Chapter 967: The Dreamland Book
Garcia walked into the main hall of apartment No. 0827 looking as though she had just stepped out of a bath. Her morning tracksuit had been replaced by a red-and-white martial arts robe, her cheeks still flushed from the hot water, shoulder-length hair hanging damp against her neck. The Wimbledon bloodline had given her the kind of beauty that required no ornament.
“Something to drink?” She swayed the glass in her hand.
The first time he had come here, she’d worn an expression like a closed door. She still hadn’t changed much.
“No, thank you.” Roland’s gaze landed on the robe. “Competition today?”
“Have you ever seen an athlete who warms up at home before walking to the arena?” She poured herself a glass of milk and settled across from him. “Staying warm immediately before a match is basic preparation. Even the worst stadium has a changing room. Sometimes I wonder if your common sense was also swallowed by the Erosion.”
“I thought martialists might have their own unique pre-match rituals.”
“In the public eye, it’s not so different from any other sport—just more exciting, with better prizes.” She shrugged. “I’m wearing this because we need to make use of the martialists’ visibility later.”
“An advertisement?”
“A protest.” She looked at him with genuine exasperation. “Don’t you read the papers? The Clover Association is going to tear down the walls around North Tube Street. If we don’t act, this tube-shaped apartment is their next target. Your home will be rubble.”
“Ah.” He had nearly forgotten that today was the day. “Well—I wish you all the best.”
“You—!” She stopped herself. “I’ve never competed and no one knows me. I wouldn’t be of much use—”
“That’s my line, not yours.” Roland feigned a helpless expression. “I’ve never competed and no one’s ever heard of me. I don’t even own a martialist uniform. Even if I went, I’d accomplish nothing.”
“Effort is cumulative. Do you not understand that?” Garcia snatched a list from the coffee table and shoved it across to him. “Look at these names. How many are martialists? These are all the lower-floor residents—ordinary people, most of them—and they’re willing to go. If we stay silent because we’re not well-known, we render ourselves invisible.”
He looked at the determination in her eyes and felt something shift in him. Whether it was the Erosion or the daily frustrations of city life, this apparently cold girl burned hotter than most people he had ever known.
Is this the only place she can stay? With her background and ability, she could buy a residence anywhere in the city. She was doing this for the residents—ordinary people with meager salaries who couldn’t afford to find a new apartment with half these facilities and connections.
He knew, of course, that they were all phantoms of the Dream World—souls captured by Zero. But as the world developed along its own track toward an unknown future, he found himself less and less certain of his original assumptions. He could no longer cleanly distinguish phantom from person. It was growing harder, with each visit, to treat this vibrant and sharp-edged girl as an empty shell.
She had brought him the book. The least he could do was accompany her.
He was about to agree when his eye caught a name on the list.
Barolotsim.
Apartment No. 0510. The only resident who was a demon.
That long, unmistakable name had stood out from the moment the Taquila witches compiled their tenant records. A single glance had been enough to fix it in memory.
If Barolotsim was on this list, it meant the demon would leave the tube-shaped apartment and join the protest—and that was a perfect opportunity to enter the memory fragment.
“Ah.” Roland glanced away. “I’m afraid I already have an appointment this afternoon. You’ll have my full moral support.”
Anyone else would have leveraged the book as a bargaining chip.
Garcia simply stood, fury sharpening her posture. “I should have known all this was a waste of breath.” She walked into the bedroom with her chin up, and came back out carrying an old leather-bound volume the color of dried blood.
She looked for a moment as though she intended to slam it down in front of him—then something softened and she changed her mind. “This is the book Master always mentioned to us. Now that you have it, you may leave.”
Roland opened it at random. No author’s name—just the word Unknown stamped where one should have been.
“Doesn’t anyone know who wrote it?”
“Why would it say unknown if the author were known?” Garcia replied. “Among all the books in the Association’s library, this one wasn’t famous for its content, but for the mystery of its author. Apparently he died before he could finish it, and the Association was never able to find any record of who he was.”
