“You were just waiting for me and that barbarian to maul each other so you could swoop in and reap the spoils, weren’t you?! Seeing me standing here in one piece—does that disappoint you?!” Eleanor’s shrill accusation seemed sharp enough to pierce the Spire’s stone walls.

Sigismund, who had her finger practically on his nose, almost rolled his eyes. If Eleanor truly had the ability to drag Alamar into mutual destruction, he wouldn’t mind playing the fisherman once.

Unfortunately, she clearly didn’t.

Even so, Sigismund was in the wrong this time; the Blood Knights had responded slowly, and he had no excuse.

But he had difficulties he couldn’t speak of.

The daily “Otherdream[shared dream-space / 异梦]” connection forced him to remain in the ritual’s magic circle for long stretches, and midnight was precisely when the connection occurred.

Say what you would—Alamar daring to launch a night raid at midnight really was courting death.

Sigismund had been helpless then. He couldn’t simply rush out himself, lead the Blood Knights into the charge, and then suddenly collapse mid-battle—only to have to expend his mental strength inside the dream to deal with those bizarre Pujis.

Even dispatching the Blood Knights just to scare Alamar off had been a major risk.

One misstep, and his knightly corps might have suffered another heavy blow.

Eleanor knew none of this, and Sigismund didn’t care to tell her.

Thus, from Eleanor’s perspective, it was obviously Sigismund deliberately using her and her troops as bait to grind down Alamar. How could she not burn with rage?

In the end, Eleanor flung out her hand in fury. “Don’t even think about asking me for slaves again. Whatever trick you’re playing—play it by yourself!”

Sigismund: “…”

Watching her storm off, Sigismund’s face darkened as he turned to look beside him.

There stood the warlock Margas—vacant-eyed, breathing faintly, silent from start to finish.

Both the captives used for the ritual and this warlock himself seemed close to their limits.

By now, he couldn’t help suspecting this was all a trap Alamar had laid for him.

Could that cold-blooded man really have not only watched his wife die little by little back then, but now even use his own daughter as bait?

If so, then losing this round wouldn’t be unjust.

The tug-of-war on the dream battlefield dragged on day after day, with no glimmer of victory. He didn’t know what method the other side was using.

But it was time to abandon this ritual.

…

…

…

“My lord, as long as you don’t launch active incursions, the slaves’ mental strength won’t be consumed too much,” Margas said after regaining clarity.

“No. I’m asking how to sever the ritual link completely,” Sigismund asked with a frown.

“I told you—it can’t be stopped,” Margas said, face crumpled, voice weak.

“How can there be a ritual that cannot be stopped?” Sigismund’s tone was icy.

“You aren’t linked to each other—you’re both linked to the Otherdream itself! Until one side’s spirit is utterly destroyed, the connection absolutely cannot be cut! There’s only one way…”

“You mean…”

“Eliminate the opponent’s body. With no vessel, the spirit dissipates naturally.”

“What kind of ‘way’ is that…”

The humans had clearly begun to respond already. Would they still leave him a chance for assassination at a time like this?

Even Sigismund himself didn’t believe it would succeed.

But he still had to try.

“In fact, there’s another way to delay things for now,” Margas added.

Sigismund gestured for him to continue.

“An illusory-dream potion brewed from Beautiful Dream Flower.”

“…”

So in the end, he himself had to take the potion?!

In the end, while setting an assassination plan in motion, Sigismund also ordered Margas to keep searching for other means to break the link—or shortcuts to win quickly in the Otherdream.

He summoned his apothecaries to see if they could secure ingredients and brew the potion.

And he would also find a way to obtain another batch of captives—in comparison, that was the simplest and most straightforward task.

—

At midnight, Lin Jun clocked in on schedule, his consciousness plunging into that familiar dreamscape. “Dun-dun-dun-dun! Your boy makes his dazzling entrance! This time it’s—holy crap!”

A gale laden with coarse sand slapped Lin Jun’s mushroom cap. As far as he could see, there was nothing but boundless, scorching yellow dunes, the blazing air warping his vision.

A desert this time!

The environment kept getting worse. Even if Inanna’s mental strength itself hadn’t been damaged, watching the Puji army fight in the dream every night had piled up no small amount of pressure—now mirrored by the increasingly barren dream scene.

He rapidly swelled into a sturdy green Puji and, with stubby legs pumping, pu-ji pu-ji, he ran up a giant dune. Peering into the sand-hazed distance, he finally caught a glimpse of a small oasis.

Sure enough, Inanna was there—barefoot at the water’s edge, playing by stepping on Pujis in the shallows.

Lin Jun masked his presence and silently alighted behind a few clumps of drought-hardy shrubs at the oasis’s edge, starting his nightly routine—kneading mushrooms. [slang for producing Pujis]

He didn’t know how much time passed before the familiar tremor arrived. The dream’s edge linked again—the Otherdream had begun!

Lin Jun deftly arrayed the Pujis into a defensive formation, bracing for impact.

What would appear this time?

Giant venomous scorpions?

Burrowing lizards?

Or something even more interesting?

But as the seconds ticked by, the expected frenzied assault did not come. The desert remained deathly still, only the hot wind keening across the dunes.

What’s this supposed to be?

A feint to lure the tiger from the mountain? [idiom: “调虎离山,” to lure someone away from their stronghold]

He detached a small detachment of Pujis to scout, stepping cautiously onto the opponent’s dream territory.

There were scorpions, yes. Lizards, too. Every kind of desert-themed monster.

But all of them… were turtled up in place.

Using sandstone outcrops, caves, and other favorable terrain, they’d taken up tight defensive positions with no intention of attacking.

Did the “player” go to the latrine?

Or call a truce for the day?

Like hell he’d agree!

He had squeezed this much mental strength into the link with great effort—if he didn’t spend it, wouldn’t that be a waste?!

If the enemy wouldn’t come, he would go to them!

Leaving roughly one third of the Pujis to guard the pink Pujis still blissfully splashing about, he led his main force on a grand offensive.

Melee Pujis up front; ranged—uh, here’s too low… and here… hmm… hmm… Full charge!

In the end, Lin Jun suffered a rather ugly loss ratio—of course, that was because it was his first time on the offensive, and he lacked experience.

What was strange was that the other side truly showed no will to fight. Even when he took heavy losses, they never tried to counterattack or swing around to ambush the pink Pujis.

Had they finally reached their limit?

Keeping to the fine tradition of “play deaf when losing; yap nonstop when winning,” just before the Otherdream ended—and whether the other side would receive it or not—Lin Jun sent his first message across, laden with “kindly” greetings:

“You’re not… chickening out, are you?”