“Your Majesty Roland… Roland?”

The voice seemed to come from a great distance, gentle and soft.

It wasn't until he felt a slight tickle near his ear that Roland suddenly came back to his senses.

"You spaced out again," Nightingale leaned against the long table, her eyes meeting his. One hand supported her slightly tilted chin, and the other hand wagged her slender white index finger. Clearly, she had just been using that finger to fiddle with his ear.

"Uh... did I?" Roland cleared his throat, pretending to examine the seized statistical report. "Perhaps it's because the weather today is particularly suitable for a midday nap."

"But this isn't the first day you've been absent-minded," Nightingale flashed back to the recliner next to the tent. "You've been like this ever since you returned from the Reflection Church. Did something happen?"

Roland subconsciously wanted to deny it, but the words caught in his throat. Lies were ineffective against Nightingale, and he couldn't deceive himself either—even after nearly a week, he still couldn't figure it out.

"I did discover some issues… but it's too bizarre, and I don't know how to explain it."

"If it's hard to say, you don't have to tell me," Nightingale said, looking up at the sky with her hands behind her head. "My brain isn't as good as yours anyway. Even if you told me, there's an eighty or ninety percent chance I wouldn't be able to help. If it were Anna, she might be able to help—"

"I haven't told her either," Roland said with a wry smile, shaking his head.

"Eh… really?" Nightingale immediately flipped over from the recliner. "Why?"

"Because the bizarreness of this matter exceeds what I can comprehend," he said frankly. "But it doesn't seem to affect anything, in other words, it's just my personal trouble. Telling her would only add to her worries, and it wouldn't serve any purpose."

"I see." Nightingale blinked, wearing a look of dawning understanding, but Roland knew she hadn't understood at all; she was just vaguely impressed.

"So, you must not mention to her that I've been spacing out lately," he instructed. "No one can solve these problems except me."

"Hey, of course!" For some reason, Nightingale suddenly became happy. She first patted her chest, then took out a piece of grilled dried fish from her bag and threw it into her mouth, looking satisfied.

After calming her down, Roland sighed inwardly. Although his eyes were on the statistical report, he couldn't concentrate on it at all. The image of the secret chamber in the church was constantly floating in his mind.

Why would a fictional character appear in the early days of the Association's founding? From the painting, she even seemed to have existed earlier.

Afterward, Roland asked Isabella, Agatha, and Phyllis, but the answers he received were all negative—that period of history was too distant for Taqila, and no one could say who the person in the Oath Conference backdrop painting was. They could only speculate that she had once been very famous.

He had always thought that there were two types of people in the dream world: the defeated who had been devoured by Xiluo, who were bound to the Soul Building and still had inextricable connections to this world. The most obvious feature was that they had almost the same appearance and fragments of memories of their residences.

The other type was the fictional characters, who came from the dream's background, partly extracted from his brain and partly fabricated by the world itself.

But now his understanding was wavering.

According to Isabella, Xiluo's lifespan was roughly between two hundred and two hundred and fifty years, and her record of serving the Pope was also documented, which should be accurate. So, the question was, how could this "ageless" Purifier devour a person from a hundred years ago? Her age might be quite astonishing for ordinary people, but it was nothing in the long river of history.

After all, she was still a person born in the era of the church. In terms of seniority alone, Agatha and the others were old enough to be her grandmothers.

So, did the person in the painting run into the dream world on her own?

This idea was even more unbelievable.

How could an ancient person survive in modern society and disguise themselves flawlessly? Besides, where was her soul stored before the dream appeared?

In addition to this, "Lan's" appearance also negated this conjecture.

She could be described as having an extraordinary temperament, but she was definitely not beautiful. This indicated that she was not a witch—without strange abilities, even the most outstanding person would turn into a pile of dust after a hundred years.

Discarding these two ideas, the most reasonable explanation was the most ordinary one: that the two people merely looked alike, and everything was purely coincidental.

Adopting this idea would save him a lot of trouble, but Roland's heart still found it difficult to convince himself—was this truly a pure coincidence?

If he wanted to find further answers, he would probably have to find her in person.

Whenever he thought about the increasingly elusive dream world, Roland would feel a subconscious resistance. However, being troubled by unknown secrets also felt unpleasant.

Choosing the lesser of two evils, after hesitating for nearly a week, Roland finally made up his mind.

Of course, what also helped him make up his mind was the Taqila God's Punishment Witches' repeated entreaties, as well as the fairly idle waiting time after touring Hermes Holy City.

…

The process of entering the dream was still familiar. When he opened his eyes, the date was still fixed on the time of his last departure—although there had been a gap of more than a month between the two times, the surrounding scenery had not changed at all. A group photo of trainees was placed on the bedside table, as if he had just returned from the Martial Artists Association headquarters.

Roland took out his phone, flipped to Garcia's number, and pressed the dial button.

The phone connected quickly, and a steady, light panting sound came from the receiver. "Hello?"

He glanced out the window. At this time, the horizon was just showing a hint of pale white. "Are you doing morning exercises?"

"Knowing that, don't say useless things," Garcia's tone was still as disdainful, but at least there was no longer the ice-cold feeling of rejecting people from a thousand miles away compared to before. "What's the matter?"

"Well, I have a question I want to talk to you about. How is it now? I'll come find you and treat you to breakfast."

"So urgent?" The other side was silent for a moment. "Then come down. I'm in the alley in front of the dormitory building."

"Wait for me." Roland hung up the phone, put on his clothes as quickly as possible, and rushed out of the room. As he passed the living room, he saw Xiluo, disheveled and sleepy-eyed. The latter had obviously just gotten out of bed, her wrinkled pajamas sliding to one side, revealing half of her tender shoulder, and she was wearing a pair of oversized men's slippers—undoubtedly his.

He rubbed his forehead and shook his head, forced to stop and turn around to help the little girl straighten her collar.

"You wait… I'll go boil water to make noodles in a bit…" Xiluo said unclearly.

"No need, I'll bring breakfast later. You wash up and wait to eat, okay?" Roland patted her head and pushed her into the bathroom before hurrying out.