Chapter 210

Chapter 210

Cullen frowned, immediately stepping forward to take the intelligence scroll. He sliced open the wax seal with the dagger he carried with him and quickly scanned the contents. The handwriting on the scroll was hurried but legible, detailing the full process of the evil god incident on the Eleventh Island: the indigenous laborers, long oppressed, had been led by a middle-aged native in a summoning ritual for the Feathered Serpent God, using white overseers as sacrifices. A silver ring formed in the night sky, heralding the evil god's descent; the Three Major Churches intervened in time, suppressing the evil force with warning bells, purifying hymns, and protective holy light. During the incident, Marcus, the master of Gray Manor, along with his family, was escorted by two supernatural escorts in an emergency evacuation at midnight. They encountered an indigenous ambush along the way but ultimately reached the dock safely and boarded a ship, now returned to the Twelfth Island.

"An evil god summoning... an indigenous rebellion..." Cullen said grimly, tapping his fingers on the oak table. "The colonial order on the Eleventh Island has indeed fallen apart. The Sala Empire's racial oppression policies have ultimately planted the seeds of disaster."

A middle-aged Night Watchman chimed in, "Captain, the Three Major Churches have already intervened. They should be able to suppress the evil god's power this time. However, the colonial conflicts exposed by this incident won't be easy to resolve."

"That's not our problem. Our duty is to handle supernatural threats and maintain the supernatural order." Cullen waved his hand, his gaze returning to the scroll. When he saw the mention of "two supernatural escorts escorting the Gray family in their evacuation," his eyes narrowed slightly. "Focus on these two supernatural escorts—the report mentions their names: Evan and Laura."

He handed the scroll to the recorder beside him: "Pull their files immediately. They were direct witnesses to the incident, having not only fought during the evacuation but also witnessed the entire evil god summoning ritual and the Church's suppression. As supernaturals, they likely have more valuable information. Also, confirm the Gray family's current whereabouts and send someone to contact them and verify the intelligence."

"Yes, Captain!" The recorder acknowledged, taking the scroll and quickly heading to the archives.

Cullen walked to the window, gazing out at the streets of the Twelfth Island. The sunlight was bright, the streets bustling—a scene of peace and prosperity. But he knew that beneath this tranquility, unknown supernatural undercurrents could be lurking.

The evil god incident on the Eleventh Island was no accident. As long as colonial oppression persisted, similar events could happen again. And the supernaturals roaming the colonies were both potential threats to order and possible key allies in solving problems.

"Evan... Laura..." Cullen murmured the names, his eyes sharp. "Whether they are freelance supernaturals for hire or affiliated with some organization, since they've been caught up in this evil god incident, they must be brought under our watch. Investigate their backgrounds, power levels, and current whereabouts. If they're willing to cooperate, we might get more intel about the indigenous supernatural forces on the Eleventh Island."

"Understood!" Several Night Watchmen responded in unison, turning and leaving the hall to carry out their tasks.

The stone building fell silent again, with only Cullen still standing by the window, his gaze deep. He knew that while the evil god incident on the Eleventh Island had been temporarily suppressed, this was just the beginning.

As Night Watchmen, they must remain vigilant at all times, prepared to face any supernatural threat that might arise, and safeguard the supernatural order of the Twelfth Island.

Meanwhile, in his hotel room, Evan was sound asleep, completely unaware of this. He was still basking in the relief of a completed mission, unaware that he and Laura had already been firmly placed under the watch of the Sala Empire's most official supernatural organization—the Night Watchmen.

Evan's head hit the pillow, and he was out like a light.

The days of travel and fierce battles had weighed on him like a lead weight. The soft goose-down mattress in the hotel seemed to soak up all his fatigue, cradling him steadily. He curled up slightly, his brow faintly furrowed, a trace of tension lingering even in sleep—an instinctive wariness born from long-term exposure to dangerous environments. The hotel was quiet, with only the faint sound of sea breezes brushing against the window frames, mixed with the occasional footsteps from the street below. These gentle sounds wove together into a lullaby, allowing him to sleep deeply, his dreams vague and indistinct.

In his haze, he felt as if he were still on the sailboat leaving the Eleventh Island, the salty, damp sea breeze brushing against his hair, the sound of waves slapping the hull in his ears—everything carried a post-escape sense of relief.

But the next moment, the scene around him twisted violently.

The once-gentle sea breeze turned bitingly cold, like countless needles scraping his skin. The blurry sea surface shattered like a broken mirror, exploding into splashes of water that then froze into a boundless expanse of gray mist.

