Chapter 212

Chapter 212

He raised a hand to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead, his fingertips meeting a cold, clammy sensation. He looked down at his hands and noticed they were still trembling slightly—not from fear, but because his mind and body remained in shock following the forced intrusion into his dreams. “The Dreamweaver of the Night Watchmen… truly lives up to the name,” Evan muttered under his breath, his tone edged with wariness.

Back at the Imperial Knight Academy, he had read about the Dreamweaver’s abilities in ancient texts—they could freely manipulate dreams, invade others’ consciousness, impose rules within dreamscapes, and even launch direct assaults on souls, rendering them an exceptionally dangerous supernatural profession. He had once assumed such accounts were mere exaggerations, but firsthand experience had now revealed just how terrifying that power truly was.

Fortunately, he had answered truthfully throughout the interrogation, concealing nothing; otherwise, the consequences would have been catastrophic—within the dream realm, a Dreamweaver could easily cripple or even obliterate his soul.

It took Evan several minutes to calm his pounding heart. Leaning against the headboard, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, striving to dispel the lingering lethargy in his spiritual energy.

He knew that, after this interrogation, the Night Watchmen would likely pay him little further attention—after all, he genuinely possessed no critical intelligence, and to them, he was merely an unimportant bystander. Yet at the same time, he realized more clearly than ever that the Night Watchmen’s power was far greater—and far more deeply entrenched—than he had imagined.

The Twelfth Island was merely an ordinary colonial outpost, yet its Night Watchmen branch already fielded a high-sequence supernatural entity—the Dreamweaver. This alone demonstrated just how thoroughly the Empire’s official supernatural forces had embedded themselves across the colonies.

This realization sharpened his caution—he would need to tread far more carefully in the colonies going forward, doing his utmost to avoid entanglement in any supernatural conflicts, especially high-risk ones involving malevolent deities or extradimensional monsters. Otherwise, he risked drawing the Night Watchmen’s attention—and escaping their reach would prove exceedingly difficult.

He rose and walked to the window, pushing it open. A fresh sea breeze rushed in, carrying a salty, damp scent that brushed against his sweat-dampened forehead, clearing the fog from his mind.

Outside, the street was already bustling—porters hauling goods, merchants in fine attire, vendors calling out over snacks—a vibrant, lively scene standing in stark contrast to the cold, eerie gray mist of his nightmare. That contrast helped his taut nerves fully relax.

After that harrowing dream, sleep was impossible; his original plan to catch up on rest had been utterly ruined. Leaning against the windowsill, he gazed down at the animated street below and began seriously plotting his next move.

After settling his room fee and leaving the inn, Evan did not head straight for the dock.

Clutching the money pouch tightly against his body, the reassuring weight of the gold coins grounding him, he revised his plans—rather than rushing off to the Thirteenth Island, it would be wiser first to stock up on essential supplies here on the Twelfth Island. In particular, the thought of his three shoddy wooden puppets made him frown.

Those three puppets had been hastily carved from ordinary pine wood when he first became a puppeteer—lacking any special materials, their spiritual energy flow was sluggish. During the ambush by the natives on the Eleventh Island, they had barely held off two attackers; their machetes sent splinters flying, rendering them nearly useless in combat.

Had it not been for his seamless coordination with Laura, his career as a bodyguard might well have ended on that mission. Now that he had funds, upgrading his primary combat gear was urgent—and the first priority was acquiring high-quality materials and suitable tools.

Evan glanced up the street, having heard much about the Twelfth Island’s prosperity. Serving as a transit hub for surrounding islands, its prominence stemmed largely from its exceptional natural harbor—deep waters and gentle currents allowed ships to dock safely regardless of weather conditions.

As a result, merchants, adventurers, and artisans from across the region converged here, giving rise to several thriving commercial districts. It was said that, with sufficient effort, even the rarest supernatural materials could be sourced here.

Following directions from passersby, he made his way toward the island’s central commercial district.

The closer he drew to the core area, the livelier the streets became. Buildings on either side varied widely in style—from the stone houses of the Sala Empire to exotic wooden lofts.

The thoroughfares teemed with people; the clamor of vendors hawking wares, customers haggling, and carriages clattering merged into a vibrant, chaotic symphony. Shops lined the streets in abundance—general stores selling spices and silk, blacksmiths displaying swords and armor, and specialty shops brimming with magic scrolls and potions—all abuzz with patrons.