“He died while writing it?”
“That’s what I said.” A smile crossed her face, brief and uncharitable. “Thinking of those stories about cursed books and vengeful ghosts? Don’t worry—there’s no evidence that anyone who’s read it has died. Otherwise I would never have recommended it. But if you’re too frightened, I won’t judge you.” She paused. “I won’t tell anyone, either.”
Yes you will.
Roland took the book and nodded. “Thank you.”
“Hmm.” She turned her head and said nothing more.
Back in apartment No. 0825 with the door locked behind him, Roland sat down with the book.
Raison d’être.
The cover was a type of red leather that no longer existed in this age, backed with a thin layer of wood so that it sat stiff and solid in his hands. He had expected something mystical—dense spiritual pronouncements, symbols arranged like a sermon. Instead, the first page drew him in at once.
Text on the left, photographs or excerpts on the right. Precise numbering along the bottom margin, cross-referencing the content. This was not prophecy. It was a thesis.
The photographs had faded to yellow. The excerpts were cut from newspapers and magazines—physical clippings fixed to the page with scissors and glue, the kind of thing that was already an anachronism in this era of instant information. Old and strange and meticulous.
He read the first sentence.
We have been deceived by the deities.
Chapter 967: The Dreamland Book
Translator: TransN Editor: TransN
Garcia walked into the main hall of room No. 0827, looking as if she had just taken a bath. Her morning tracksuit was now replaced by a red and white martial arts robe. Her cheeks were still flushed from the heat of the hot water; her beauty due to the Wimbledon family genes and her silky wet shoulder length hair made her a real sight to behold.
“Would you like something to drink?” She swayed the glass in her hand.
The first time that he had come to her house, there had been a cold and distant expression on her face… Well, she still hadn’t changed much even after all this time.
“No, that’s alright, thank you.” Roland was curious and asked,” Do you have a competition today?”
“Have you ever seen an athlete who had to change and get ready at home? Staying warm right before a competition is one of the most important preparations for any sport.” Garcia poured herself a glass of milk and sat opposite him. “Even the worst sports stadiums would still have a changing room—sometimes I really wonder if your common sense was also swallowed by the Erosion.”
“Haha…” Roland tried to laugh off his embarrassment and said, “I thought martialists might have their own unique preparations before a match.”
“In the eyes of the public, it’s no different from any other sport. The only difference might be that it’s generally more exciting and the prizes are better,” she shrugged her shoulders and said, “I’m wearing this uniform because we need to take advantage of the influence of the martialists later.”
“Huh? Are you going to shoot an ad?”
“It’s a protest!” Garcia cried out in frustration, “Don’t you ever read the papers? The Clover Association is going to tear down the walls around North Tube Street. If we don’t do anything, that their next demolition target will end up being this tube-shaped apartment. Your home will soon be in ruins!”
“Uh…” Roland had almost forgotten that there was such an event going on today. “Well… I wish you all the best.”
“You—!”
“I’ve never competed before and no one’s ever heard of me. I’m a complete newbie. I don’t even own a martialist uniform.” Roland feigned a regretful expression and said, “Even if I go, I won’t be of much use.”
“We can achieve anything through our combined efforts. Don’t you know that?” Garcia picked up a list from the coffee table and shoved it in front of Roland. “Look at the people on that list. How many of them are martialists? They’re all the lower-floor occupants of the tube-shaped apartment, yet they’re all willing to go and protest with me! If we choose to be silent just because we’re not well-known, then everyone will ignore our existence!”
Looking at the determination in Garcia’s eyes, Roland felt his motivation rise along with her words. Whether it was facing the Erosion or her daily life, this seemingly cold and indifferent girl was far more enthusiastic than most people.
Is this the only place she can stay? No, with her background and abilities, she should easily be able to buy a new residence in the center of the city. She’s doing this only for the sake of the other residents of this building. They’re mostly ordinary people with meager salaries, there’s no way they could afford to find a new apartment that has half the facilities and connectivity of this locality.
