Chapitre 325: Entering the Sixth Level
In a dimly lit building near the docks, a hulking two-meter-tall "Giant" listened as a shadow-hidden "Ascetic" gave his report. The Giant's lips twisted into a brutal grin.
The Ascetic, who was in one of his relatively "lucid" hours of the day, hesitated before advising, "The person looking into Lanevus's whereabouts may be intentionally revealing his presence…"
"Hmph! So what? All those other detectives and gang members that tried digging around, weren't they killed just the same? We have to make it clear to those insects that meddling for a few petty pounds will cost them their lives!" growled the Giant, who wore a black cleric's robe, his tawny curls framing predatory, deep brown eyes.
Seeing that his superior was set on this course of action, the Ascetic dared not press further and only ventured a suggestion: "Should we report this to Miss Irene, so she can inform the Divine Envoy...?"
"That's not necessary! The Divine Envoy manages all of Backlund's affairs—these small matters aren't worth disturbing him over. And what's Irene but a loose woman who's indulgent purely for her own pleasure? Such people lack the true piety needed to serve the Lord. She doesn't deserve my reports!" the Giant snapped, his tone laced with disdain.
The Ascetic nodded in agreement. He also held little regard for Irene, but since the Divine Envoy seemed to favor her, he'd thought it worth a mention. With a sigh, he added, "If only it weren't for Lanevus…"
He was interrupted mid-sentence as the Giant's massive fist sent him crashing into a nearby wall. As the Ascetic crumpled to the floor, coughing up blood, the Giant loomed over him and barked, "That's 'the Lord' to you! All He does is a test of our faith! How dare you show disrespect?!"
The Ascetic paid no mind to his injuries. Struggling to his knees, he bowed his head and confessed, "Yes, I am guilty."
"Confessing to me won't help you! Go to the Lord, flog yourself a hundred times to atone for your blasphemy!" the Giant ordered, pushing the door open and heading out to prepare for his night's "hunt."
The Ascetic didn't dare tend to his wounds. Chanting his thanks for the Lord's mercy, he slunk into the shadows, making his way toward the dockworkers' guild to carry out his punishment.
...
In a single-room apartment on Black Palm Street in the East End, Dunn, with the visage of "Iron Man," scanned the room with his dark, sharp gaze. His eyes finally settled on the bed. Though he saw nothing there, he was certain that the Reverend Closfia from the Church of Abundance was present.
"Lady Closfia… is this the battleground you've chosen for me? Are you sure there won't be any civilians involved?" Dunn asked, noting the few other houses in the area as he'd entered.
With his question, Closfia, a Demigod of the Spectator pathway, seemed to break through an unseen barrier, appearing before Dunn as she reclined lazily against the bed's headboard, reading Roselle's Hero series. Barely looking up, she responded, "Rest assured, the surrounding houses are either empty or have been rented out without tenants. No ordinary people are here."
"Why?" Dunn asked, then, as a thought occurred to him, speculated aloud, "Because they're standalone properties?"
"Only partly," Closfia replied with a wave of her hand, setting her book aside. "The main reason is that all the houses here cost more to rent than those in neighboring streets."
"What's special about this area?" Dunn frowned in puzzlement.
"Heh, it's because the house we're in was once rented by Detective Bryan when he'd fallen on hard times. Though he moved after becoming Stanton's student, the property was never relinquished until the Duke of Negan bought back and gifted Bryan's family home to him.
"Detective Bryan is a local legend here in the East End, and many admire him as a role model, so rent around here nearly doubled because of his fame.
"In fact, most of these houses serve as safe houses for certain 'professionals' who believe his reputation keeps this area safer than elsewhere…"
Closfia's tone turned mischievous as she explained, but her eyes were sharp as she took in Dunn's grim expression. She then chuckled and asked, "Your opponent may be a Sequence 6 'Rose Bishop'—are you confident?"
Dunn shook his head at first, then nodded, saying, "With my own strength, merely escaping a Rose Bishop would be an achievement worth boasting about. But with this 'external armor golem' you've provided as an aid, I have a seventy or eighty percent chance of winning with the element of surprise on my side."
He hefted the heavy metal box beside him, his gaze complex as he looked at Closfia. "But… did the golem's design have to be this way?"
"Of course, it did! I had to promise my husband multiple favors he'd refused in the past to get this made for you. The design is fitting, don't you think? And the golem's spirit is even named 'Jarvis.' You should be thanking me," Closfia teased, her expression one of mischievous delight.
Dunn exhaled heavily, his helpless resignation growing as he came to understand this Demigod's love of pranks.
Still, regardless of her motives, he had to admit the iron-clad golem armor was formidable—it was his greatest tool for avenging himself.
Satisfied that Dunn had come to terms with the arrangement, Closfia put aside her playful tone and grew serious. "Playing the role of 'Iron Man' has its advantages. It obscures your real identity, and…"
"Iron Man is a villainous 'Nightmare,' after all!
"If you can establish that reputation, you'll have no trouble digesting your Nightmare potion as long as you make regular visits to the dreams of criminals and pirates. It would even help you embody the characteristics of a 'Soul Assurer.'"
Dunn stared at her in silence, resisting the urge to speak his mind: Lady, I can't tell if you're truly helping me or just setting me up for yet another show.
...
Inside the soaring Dream Labyrinth Tower, Ebner flickered into view, finding himself in the "Reward Chamber," surrounded by shelves of books and rows of tables and chairs.
He'd spent nearly three hours grinding points on the seventh and eighth floors. Familiarity with most of the "labyrinth's plotlines," combined with his " Pure White Eye's" "Analysis" abilities, had made him impressively efficient. If Mr. Gaston knew how high his success rate was, he'd likely turn green with envy.
"Luck's on my side today. Got another 'Conan' scenario—and it's one I know well, 'The Time-Bombed Skyscraper.' Solving that only took me ten minutes.
"With this, I've gathered enough points…"
Satisfied, Ebner clicked a virtual screen that had materialized in front of him. A talisman etched with a sigil resembling a "Door" appeared in his hand.
He studied the charm briefly, then activated the "Pure White Eye," analyzing its structure and principles.
After a while, Ebner closed his "Pure White Eye," a smile appearing on his face as he muttered, "So, it's based partially on the principle of 'Dream Traverse'… no wonder abilities and items above Sequence 7 are restricted on the sixth floor. Keeping the difficulty up is one reason, but preventing challengers from exiting on a whim must be another."
Fortunately, that's not an issue for me. The Tower can't block abilities simulated by the White Eye.
With that confidence, Ebner moved to the entrance of the sixth floor and carefully reread the plaque left by a previous adventurer.
After scanning the last line—"Time flows as in reality on the sixth floor; your lifespan will reduce accordingly"—he took a deep breath and stepped forward.
...
The scenery shifted, and Ebner found himself on an unusually deserted street.
Immediately, he slipped into the shadows, cautiously surveying his surroundings. To his surprise, the street felt both familiar and foreign.
The familiarity came from his location: he stood outside the Intis Embassy on Backlund's West End, a place he'd scouted thoroughly for his analysis of the "Guard Ritual."
Yet it felt foreign because everything else was different.
There were no gas meter stations, no coal-choked parks, and no subway stations or telegraph offices, both of which were usually prominent here. Even the street itself seemed narrower than he remembered.
But as he took in the lavish palaces and towering Gothic clock tower in the distance, unmistakable landmarks of Backlund, he could only conclude that this had to be the embassy—or a version of it.
Just then, a newspaper blew past, and Ebner caught it. A quick glance at the front page confirmed his suspicion:
"The year 1146…"
(Chapter End)
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone