Chapter 429: Rehearsal in the Shared Dream

Ambrose was deep inside his private workshop, producing schematics and base components in a steady stream.

A few days had passed in the outside world; years elapsed within. By the time his new undead unit types were fully designed, the commanders he had recruited had submitted their assessments.

Three thick battle plans arrived at his desk. He leafed through them without any real attention and activated the magic mirror to connect with the merfolk high priestess.

"It's fairly clear," she said, with considerable diplomacy, "that these land-based commanders have... certain gaps in their understanding. Their plans have quite a few issues."

Though the high priestess' phrasing was measured, her meaning was blunt: these people who fought wars on land didn't know the first thing about the ocean, and their battle plans reflected that lack of understanding at every turn.

Ambrose was unsurprised. Imperfect results were only to be expected with no experience whatsoever.

"Do you really intend to fight this war with these people?" the high priestess asked, concern evident in her voice.

"I can hardly ask you to substitute for them," Ambrose said. "The merfolk can't work too closely with us undead: we both know that."

Ezdolo's position had been made unambiguous. The merfolk could deploy to check the ixiray's expansion, but helping Ambrose occupy the sea was another matter entirely.

The last thing Ezdolo wanted was a significant expansion of undead influence. Ambrose's entire project of ascending Aige to godhood was exactly what she could least accept.

To Ezdolo's credit, she was genuinely neutral. Any other god in her position would simply have ordered the merfolk into open conflict with the undead.

The merfolk could participate under the banner of fighting the ixiray, nothing more. Having them directly command Ambrose's undead forces and help him seize the Sea of Volcanoes was completely out of the question.

Otherwise, Ambrose would have paid the merfolk handsomely and skipped the whole process of recruiting land-based advisors.

Certainly, armchair strategies alone had their limits, and Ambrose had anticipated that his landlocked volunteers would fall short. He had prepared a solution.

"High Priestess, I need to ask one more favor of you. Do you happen to have some free time today?"

The high priestess sighed. "I haven't slept properly in several days, but if it's necessary, I'll manage. I can't teach them naval warfare in a matter of hours, though."

That much was true. She had been running herself ragged with preparations.

The ixiray had already established a nest in the Sea of Volcanoes, and the merfolk had sent a combined force of roca and merfolk to deal with them, a campaign that had so far produced a stalemate.

Though neither side had suffered heavy losses yet, everyone knew this was merely the opening move of a vast war that was unfolding. She was stretched thin already. The only reason she had set time aside to review those battle plans was to help Ambrose deploy sooner and share some of the pressure.

The merfolk could live without a single coral formation in the Sea of Volcanoes, but the ixiray could not be allowed to establish themselves there.

Right now, the high priestess wanted nothing more than a proper night's sleep, and she was beginning to dread whatever fresh scheme Ambrose had in mind. She could feel her mind fraying at the edges.

To her surprise, Ambrose sounded almost pleased. "Perfect," he said. "All I'm asking is for you to sleep."

An odd silence followed. The high priestess reached for her trident, frowning with censure. "Master Megaman, you have ten seconds to explain that statement. Otherwise—"

Ambrose blinked. "Did I say something wrong? I'm simply inviting you to rest. While you sleep, I can bring you into a divine dream realm. You'll be mentally refreshed while being able to accomplish a great deal of work inside the dream, saving enormous amounts of time."

The high priestess understood she had misread the situation. She was clearly running on too little sleep. This was a lich—undead didn't need to sleep for any other reason.

"A divine dream realm?" she asked, curiosity overcoming her embarrassment. "Can you explain in more detail?"

"Have you heard of the Emerald Dreamwood and its Dreamveil Barrier? It works on a similar principle. Every living creature that enters falls into a deep sleep, and even the undead are not exempt. Inside the dream, anything from the real world can be rendered in perfect detail, and time moves at a far faster rate than outside..." He paused. "The specifics are hard to convey in words. It'll make sense once you're inside. Just be ready at the appointed time."

He measured out a small quantity of fine ash-like dust into a container and transmitted it to her. "Inhale a small amount of this when the time comes, and it will bring you into the shared dream."

The high priestess had reservations, but she trusted Ambrose.

"Very well. I'll enter at the appointed time. I'm curious to see what a dream fashioned by a deity actually looks like."

Trusting people without suspicion was simply how she approached the world. She had never been in the habit of attributing bad motives to others.

Ambrose was genuinely grateful. Working with the high priestess was a relief. Aside from Catherine, she was the second person he had encountered who appeared to be entirely free of paranoia.

He terminated the connection and quickly reached out to the tiflings and Lyon, delivering packages of the dream-dust to each and setting a time for the rendezvous.

Finally came the young elven king.

Alderien's expression, as ever, carried a weight of profound grievance. The hatred he bore this lich was the sort that could not be discharged in a single lifetime.

"I notice you have a genuine preference for disturbing people while they're resting," he said with cold displeasure. "Is this standard practice for villains?"

"I had to wait for you to sleep first," Ambrose said, with a trace of exasperation. "Elves are immune to psychic influence when they're awake."

Alderien's expression shifted. "What do you mean by that?"

Ambrose explained the shared dream. Elves, as he noted, were the complication—Catherine had once walked freely through the Dreamveil Barrier with no effect whatsoever, and the same was true of all elves at that tier of power. The dream-dust alone could not compel them into the dream. They had to join willingly.

Upon hearing Ambrose's explanation, Alderien exclaimed, "You want to hold a war exercise inside a dream? And it'll even faithfully reproduce real-world conditions?"

As expected of the elven king, he had intuited all the salient details. James Watson, who had no military background, had received the same explanation with only mild surprise.

Ambrose didn't elaborate further. "Try it and you'll see. The time is set. Don't get so excited that you can't fall asleep."

"I know how to manage myself," Alderien snapped, though inwardly he was already restless.

Dreams were nothing unusual. Strange dreams were nothing unusual. But a dream that could simulate reality in full fidelity—what kind of experience would that be?

And how strong was the lich who controlled it?

Even without the exercise as justification, Alderien had already decided he wanted to enter this shared dream and understand what it was.

Ambrose sent the dream-dust over. He had consulted Leyla specifically on the elves beforehand. As long as they consented, the dust would bring them into the dream, though its hold over them would be weaker than with other races. They could wake themselves through an act of will at any moment.

That was the nature of the blessing the elven gods had given their people: an absolute guarantee of free will, rendering all forced psychic influence null and void.

When the appointed time arrived, Ambrose found a spot on the deck, lay down, inhaled the dust, and went under.

Under Leyla's divine power, he emerged into a breathtaking underwater world. There were vivid coral reefs in every direction, and shoals of brilliantly colored fish drifting through columns of filtered light.

He was not the first to arrive. Several tiflings were already present, staring around them in open astonishment at how real everything all felt.

They could breathe freely beneath the water, yet they felt the genuine coolness and pressure of the sea against their skin. The fish passing nearby were close enough to touch.

None of them had ever experienced a dream this vivid.

When Ambrose appeared, the tiflings turned and greeted him respectfully.

He returned the greeting briefly, then looked at the one standing at the front—a young man. "You're the commander the Unholy Kingdom has sent to this campaign?" Ambrose said. "You look very young."

Due to their infernal bloodline, most tiflings tended not to show their age. But this tifling was clearly exceptionally young. He was barely into his twenties, with an unmistakably childish quality about his features.

"Esteemed Master Megaman, please trust me," the young tifling said, agitated. "I will not disappoint you. I swear it on the name of Mr. Misfortune."

Ambrose frowned. "What gives you the standing to swear on my senior's name?"

The young man straightened. "My ancestor was Mr. Misfortune's own younger sister. Our family had long since abandoned the name Rostov, but Mr. Misfortune restored our honor. I say to you with certainty, Master Megaman: I will not fail you, even if it costs me what is left of my entire lineage."

Ambrose was silent for a moment. "What is your name?" he said. "How many Rostovs yet remain?"

"Not many. Including myself, eight of us are still alive. As for my name, I no longer have one, no more than we have a homeland. From the moment the Unholy Kingdom was sent into the chaos realm, we Rostovs renounced our names entirely. We have decided to call ourselves the Landless until the day we lead our kingdom back to the world it came from. Only then will we have earned the right to carry our names again."

The boy was young, and his manner unpolished, but Ambrose caught a shadow of his old friend in his face.

His senior had been like this too, when he was young: earnest to a fault, the kind of person who put family honor above everything and spoke about large, impractical ideals without embarrassment.

The first Rostov had dragged their name through the mud; Mr. Misfortune had restored it to the light. His descendants now bore that weight so carefully they didn't dare even use their names until they had justified it.

Did everyone from this lineage behave like this?

Well, it didn't matter. Ambrose had never been a person inclined to dwell on the past. He gave the young man a brief nod and began, "There's something I need to warn you about. When you meet the Lyon people shortly—"

He didn't finish the sentence. Three young humans appeared at the edge of the dreamscape, wearing the unmistakable attire of Lyon.

Before Ambrose could complete another word, two of the other tiflings had already made their move. Large iron hammers appeared in their hands as if from nowhere, swinging toward the three Lyon arrivals before they could so much as register what was happening.

Ambrose looked slowly toward the young man who called himself Landless. The boy was grinning from ear to ear.

One to occupy him, and two to attack the Lyon guests—these tiflings really were devious.

Though perhaps this was exactly the kind of talent he needed.

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