Lord of Mysteries 2: Circle of Inevitability Chapter 3 - 3: Dream

Chapter 3: Dream

Lumian lingered on the rooftop, hesitant to climb down just yet.

His expression was a mask of stoicism, hiding every emotion. The playful youth who frequented the tavern with a ready grin and a joke was gone. In his stead stood a composed and determined figure, someone those who knew him would hardly recognize.

Ever since he accidentally discovered Aurore’s magical powers, Lumian had been consumed by the desire to possess them. However, Aurore constantly cautioned him against it, pointing to the extreme peril and suffering that accompanied such abilities. She refused to reveal the secret, even if she possessed the knowledge to bestow them upon ordinary humans.

Unable to force the truth from her, Lumian had turned to constant pleading and persuasion at every opportunity.

After several seconds of silent thought, Lumian stood up and moved toward the roof's edge. Using the wooden ladder, he descended back to the second floor.

He walked toward Aurore’s room, noticing the brown wooden door was slightly open before he glanced inside.

Dressed in a sky-blue gown, Aurore sat at her desk, writing diligently with a champagne-colored fountain pen.

What could she be writing so late? Does it have something to do with witchcraft? Lumian rested his hand on the doorframe and teased, “Keeping a diary, are you?”

“Who actually writes in a diary?” Aurore countered, her eyes never leaving the paper.

Lumian wasn't convinced by her dismissal.

“But didn’t Emperor Roselle leave behind several volumes of diaries?”

Roselle, the final emperor of the Intis Republic where the siblings lived, had toppled the Sauron dynasty and taken the title of Caesar, crowning himself emperor.

That man had achieved legendary status in science and engineering, credited with the invention of the steam engine. Furthermore, he had mapped the sea route to the Southern Continent, ushering in the era of colonization. He was the defining figure of his time, a symbol of a century-old era.

Yet, in his final years, he was betrayed and murdered within Trier’s White Maple Palace.

Following his demise, pages of his diary were scattered across the globe, though they were composed in a language no one could translate, as if the script did not belong to this world.

“That’s exactly why Roselle wasn't an honest man,” Aurore scoffed, her back still turned to Lumian.

“So, what exactly are you scribbling?” Lumian pressed.

That was the real question.

Aurore gave a nonchalant shrug, her tone indifferent. “A letter.”

“To who?” Lumian’s brow darkened with a scowl.

Aurore paused, setting down her ornate, golden-patterned champagne pen to check her wording.

“A pen pal.”

“A what?” Lumian asked, his forehead creased in total confusion.

What on earth was that?

Aurore let out a soft laugh, running a hand through her vibrant golden hair as she began to explain it to her brother.

“This is why I keep telling you to study and read more. Stop wasting your life drinking and fooling around!

“Look at you. How are you any different from someone who can't read?

“Pen pals are friends who meet through magazines, newspapers, or other prints. They never meet in person and communicate entirely through letters.”

“What’s the point of a friend like that?” Lumian asked, feeling genuinely uneasy about the situation.

Taking his hand off the door, he rubbed his chin in deep thought.

Aurore had never had a boyfriend, and he couldn't let her be tricked by some stranger she had never actually seen.

“The point?” Aurore considered the question seriously. “First, there's emotional value. Oui, I know that’s a concept you don't grasp. People need to connect, but there are certain things and feelings I can't share with the villagers, or even you. I need a private way to vent my thoughts. These pen pals, people I've never met, are the perfect solution. Second, don't look down on them. Some of my pen pals are very powerful or possess vast knowledge. For instance, one of them sent me this battery lamp. Candles and kerosene lamps are too hard on the eyes and aren't great for writing late at night…”

Before Lumian could ask anything else, Aurore waved a hand behind her dismissively.

“Go get some sleep, my drunk brother! Bonne nuit!”

“Fine, bonne nuit,” Lumian answered, attempting to mask his annoyance.

Aurore added, “Make sure to shut the door. It’s freezing in here with the door and windows all open.”

Lumian quietly closed the brown wooden door and went to his own room. He kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of his bed.

In the faint light of the night, he could see the wooden table by the window, the tilted chair, the small wall-mounted bookshelf, and the wardrobe opposite him.

He sat motionless, lost in his thoughts.

He was aware that Aurore was a woman of secrets, holding back things she hadn't shared with him. It didn't surprise him, but he feared those secrets might lead her into peril.

And when things went wrong, his options were painfully few.

He was merely a normal person, despite his strong body and quick mind.

Thoughts hit him like waves on a beach, receding just as fast. Lumian exhaled deeply and went to the washroom to clean up.

Afterward, he shed his brown jacket and collapsed onto the chilly bed.

The mountain air in April remained biting.

...