The mist was thick as ink, visibility less than three feet, and the air was filled with a cold, metallic, rust-like scent that made breathing difficult.

Evan's eyes snapped open, his heart suddenly contracting. He instinctively tried to raise his hand to defend himself, but his body felt as heavy as lead. An invisible force, carrying immense spiritual pressure, bound him firmly in place, leaving him unable to move even a fingertip. His mind sharpened instantly, jolting him fully awake from his hazy sleep—this was no natural dream; someone had used supernatural power to forcibly drag him into this conscious space!

This ability to invade another's dreams belonged to only one profession in the supernatural system: the Dreamweaver.

"Don't struggle. This is my dream domain." A low, steady voice came from deep within the mist, devoid of any emotion but carrying an unyielding authority, like a cold steel ruler.

As the voice faded, the thick gray mist parted slowly, as if pushed aside by an invisible hand. A tall figure gradually emerged at the end of the mist.

The figure stepped closer, each step seeming to land on the nodes of consciousness, causing Evan's spirit to tremble slightly—this was the Dreamweaver's absolute control over the dream domain. Those within it had even their mental state firmly in the other's grasp.

The man wore a stiff black military uniform, pressed without a single wrinkle, with buttons on the cuffs and collar polished to a shine, reflecting the faint light in the mist. The uniform bore no extra decorations, except for a bronze badge pinned to the left chest—a badge featuring a serpent coiled in a loop, its head biting the tip of a sword and its tail wrapping around the blade. This was the iconic emblem of the Sala Empire's Night Watchmen, symbolizing "eternal vigilance" and "endless eradication of evil."

The man stood as straight as a pine, around thirty years old, his face hidden in the faint light and shadow, revealing only a sharply defined jawline and tightly pressed thin lips. His eyes, however, were strikingly bright, like frozen, cold stars. When his gaze swept over Evan, it was as sharp as a searchlight, as if it could pierce through flesh and reach the depths of the soul.

Evan's pupils abruptly constricted, and his Adam's apple involuntarily bobbed as he instantly recognized the other party's identity. His voice carried a strained, forced quality: "The Dreamweaver? The Night Watch?"

He hadn't expected the Night Watch to move this fast—in just half a day, they had already pinpointed him, even deploying a high-sequence Supernatural like a Dreamweaver for interrogation.

The Dreamweaver remained noncommittal, merely pacing slowly until he stood before Evan, the distance between them was less than three steps.

An even more intense pressure washed over him—the natural suppression of a high-sequence Supernatural over a low-sequence one, mingled with the rule-based authority of the dream domain, making even breathing difficult for him.

"In my dream domain, you cannot lie," the Dreamweaver's voice remained steady, yet carried an unyielding, absolute authority. "The rules here are set by me. Any concealment or deception will trigger fluctuations in your soul, which I will clearly perceive. Next, I ask, and you answer. Don't overthink anything."

His tone held no trace of pleasantries—it bore the cold, direct efficiency characteristic of official institutions, as if Evan were not a person to communicate with but a vessel awaiting information extraction.

Evan's heart began to race. He instinctively tried to mobilize his inner spirituality, even attempting to conjure psychic spider silk to resist.

But he soon discovered, to his despair, that his spirituality felt frozen, like ice locked in the depths of winter, completely inert. No matter how hard he drove his mental energy, his spirituality remained motionless, not even a ripple stirring. He realized with a jolt that this Dreamweaver was way stronger than he'd expected—he was a Sequence 7 Supernatural. As a Sequence 8, Evan was like a helpless cub before him. Since resistance was futile and defiance would only invite harsher consequences, he had no choice but to temporarily yield, suppressing his wariness and responding in as steady a voice as he could manage: "I understand."

"Name, identity, origin." The Dreamweaver wasted no time, firing off the first question with a rhythm so flat it carried an invisible pressure, as if any hesitation on Evan's part would instantly trigger some punitive mechanism.

His gaze stayed locked on Evan's eyes, those sharp pupils seeming to pierce right through him, leaving Evan no room for wishful thinking.

"Evan, a freelance Supernatural. I currently make a living by taking on escort-type missions at the Supernatural Task Release Office." Evan answered without the slightest hesitation, speaking truthfully.

He knew that such basic information would be easily uncovered by the Night Watch, making concealment pointless. After a pause, he added, "I once studied at the Imperial Knight Academy, majoring in Supernatural Combat and Spiritual Manipulation, but later withdrew for personal reasons and have yet to complete my studies." His voice faltered slightly as he mentioned the "Imperial Knight Academy"—he was well aware that this identity might afford him some breathing room.