"Nauthoba is dead."
As Adonis strode toward him, Guinevere made the declaration without hesitation.
He still remembered the name—Nauthoba—the so-called High Priest of Dream-London, the one Adonis had spoken of as the mastermind behind the city's current nightmare. Also one of the targets listed in the quest system.
"...What did you just say?"
Adonis's expression shifted dramatically. His stride quickened, and the final few steps became a near sprint. He rushed up to Guinevere and grabbed his shoulders tightly.
"Nauthoba is dead?!"
"Yeah," Guinevere nodded lightly. "He self–..."
He'd been about to say "he self-destructed," but thought better of it.
Explaining that Paracelsus had blown himself up just to kick Will, the stronger half of his split personality, out of the dream world? That would require a very convoluted explanation. Even if Adonis believed it, it'd also mean admitting that Guinevere—the one standing here now—was the weaker half.
And while Guinevere had always played the role of a cooperative and friendly ally, just like Will, he couldn't completely trust this self-proclaimed prince either.
Meanwhile, Adonis turned toward the nearby officers, seeking confirmation about what had just occurred here. After several reports, all of which corroborated Guinevere's statement, he finally muttered to himself:
"He's really dead..."
He staggered back two steps, eyes distant, as if the world around him had turned surreal.
It was like a long-cherished wish had suddenly come true, so easily that he couldn't help but feel like it wasn't real. But it wasn't just the shock of wish fulfillment—it was something more.
"You did well!" he exclaimed suddenly, turning to Guinevere and slapping a hand forcefully on his shoulder. "You did really well!"
"Okay, okay, enough of that," Guinevere raised a hand to stop him from pounding his shoulder into dust. "Let's talk about something more important. You've been saying this whole time that once Nauthoba was taken out, everything would start to get better, right?"
As he spoke, Guinevere turned and glanced out the window.
"Well, I'm not seeing any improvement. The fog's still as thick as ever. Doesn't look like it's dissipating at all."
"I've been thinking about that too." Adonis frowned deeply. "Perhaps his ritual had already progressed to a point where it couldn't be stopped—even without him. Either way, eliminating him at least prevents the damage from escalating further."
After a pause, he added:
"Also, didn't you mention before that there were three culprits behind all this? If Nauthoba was one of them, then that means he had partners. We'll need to track those others down. Judging by the traces the Nightmare Incarnations have left behind... I think we can follow those leads to find them. Wait—what's this?"
As he spoke, Adonis's gaze suddenly locked onto something on the floor.
Guinevere looked more closely and realized it was a small shard of Philosopher's Stone—left behind from the core of Paracelsus's body when he self-destructed.
"Hey, hold on—that thing..."
Before Guinevere could stop him, Adonis had already bent down and picked it up.
"...Not exactly safe."
Guinevere only managed to finish his warning after Adonis was already holding the shard up under the light, examining it closely.
But Adonis didn't reply. He just stared intently at the shard, a strange light flickering in his eyes—one Guinevere couldn't quite read.
He studied it in silence for a long time before finally murmuring:
"You're right to be cautious... but it's fine. This thing isn't dangerous. Still... it is incredibly high-grade ritual and spellcasting material. With this, I might be able to craft some excellent new gear."
Then, without warning, he turned back toward Guinevere.
"Well, I'll have to excuse myself for now. Vocht—it's good to see you're safe. But I don't have time to catch up. You'll accompany Mr. Hyde from here on."
And with that, Adonis spun on his heel and marched straight off toward his workshop, clutching the Philosopher's Stone shard—leaving Guinevere and Mordred behind to exchange bewildered glances.
"Who's 'Vocht'?" Mordred asked instinctively. But then she slapped her forehead with realization. "Oh! Wait—I remember! In the dream, I was someone named Vocht, wasn't I? He was a... um, a prince or something?"
"You're asking me about your own identity?" Guinevere stared at her, eyebrows twitching.
"Hey, not my fault. The moment I remembered who I really was, I forgot everything about that old identity." Mordred shrugged, totally unfazed. "Anyway—more importantly. Where's Jack?"
"Huh..."
Guinevere blinked. Right. He'd almost forgotten...
It really showed, didn't it? No matter the world—dream or reality—the one who always cared the most about Jack was still Mordred, her not-so-legit adoptive mom.
As for Jack's current location... she couldn't be far.
In the real world, Jack had been under Paracelsus's control and brought to the vicinity of Scotland Yard. So logically, her dream version should be nearby too. Now that Paracelsus was dead, it stood to reason Jack would still be wandering somewhere around here...
Just as that thought crossed Guinevere's mind, the main doors of Scotland Yard creaked open.
A small head cautiously poked in from the other side, peeking into the room. Tousled white hair, a scarred and innocent child's face—who else could it be but little Jack?
Her wide eyes scanned the room once, then locked immediately onto Mordred. At the same time, Mordred spotted her too.
"Jack?!"
She cried out instinctively, eyes lighting up as she sprinted toward the child.
"Mama?!"
Jack's eyes sparkled as she saw Mordred, and she bolted into the room on her tiny legs, racing toward her with open arms.
Watching the mother and daughter reunite with such joy, even Guinevere felt a rare twinge of warmth.
They were just a pair of makeshift, adopted family, but their bond ran far deeper than he'd expected. Maybe it was because they both craved family so deeply that their connection had formed so quickly and strongly.
But then—
Some whispering among the officers nearby caught Guinevere's attention.
"Wait... Prince Vocht has a daughter? But he's not even eighteen yet, is he?"
"I don't know who the bastard is that knocked him up—but if she's already got a daughter that big, then she must've been pregnant at, like... damn! That's gotta be illegal, right?!"
Hearing the clueless murmurs of the officers, Guinevere almost burst out laughing.
Seriously? You're already this outraged? Just wait until you find out that between the two of them, that "mother and daughter" duo has a combined age of less than five.
As he was thinking this, the heartfelt reunion finally ended. Jack and Mordred pulled apart from their long embrace. Then Jack turned toward Guinevere, her childlike eyes full of innocence and wonder.
And she shouted brightly:
"Papa!"
Guinevere's smile froze on his face.
Instantly, he felt every eye in Scotland Yard shift to him. All the officers who had previously admired and respected him now turned to each other, clearly whispering, some even raising suspicious eyebrows and murmuring behind their hands.
Even Mordred, normally unflappable, turned beet red from Jack's sudden declaration. She cleared her throat twice, then leaned down to whisper urgently:
"Why'd you call him that?!"
Jack tilted her head, completely baffled. "Well... Mama's always with him. If it's not Jack, then he must be Papa, right?"
"Uhh..." Mordred fell silent for two seconds. Then turned to Guinevere with a totally serious expression:
"She... kinda has a point?"