In a state of half-sleep, Lumian sensed a thick, dark mist rising, swallowing his surroundings and hiding everything from view.

He wandered through the haze in a trance, but no matter which way he turned or how far he walked, the fog always circled back to the same spot—his own bedroom.

The room contained the white four-piece bed set, the wooden chair and table by the window, the bookshelves, the wardrobe, and his other belongings.

...

Phew. Lumian’s eyes snapped open suddenly as the morning light filtered through the thin blue curtains.

He sat up and stared blankly at his room, feeling as though the dream still clung to him.

It was the same dream he’d experienced for days—that gray fog that would not dissipate.

He pressed his fingers to his temples and whispered to himself, “It’s happening more often. I’m having this dream almost every single day…”

Lumian remained calm despite the frequency; the dream hadn't caused any harm, but it hadn't brought any benefits either.

“I hope there’s something auspicious hidden in this,” Lumian muttered as he climbed out of bed.

Opening his door to the hallway, he immediately heard sounds coming from Aurore’s room.

What a coincidence… Lumian grinned.

But a sudden idea struck him, making him step back and linger by the doorway.

As Aurore’s bedroom door creaked open, Lumian quickly lifted his right hand and began rubbing his temples, wearing a look of slight pain.

“Is something wrong?” Aurore asked, noticing his apparent distress.

Success! Lumian cheered internally while maintaining his outward composure.

“I had that dream again,” he said, his voice low.

Aurore’s golden hair fell over her shoulders as she frowned with concern.

“The last method failed…” she whispered to herself before suggesting, “Maybe… I should find a hypnotist for you—a genuine Hypnotist—to find the cause.”

“The kind with magical powers?” Lumian asked pointedly.

Aurore gave a slight nod.

“One of your pen pals?” Lumian couldn't resist asking.

“Why are you worried about that? Focus on solving your own issue!” Aurore snapped back instantly.

Isn’t that exactly what I’m doing? Lumian thought to himself.

He seized the chance to say, “Aurore, if I became a Warlock and gained extraordinary powers, I could probably solve the mystery of the dream and stop it for good.”

“Don't even think about it!” Aurore replied without a second thought.

Her face softened as she went on, “Lumian, I won't sugarcoat it. The path we walk is dangerous, agonizing, and truly treacherous. If I had any other option, and if the world weren't falling apart, I’d be happy just being a normal writer and living a quiet life.”

Lumian didn't hesitate to cut in, “Then let me take on that danger and pain. I’ll be the one to protect you, so you can do what you love.”

He had replayed those words in his mind many times.

Aurore went silent for a few moments before a smile broke across her face.

“Are you discriminating against women?”

Before Lumian could respond, she added seriously, “It’s too late to turn back now. There’s no returning to the way things were.

“Fine, I get it. I’m going to wash up. You stay home and study hard today—get ready for the college entrance exams in June!”

“You said it yourself, the world is getting more dangerous. What’s the point of exams?” Lumian grumbled.

He felt that true success came from strength, not a piece of paper.

Aurore simply smiled and said, “Knowledge is power, my unlearned brother.”

Left with no comeback, Lumian simply watched her walk toward the washroom.

...

That afternoon, in the busy square of Cordu,

Reimund Greg spotted Lumian Lee crouching beneath an elm tree. Lumian’s thoughts seemed buried in mystery.

“Aren't you supposed to be stuck at home with your nose in a book?” Reimund asked as he walked over, his voice tinged with envy.

Reimund was Lumian’s close friend, standing about 1.7 meters tall with brown hair and eyes. He was an average-looking guy with a slightly red complexion.

Lumian looked up and gave him a charming smile.

“Didn’t Aurore tell you? Even a condemned man gets a break! I’ve been shut inside so long I needed some air.”

He had spent the entire morning thinking about how to get extraordinary powers without Aurore’s help.

That meant he had to find his own leads and take the initiative.

He felt that the village rumors about magical powers might contain some truth, so he had come here specifically to wait for Reimund.

“If I were you, I wouldn't stop for more than fifteen minutes,” Reimund remarked, leaning against the tree. “We don't have a sister smart enough to teach us. I’m planning to learn sheep herding next year.”

Ignoring Reimund’s comment, Lumian spoke thoughtfully.

“Tell me that story about the Warlock again.”

Reimund looked confused, unable to guess Lumian’s angle.

“The one about the Warlock?”

“Yeah. In the past, there was a Warlock in our village who eventually died. On the day he was buried, an owl flew in and sat on his bed. It only left once the coffin was taken out.

“Then, the coffin became so heavy that it took nine bulls to move it.”

Lumian asked, “How long ago did that happen?”

Reimund’s confusion deepened.

“How should I know? It's just something my father told me.”