Chapter 117: The Slumbering Cthulhu Invites You into a Dream

"Ph'nglui mgl'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!"

Red pupils snapped open, muscles spasming involuntarily. Joshua Onions jolted awake from the nightmare, gasping for air in great, ragged heaves.

What had he just seen?

The young Glorifier pressed a hand to his chest, pinning down a heart that threatened to leap from his ribcage, and peered around in wary confusion. It was a dream... surely, it was just a dream?

Only after confirming he was safe did the silver-haired, red-eyed young man let out a lingering, shuddering breath. It was not that he had confused the boundaries of reality and illusion, but that the dream had been far too vivid, far too heart-wrenching.

It was as if he were deep beneath the ocean; the entire world was enveloped in an endless, tangible darkness. Yet, strangely, his vision was not hindered by the lightless environment—he could see as clearly as in the daylight. And so, he had seen it... he had seen a twisted, alien form.

It was a tentacle. Just a single tentacle.

A tentacle extending from the concept of infinity, or perhaps, something unspeakable had manifested before him in the exact form of a tentacle.

To see it was to lose the ability to think; to see it was to invite madness.

Though he could not be certain, he knew with absolute conviction that this was something that should not exist in the world of order.

So—run! Run!

Yet, his body seemed possessed by a malicious will. Amidst hysterical tremors and madness, it refused to obey him, merely repeating whispers that lacked logic, meaning, or even human phonetics.

*Hiss-slither, hiss-slither, hiss-slither...*

The sound of something serpentine winding across the ground approached. With it came a suffocating, icy chill. Just hearing the sound, just sensing its proximity, Joshua Onions’ mind began to fray, his consciousness blurring. In the haze, he heard a voice—a voice neither waking nor sleeping, like a fragment of a nightmare.

Like a thunderclap, he, or she, or it, or He said:

"Ph'nglui mgl'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!"

It was a language beyond human comprehension, a blasphemy beyond human endurance. Merely hearing it caused the brain to plunge into a frenzy of madness, stripping away every shred of human reason, emotion, and intellect in an instant.

Then—

Under the scorching heat of his bloodline of order, he opened his eyes.

And the dream ended.

But... was it really a dream?

"Too surreal," the young Glorifier murmured, staring at his own haggard reflection in the mirror. He paused, then took three breaths to compose himself, scrutinizing the bloodshot red eyes staring back at him. "It seems that was no mere nightmare."

Indeed, it could not be a simple nightmare.

Just now—even if only for a fleeting moment—he had truly blurred the boundary between reality and hallucination, entertaining the impossible thought that the world he lived in was not the real one.

It was inconceivable.

Could a mere dream achieve such a state? And that final, guttural, non-human chanting... what did it mean? It was truly, deeply disturbing.

Was it some form of psychic attack, or something else entirely?

Shaking his head, Joshua Onions did not dwell on it. Perhaps it was worthy of a formal report to the Council’s titans, but compared to uncertain possibilities, the threat posed by the Chaos Cult was far more immediate.

The grueling conflict had lasted over a week. Though the city's terrain and the enemy’s scattered tactics had limited them to small-squad skirmishes rather than large-scale battles, the Glorifier, raised in an era of peace, had felt the cruelty of war. At the start, he had been part of a five-man elite squad led by a man in his early forties—a veteran who had participated in the purge of the dark wizard Alfred decades ago, a man of true combat experience.

Yet, shockingly, in the squad’s third engagement, he had died.

There were no heroic final words, no intense duel. It happened in an instant—a moment no different from any other—and then he was gone. He had clutched at his throat as blood sprayed, staring at the passing enemy with utter disbelief, and then... without even a semblance of resistance, he collapsed and never rose again.

His only parting words were: "Run. Don't look back."

Joshua Onions had obeyed, and by luck, he survived. His two companions, blinded by rage, ignored their captain’s warning. Moments later, the sound of spraying blood echoed again.

This time, it was two streams.

They died almost simultaneously.

This was not the Glorifier’s first battle; among his peers, he was considered experienced. But it was then he realized how fragile and insignificant life truly was.

In the end, he was the only one who returned to the designated rally point alive.

It had nothing to do with strength; he was simply luckier than the rest.

He had considered joining another team, but in the heat of battle, he realized he was better suited as a lone blade, stabbing directly into the enemy’s heart.

And so, he became a loner. Until today.

Rolling off the hard wooden cot, Joshua Onions shook the dust from his tattered trench coat, picked up a candle, and headed toward the door.

"That was a long night," he thought, scanning the darkness outside before pushing the door open.

As the elemental firestone in his hand flickered and died, the darkness outside surged into the room like a living thing. The Glorifier froze, his brows knitting together.

A coincidence?

No. Something was wrong.

The night should not feel like this.

Anxiety bloomed in his heart. After a moment’s hesitation, Joshua stepped forward—it mattered little whether he stepped into the dark, for the moment he opened the door, the darkness had already swallowed him.

*Thump-thump, thump-thump.*

In the ambiguous, blurred void, he could hear nothing but his own breathing and the pulsing of his heart. The world felt as though it had been consumed by some gargantuan beast, and aside from the sensation of something intangible and formless squirming nearby, there was nothing.

"As I thought..."

After walking for several minutes in the darkness, he whispered to himself, "Something extraordinary has occurred."

He instinctively linked the catastrophe to the unspeakable entity he had seen in his dream, lurking in the depths of the dark. Only a monster of that caliber could invade his mental realm and drag the Upper District—protected by the Flame—into such shadow.

Perhaps it was the Chaos Cult’s secret weapon.

He clenched his fists. After a brief hesitation, he decided to turn back.

Although this level of incident was beyond the paygrade of a young man who had barely reached adulthood, the thick, impenetrable darkness made gathering intelligence impossible. To continue would be to scramble like a headless fly, achieving little with great effort.

Returning was a necessity.

Whether to understand the cause or to discuss the next move, this journey back was essential.

However, he had barely turned his body when his footsteps stalled.

*Clang—*

A sudden bell toll shattered the silence of the dark.

There was no doubt; the sound came from the Municipal Building, from the Great Clock Tower.

Counting the time when the City Lord, Duke Galsworthy, went missing, this was only the second time in recent memory. If he guessed correctly, this was surely a response to the ominous, bizarre darkness that now filled the city—without resolving this, there could be no talk of annihilating the Chaos Cult.

But to his surprise, after a brief pause, the bell rang again.

*Clang—*

That was the second toll.

Then, before he could express his shock, a third toll rang out.

This was...

An emergency severe enough to warrant ringing the Great Clock Tower’s bell was something that hadn't happened in decades. Most critical situations required only one toll.

Since Hermetica’s inception, the instances of the bell ringing three times were few and far between. In the last few centuries, it had happened only once—when the Fog District fell, burying thousands of Glorifiers and displacing millions, leaving Hermetica as withered as a dying old man. And even then, it had only rung three times.

The severity of the situation was clear.

Yet, it seemed his assessment had been far too optimistic.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth tolls echoed across Hermetica with increasing urgency.

Joshua’s movements turned to stone, his red pupils losing their luster.

You have to be joking...

Legend had it that when darkness descended a thousand years ago and the capital, Prometheus, was dragged into the void by the Beast of 666, the Great Clock Tower of Hermetica had only rung seven times.

And now, six tolls had already passed... no, seven, eight, nine.

His pupils dilated, and the young Glorifier was rendered speechless.

Nine—thousands of years ago, when the Leviathan, Master of the Seven Seas, nearly dragged Hermetica into the abyss, the bell had rung nine times.

But now, it seemed far from over.

The tenth, the eleventh, the twelfth—

Joshua remained silent, his mind incapable of further thought.

Until... the thirteenth toll rang out.

The world returned to silence. The bell did not ring again.

Only then did the Glorifier realize he was biting his lip, letting crimson blood drip down his chin.

It tasted faintly salty.

Thirteen...

His pupils regained a sliver of focus, and Joshua Onions let out a long, complex sigh.

There was no other reason; the number thirteen symbolized the end. The thirteen tolls themselves held a specific, dreaded meaning:

Hermetica was approaching its final hour.