022 The Realm of Nightmares (1)

Pale hands, fingers devoid of warmth, icy fingertips drifting through the air, reaching out in a chilling sweep. Disheveled long hair hung loosely, vacant eyes stared ahead—eyes without pupils. Upon opening her own eyes, Lady Luo found herself confronted by such a scene: an ethereal figure, eerily suspended and floating.

It was a vengeful spirit—this state could only belong to someone who had died and transformed into an entity of resentment. Lady Luo waved her hand to dismiss the strange apparition, then abruptly sat up.

If it was a vengeful spirit, then what was she? She patted herself, but felt nothing at all.

She glanced around. “Where am I?” Everything she could see seemed to float, ethereal as if in a dream, unreal and insubstantial. A word suddenly came to her—“dream.” This place was as unreal as a dream, yes, she must be within a dream. Only in a dream would she appear in such a state.

Her memory returned to the last moment of clarity, to the final time she saw that face—half-smiling, half-mocking.

It was him. It must be him.

“Feng Buchuan,” Lady Luo whispered his name, as if suddenly realizing: someone capable of drawing her so easily into a vengeful spirit’s dream. Only he could do such a thing.

The Dream God, one of the three great sovereigns of the Underworld.

Feng Buchuan was the Dream God. Was he the first barrier arranged by the King of the Underworld?

That must be it. If she became lost in a dream and could not escape, there would be no need to proceed further along the path through the Underworld. Certainly, that was the case.

Later, Lady Luo would learn the Dream God acted on his own initiative. But by the time she uncovered the truth of those years, many years had already passed.

No wonder, from the moment she entered the Underworld, she felt a sense of unreality. The first moment of strangeness was, in fact, her stepping into a dream created by the Dream God. Later, her sudden awareness prevented her from sinking further, but at the time, she felt a powerful barrier nearby. If one was the Dream God’s dream, who was the other?

On the ferry, Feng Buchuan had watched her throughout; when their eyes met, she had unwittingly entered the dream he conjured.

“Niao Niao,” Lady Luo thought of Niao Niao, recalling the moment before she fell into darkness—Niao Niao seemed still conscious. If she was in a dream, where was Niao Niao? Had it encountered danger?

Could they be caught in the same dream? Lady Luo stood, attempting to search for Niao Niao’s trace, but found nothing. She tried to sense Niao Niao’s presence, but again, there was nothing—no perception at all.

“Feng Buchuan, you must not harm Niao Niao. If you do, I will never forgive you.” Not seeing Niao Niao, she presumed it had fallen into another dream.

The vengeful spirit she had waved away reappeared, once again extending its freezing fingers—but this time, they reached for Lady Luo’s throat, charged with fierce killing intent, suffused with the resentment of a soul unwilling to die, gripping her neck.

Lady Luo pried each finger loose, hurling the spirit away.

Yet swiftly, the vengeful spirit drifted toward her once more, its murderous aura even stronger. Such was the power of a vengeful spirit: all the unwillingness before death transformed into a destructive force, intent on annihilating all life it encountered. Especially so, for this was the dream of a vengeful spirit—a dream constructed from its obsessions when living.

In this dream, the vengeful spirit was the master, and Lady Luo realized she was the intruder.

She strained to recall all she could about dreams of vengeful spirits. How could she break free from this dream?

Obsession—only those who died with lingering attachments became vengeful spirits. But what was this spirit’s obsession?

Icy fingers, chilling touch, drifting endlessly between heaven and earth, unable to reincarnate, unable to be reborn. Only wandering this cold world, reduced to a wandering soul.

And this dream was the distilled embodiment of its obsession in life.

A world of cold, devoid of warmth. Did it die because of the snow disaster?

The vengeful spirit’s murderous aura grew stronger. The temperature around Lady Luo plummeted; she felt her fingers trembling. Though still in a dream, the despair brought by hopeless cold penetrated her.

When the spirit again seized her throat, Lady Luo blocked its hand, then pressed her left palm against its heart. She needed to understand its obsession, or she would never escape.

Amidst blinding snow, a solitary woman trudged alone. The winding mountain paths were covered in snow, the peaks radiating a sense of death.

Lady Luo followed the woman’s footsteps closely. Yes—she had entered the vengeful spirit’s most unresolved memory from life.

The woman’s steps grew heavy, until at last she could not go on, collapsing weakly to the ground. Yet she clung fiercely to the bundle in her arms, determined not to let it fall.

The small bundle moved—what was inside?

A faint crying, the sound of an infant. The cries were so weak, as if the next moment would be their final breath.

The woman struggled to rise, failing after several attempts.

She did not stand, but still shielded the bundle, protecting the baby within.

After a long time, she managed to stand again, staggering to a mountain cave. The entrance was nearly blocked by snow, save for a narrow gap—snow still fell.

She summoned her strength, needing a place to shelter from the storm. Fortunately, she cleared the snow from the entrance, carried the infant inside.

The cave was far warmer than outside. She found some wood—perhaps this had been a forester’s resting place, but the blizzard had buried nearly everything, and survivors were few.

She used leftover flint to light the wood, warming the cave further.

Only then did she cautiously unwrap the bundle. The baby inside was so fragile; sensing his mother’s presence, he opened his eyes. Ebony, lively eyes turned to her loving face—he smiled.

Such a pure smile, so starkly contrasted with the cruel, deadly world outside. Innocent laughter expressed his yearning for life.

Gradually, the infant began to cry, and the woman’s face showed her pain. The environment was perilous, food scarce. She cut her own finger, allowing blood to drip; the infant suckled his mother’s finger, feeding on her life’s blood. She was nourishing her child with blood.

Witnessing this, Lady Luo’s eyes grew moist. She thought of her own mother, her ancestors who perished on Sunset Mountain.

The infant drank the blood, perhaps unaware that every mouthful consumed his mother’s life.

The woman showed no pain, smiling as she watched her child sleep.

There was no food in the cave; the rations she brought dwindled. Her body grew weaker.

Lady Luo watched helplessly, wondering, Where was she going? But another question arose: Why was there no rescue?

Judging from the memory’s setting, it should have been the time to go to Sunset Mountain. Orders had been given—search for survivors. From the timing, the operation should have begun. Yet she felt no sign of power from the Goddess of the Earth’s temple. Who governed this place?

Where had things gone wrong—was her order not delivered, or was there another reason?

Lady Luo watched powerlessly as the mother’s life faded, her breath nearly gone. The infant still suckled, but the blood was nearly spent—its life slipping away as well.

Mother and child teetered on the brink of death. Snow at the entrance piled higher, sealing the cave. If they did not leave, they would be trapped inside.

Lady Luo wondered—if this was how they died, why was the obsession so fierce?

The woman forced her eyes open, pinched herself hard—perhaps pain restored her clarity.

She looked at the infant, wrapped him up again, straightened her clothes, struggled to her feet, and moved toward the cave entrance. She walked the snowy mountains.

Lady Luo longed to help her, but could not.

The woman pressed on, darkness falling. In the night, a solitary figure, a silent soul trailing behind.

The woman’s body radiated vitality; with no external help, she could only give herself hope, pressing onward, believing salvation lay ahead.

Lady Luo followed, wondering—where did she wish to go? Why did the destination seem so familiar?

She pressed forward; wind and snow erased all trace of her passage. The night deepened, the cold intensified, the storm grew fiercer.

Yet she kept advancing. The infant’s weak cries reminded her another life depended on her rescue.

At last, a palace appeared ahead. Seeing it, Lady Luo’s heart jolted—was this the place she sought?

The woman reacted with joy and relief—she had survived to reach this place.

Cold seeped deeper into Lady Luo’s heart as she gazed at the palace. The doors remained tightly shut.

The woman knocked, but received no response. She appeared surprised, tried again, still nothing.

Fear crossed her face—she refused to give up, pounding the door as if it were her last hope. The infant, startled by her actions, cried feebly.

In the cries was a last, desperate hope—a wish that the gate between life and death would open.