Gazing at the young gentleman before him, George let out a deep sigh and, with a mix of pleading and hope, asked:
"Kind sir, could you stay a little longer? Just for a few minutes, so I can rest here and regain some strength. That way, I might have a better chance of qualifying for the poorhouse next time."
After a brief silence, Ael sighed softly and smiled.
"Of course."
It was a late afternoon in June, and the sun's warmth felt more gentle than scorching.
Golden rays filtered through the aged, transparent windows of the restaurant, casting a glow upon the middle-aged vagrant curled up on a seat, his head resting against the wall. A faint smile of contentment unconsciously formed on his face.
Without disturbing George, who had drifted into slumber, Ael leaned back in his chair and gazed at the worn decorative flower basket above the table. Adjusting the monocle on his left eye, he suddenly murmured to himself in a voice only he could hear:
"Adam, George III, the Night, Capital, the Colonial Era, the Industrial Age…
What kind of demon did Roselle create? No—no, even without him, this demon would have been born. His existence merely accelerated the process.
The progression of an era is inevitable, always accompanied by sacrifice and suffering."
Ael felt sympathy and sorrow for George's plight, yet more than anything, he felt helpless. Men like George were not rare. There were too many of them—not just in the Kingdom of Loen but across the entire Northern and Southern Continents.
At the root of all this suffering stood those extraordinary beings at the pinnacle of power. They manipulated the tides of history and steered the course of the world, using the lives and anguish of common folk as mere bargaining chips in their grand game.
Just as Ael lamented this twisted world and was about to order another cup of coffee, his spiritual intuition suddenly tingled. He turned his gaze toward George, who was still asleep—but his face had contorted in fear.
The next moment, George jolted awake, gasping for breath, his forehead damp with sweat.
"A nightmare?" Ael set down his coffee cup and asked calmly.
"Y-Yes," George panted. "I haven't had a decent night's sleep in four days. I don't know why, but every time I fall into deep sleep, I have the same nightmare.
They feel so real, as if they're happening right in front of me."
Rubbing his temples, George continued bitterly, "In my dreams, I always see my Winona sitting atop her own gravestone.
She wears her favorite floral-embroidered dress, the one she loved the most, and in her arms, she cradles our child—though the child is already rotting, barely recognizable.
She just sits there, smiling, gazing at me in silence."
"You've had the exact same dream for the past few nights? And each time, you see your wife and child?"
Hearing this, Ael raised an eyebrow.
"Yes… Maybe it's because I miss them too much," George said, wiping at his eyes, his voice choked with emotion.
Upon confirming George's words, Ael adjusted his monocle and activated his spiritual vision.
After three seconds, he deactivated it. During his inspection, he had found nothing unusual about George's etheric body or mental state.
"Strange."
Even with his angel-tier perception, he couldn't detect anything wrong?
After a moment of thought, Ael pressed his monocle again. A cryptic and complex symbol, its meaning indecipherable, flickered within his right eye.
Across the table, George, basking in the sunlight, suddenly slumped forward, his eyelids drooping shut as he fell back into slumber.
This was a nightmare-inducing ability Ael had recorded from a NIGHTHAWKS captain in Pritz Harbor. With his current rank and power, he could, if he wished, forcibly drag every living being in Tingen into a dream.
Within the hazy dream world, Ael stood midair, clad in an old-fashioned wizard's robe, observing the scene below.
George had fallen to the ground, his face twisted in terror as he stared ahead at the figure seated upon the gravestone.
It was a woman, her features delicate and lovely. She wore a floral dress and a wide-brimmed white sun hat, just as George had described. In her arms, she held a child—a child whose body had decayed beyond recognition, its skeletal remains exposed in large, ghastly patches.
"A classic nightmare… Nothing unusual," Ael murmured, stroking his chin. He saw nothing particularly off about the scene.
But then, his spiritual intuition flared. His gaze snapped toward the rotting infant.
Its body was nearly unrecognizable, with pale bones jutting out in places that sent shivers down one's spine.
Around its exposed spine, a pendant dangled from a silver chain. It gleamed faintly as it swayed gently in the still air.
In the dimly lit "Passor" restaurant at Victory Square No. 1, North Tingen, Ael opened his eyes and smiled.
He had found the cause of George's nightmares.
The pendant hanging around the infant's neck—it was highly problematic. It was likely a sealed artifact of mid-sequence power.
For some unknown reason, its connection through bloodline had begun affecting George only now, long after his child had been buried.
That was the real mystery.
"Interesting."
Ael rose to his feet and gently shook George awake. Together, they left the restaurant.
A few minutes later, George followed Ael into a narrow street, its sunlight blocked by towering buildings. The only illumination came from a dimly flickering gas lamp.
Clutching a sack of white bread close to his chest, George hesitated, then asked cautiously, "Sir, I truly appreciate your help today. Is there anything I can do in return? As long as it doesn't break the kingdom's laws, I will do it."
Ael chuckled, adjusting his monocle as he met George's gaze.
"The things I pursue are dangerous. Most of them violate the laws of the kingdom. They're far beyond your reach.
Relax. I brought you here only to avoid drawing attention. I don't need you to do anything.
For now, we have only one thing to do—solve your nightmare."
"My nightmare? How? Are you… a psychologist, sir?"
George was puzzled. He had thought only psychologists could treat mental afflictions.
Yet, the gentleman before him—his benefactor—did not seem like one.
Ael laughed. "A psychologist? No… I am aPlaneswalker."
As he spoke, he placed a firm grip on George's shoulder and adjusted his monocle.
The next moment, their figures distorted and turned transparent before vanishing entirely from the empty street.