Evan bypassed these obvious establishments.

He knew full well that premium puppet-making materials and professional-grade tools were rarely stocked in prime street-front shops—such items catered to a niche audience, primarily puppeteers and related craftsmen, and shopkeepers typically opted for quieter yet accessible locations. He walked along the periphery of the commercial street, scanning alleys and corners on both sides, paying close attention to unassuming turns and intersections.

Unknowingly, he reached the end of the commercial street, where the crowd thinned and a quiet hush settled over the area. Just then, his gaze fell upon a small shop tucked into the corner.

It was exceedingly unobtrusive—wedged between two larger stores, with a narrow entrance and no eye-catching signage—only a modest dark-wood plaque above the door, inscribed with the single character “偶” (puppet), barely noticeable unless one looked closely. Its window was small, yet spotlessly clean, offering a faint glimpse of the interior.

Evan’s interest piqued. He slowed his pace and approached. Peering through the glass, he saw four tall, dark-wood shelves lining the wall from floor to ceiling, densely packed with puppets of every kind—hardly a gap between them.

These puppets were crafted from diverse materials: some, like his own, were wooden—but far more refined, with smooth, polished grain and intricate carvings; others were transparent crystal puppets, faintly shimmering in the light; there were soft cloth puppets, brightly colored plastic ones, and even a few delicate metal mechanical puppets, complete with articulating joints.

Beyond finished puppets, the lower shelves held sundry supplies—neatly cut wooden blanks, spools of colored thread, tiny metal components, small jars of paint, and oddly shaped knives, tweezers, and polishing tools—all unmistakably materials and instruments for puppet-making.

At the back of the shop, someone sat quietly, head bowed in focused work—though due to the angle, Evan couldn’t make out their features.

“This is the place,” Evan thought confidently. A shop displaying such a wide array of puppets—across materials and styles—must belong to an experienced puppet-maker, and he stood a strong chance of finding exactly what he needed here.

He straightened his collar and gently pushed open the wooden door. The hinges creaked softly, breaking the shop’s silence.

“Come in,” came an old, gentle voice from the rear—no trace of annoyance at the interruption.

Evan stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The interior was dimmer than the street outside, and the air carried a faint, comforting scent of wood shavings and paint. He looked up and saw an elderly man with graying hair seated behind a wooden desk at the back, dressed in a coarse gray robe. The man was bent over a wooden block, carving it with a small knife—his fingers rough yet nimble, his movements precise and absorbed.

The desk itself was cluttered with half-finished puppets and scattered tools.

Without looking up, the old man continued carving, speaking slowly: “Young man, are you here to buy a puppet—or to commission one?”

Evan approached the desk, his gaze sweeping over the knife and wooden block, and replied softly, “Sir, I’m neither here to purchase a finished puppet nor to place a commission. I am a puppeteer—and I’m seeking high-quality materials and professional tools for puppet-making.”

At the word “puppeteer,” the old man’s carving paused momentarily, and he finally lifted his head. His face bore deep lines of age, yet his eyes were bright and piercing—as if they had witnessed centuries pass. He gave Evan a thorough, appraising look, his gaze lingering briefly on the short blade at Evan’s waist and the faintly visible spirit-medium spider-silk pouch at his sleeve, then nodded. “A puppeteer, eh? That’s rare. What sort of materials do you seek? Ordinary solid wood—or spiritually imbued supernatural materials? As for tools, do you require carving knives, polishers, or precision assembly parts?”

Evan’s heart leapt—those words struck precisely at his needs. He replied quickly, “I need solid wood with excellent spiritual energy conduction—preferably pre-treated. For tools, I’d like a set of sharp carving knives and precise polishing instruments. And if you carry metal components suitable for puppet joints, I’d like to examine those as well.”

“Spiritually conductive solid wood, eh? You’ve come to the right place.” The old man set down his knife and rose slowly. His movements were unhurried but steady as he walked to a wooden shelf on the west side of the shop, reached up to the topmost tier, and retrieved two wooden blocks of similar length. Turning, he handed them to Evan. “Take a look at these two first. One is maple, the other ebony—both commonly used spiritual woods among puppeteers.”

Evan accepted them promptly. The blocks felt warm and smooth in his hands—devoid of the dryness typical of ordinary timber. First, he examined the maple: its hue was a light yellowish-brown, its grain clear and fine. Rubbing his fingertip across its surface, he found it flawlessly smooth—free of splinters or rough patches.