He was aware that they were all just phantoms of the Dream World, and that these occupants of the tube-shaped apartment were the defeated souls
captured by Zero. However, with the world progressing toward an unknown future on its own, he became doubtful about his original ideas. He could no longer distinguish between the phantom and real people. For example, he found it really hard to treat this vibrant and shining girl in front of him as an imaginary and empty shell. The longer he stayed in the Dream World, the more intense the feeling became.
Anyway, she did bring back the book for him. The least he could do was accompany her as a sign of gratitude.
Just as Roland was about to agree, he suddenly saw a familiar name on that list.
“Barolotsim”.
That was the name of the tenant staying in apartment No. 0510. That was also the name of the only resident that was a demon.
This long name was particularly eye-catching among the information of the residents that had been collected by the Taquila witches. Hence just a glance was enough to leave a deep impression on him.
Roland was startled to see the name of the demon on that list, as it meant that ‘he’ would leave the tube-shaped apartment and join the residents in their protest—this could be a perfect chance to peep into his memory fragment.
“Ahem, I’m afraid that I already have an appointment for the afternoon… so I can only give you moral support.” He glanced away, and pretended he had not seen that name.
Anyone else would have used the rights to the book as a bargaining chip.
But Garcia was different. She just stood up in a fury and said, “I should’ve known that saying all these words to you would be a waste of my breath.” Then she walked into the bedroom in a huff, and soon she walked back out with an old leather red book.
At first, she looked like she was going to slam the book down in front of him, but she quickly became softhearted and changed her mind. “This is the book that Master often mentioned to us. Since you have it now, you may leave!”
Roland casually opened a page and realized that there was no name of the author, but just the word “Unknown” in its place.
“Doesn’t anyone know who the author is?”
“Why would it be marked as unknown if the author were known?” Garcia replied firmly, “Amongst the many books that are a part of the Association’s library, this book wasn’t famous due to its content, but rather because of its author. Apparently, the author died before he could finish writing the book, and the Association couldn’t find any records of who he really was.”
“He died when he was writing the book?” Roland was stunned for a moment and wondered if it was a sudden death. He had originally wanted to sit down for a private chat with the author—half a century was not considered long. If he was lucky, the author could still be alive. Even if he was dead, there would still be some news of him. At that time, recording cases was already part of the judicial system, and the author was even a martialist that had awakened the Force of Nature.
There was something fishy going on here.
“What’s wrong? Are you afraid?” Garcia laughed and said, “Did it bring to mind those stories about being cursed and chased by ghosts? Don’t worry, there’s no evidence to prove that anyone who has read the book will die. Otherwise, I would never have recommended this book to you. But if you still don’t want to read it, I won’t make fun of you or tell anyone.”
No, I’m sure you will…
Roland grabbed the book and nodded at her. “Thank you.”
“Hmm.” Garcia turned her head and did not say any more.
Roland went back as quickly as he could to apartment No. 0825 and locked the door. The protest would only start in the afternoon, so he still had a few hours to satisfy his curiosity.
Just like Garcia had mentioned, the title of the book was called “Raison d’être”.
The cover was made of a type of red leather that could no longer be found in this era. The cover was backed by a thin layer of wood, hence it looked quite sturdy. Roland had thought that since it was related to the deities, the content would be full of spiritual stuff that he might not understand. However, once he turned the first page, he was immediately captured by the exquisite handwriting.
The text was on the left while the pictures or the excerpts were on the right. At the bottom, there was numbering that matched the content accurately. It did not look like a book of premonition, but more like a rigorous derivative thesis.
Those pictures had already faded and turned yellow, while the excerpts came from newspapers and magazines. In this day and age of the internet, it was already very difficult to see handwritten text and pictures made by using scissors and glue. The whole book felt old and antique, but the content was unexpectedly smooth and easy to understand. He had no problem reading it.
The first sentence was, “We have been deceived by the deities.”