair and golden-red eyes melted away, colors flowing across the canvas to form another figure.

The superficial disguise faded, revealing a face identical to the Seer’s—only younger.

"Talking to myself feels so strange..."

Yi Fengchu muttered under his breath before greeting the Seer. "Good evening, past ‘me.’"

The Seer corrected his younger self with precision. "To be accurate, I am merely a phantom of the past."

"I’ve already visited the borders of the Iris family’s territory. A high wall divides it—inside lies a splendid garden, a magnificent castle, and a bustling farm, while outside is a lifeless expanse of gray and white."

"Those colorless buildings and rough humanoids are like frozen sculptural models..." The Seer sighed with a hint of mockery. "No, they *are* just models—everything in this world, myself included, is but a reflection of the real world, never truly alive."

Faced with the fact of his own unreality, the Seer remained preternaturally calm, his liquid-gold eyes fixed on his counterpart in the painting. "I’ve been here, reliving this world’s cycle over and over, haven’t I?"

Yi Fengchu nodded, unable to suppress his curiosity. "Have you always been this composed?"

Yi Fengchu himself was not prone to strong emotions, but the Seer’s demeanor was far more stable—so much so that it bordered on uncanny detachment.

"You’re the future me, aren’t you?" The Seer smiled. "Your presence here means my goal, my ideal, was ultimately realized."

"In the face of the world I sought to create, what becomes of me is irrelevant."

After a pause, the serene smile faded from the Seer’s face, replaced by a hint of petulance.

He poked at the spinning carousel toy and added with a frown, "Though next time you weave such an illusion, could you add a Bryce for me? I’d like to see his expression when he receives his birthday gift."

"......"

Still suffering from amnesia, Yi Fengchu naturally had no idea how the historical Bryce had reacted. But following his instincts, he replied smoothly, "He was beaming. It’s rare to see him smile so brightly."

"That’s good."

The Seer breathed, satisfied, as if picturing his young protégé’s delighted expression—though he would never see it himself.

In the quiet that followed, Yi Fengchu stood within the frame, studying his past self.

Briefly, he felt as though he were standing inside a train—one propelled ceaselessly forward by time, never stopping, never turning back. Only the silhouette of the past remained at this waystation, smiling at him through the window.

Yi Fengchu found himself worrying—had he now become the man his younger self dreamed of becoming?

With this uncertainty in mind, Yi Fengchu took a step forward, emerging from the breathtaking landscape painting like a time traveler stepping out of a train carriage and pausing briefly at a transit station.

The two similar faces exchanged a glance, and the Prophet suddenly chuckled, "Want to know what our past selves went through?"

Yi Fengchu stopped before him, giving him an inscrutable look.

The Prophet's smile widened teasingly, "I won’t tell you—if you want to know, go find out for yourself!"

Several snakes on his shoulders hissed, flicking their tongues as if chuckling at their mischief.

With that, the Prophet spread his arms and stepped forward, his figure overlapping with Yi Fengchu’s.

The wind outside the window seemed to halt for a moment.

No—not just the wind. Every person and object in this simulated world froze for an instant. The light piercing through the clouds fixed at a specific angle, the Iris flowers in the garden frozen in mid-sway, and the servants inside and outside the mansion remained frozen in their postures—some mid-step, others bending over—even their half-lowered eyelashes paused at a fixed curve, every expression frozen in place.

With the reflection of the past as an anchor, true Destiny made its presence known.