CHAPTER 55: LABYRINTH OF DREAM

The only thing Seamus saw was darkness, along with the itch in his throat that refused to fade, the consequence of his own reckless act.

By the time they returned home, Isolde had already patched him up, her face twisted in something between bitterness and restraint.

There had been something in her expression, like she wanted to say something to him... or perhaps warn him. He couldn’t tell.

The air between them was unbearably awkward. After everything he’d heard and seen, he simply couldn’t act as if nothing had happened.

His hand brushed against his neck. The bandages were damp, and when he pulled his fingers away, there was still fresh blood.

"Oh well... my body really is inside a ’dream,’" he muttered.

He kept walking. Ahead, a light glimmered like the end of a tunnel. He followed it, only to find himself standing in a nursery.

The walls were painted a soft blue, decorated with sea creatures. A cradle rested against the wall, surrounded by toys.

Seamus blinked into the glow as a figure entered the room.

A woman—mid-twenties perhaps—stepped inside, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders, her green eyes warm as she hummed a lullaby he knew better than anything else.

His breath caught. His hands trembled.

"...Mom?"

Why? Why was his mother here?

He had never met her. Every memory of her had been wiped away, stolen by death before he was old enough to remember.

The only glimpse he ever had was a photograph hidden in Andrew’s wallet, a treasured keepsake. In it, his mother smiled while holding him as a baby.

Andrew had been furious when Seamus found it, scolding him never to look again. Maybe the pain of her death had been too much for his father.

And now here she was.

Seamus stood frozen as he watched her move toward the cradle. She reached down, lifted the baby within—him—and cradled the infant close, rocking gently as she hummed her melody.

His chest tightened until it hurt. Nostalgia stabbed into him for something he had never truly known, a longing for her voice, her touch, her warmth.

He missed her with an ache so profound it made him want to collapse.

This was the only way he would ever see her. In a dream. In a world shaped by a cruel woman: his stepmother.

’Is Isolde showing me this on purpose?’ he thought, bitterly. ’Is this meant to torture me too?’

There was no pain sharper than witnessing something you could never have.

He gave a small, hollow scoff. ’Of course. Her methods are always psychological.’

As Seamus turned to leave, the sharp crack of a door being forced open echoed through the house. His mother froze, panic flashing across her face.

She grabbed him, dragged him to the wardrobe, and pushed him behind it.

"Stay here, Seamus. Don’t make a sound. Don’t open the door, no matter what," she whispered, her voice trembling but firm.

The two-year-old version of him didn’t understand the words, but he kept quiet. The older Seamus, trapped in the dream, felt the dread crawling up his spine.

He tried to follow her out of the room, but when he reached the threshold, his body slammed against an invisible barrier.

"Tch! What the hell is this?" He kicked it, only to be thrown back like a rag doll.

A crash rang out from downstairs, followed by his mother’s scream and a desperate roar:

"HE ISN’T WITH ME ANYMORE! COME ANY CLOSER AND I’LL KILL YOU ALL!"

Seamus staggered, clutching his head as a sharp pain split through his skull. Voices clawed inside his mind: screams, sobs, whispers he couldn’t shut out.

It wasn’t the chaotic voice on the first floor, it was something inside his head, like a memory trying to resurface.

[System alert!]

[Your Sagacitas is unstable!]

[If you continue, your mind will shatter inside the Labyrinth of Dreams and you will never escape.]

"Shit..."

He dropped to his knees, panting, then forced himself to breathe and closed his eyes to focus. The voices faded just enough for him to stand.

However, as Seamus opened his eyes, he was welcomed by his mother thrown into the room, blood streaking her face and arms.

Three figures followed, their features blurred, their presence heavy.

Looking at her condition, his emotions boiled up.

"Fuck!"

Seamus charged at them, fists flying, but his punches passed through like smoke. His kicks hit nothing. He couldn’t touch them at all.

They didn’t even see him... He was just like a shadow, an echo.

One of the men barked, "Where is he? Give him to us!"

"I told you, he’s dead!" Alice spat blood and forced herself to stand.

They kicked her back down. Seamus cursed, useless, swinging at him, but nothing happened. They were still standing and he was helpless without a way to save his mother.

Another man leveled a gun at her and it was enough to make Seamus hold his breath.

"You can’t lie to us, Alice. Your—" the man’s words fractured into static, "—that special—is with you."

His mother laughed, defiant even as she bled. "Even if he lives, you’ll never touch him. I’d rather die first." Her hand went to her pocket, but the gun fired before she could move.

Blood sprayed across the nursery wall as Alice fell, her head snapping to the side.

"No! no, no, no!" Seamus dropped to his knees, tears streaming.

He tried to hold her, but his arms slipped through, unable to touch her cooling form, unable to stop the blood spilling from her head.

Her face turned toward the wardrobe. Toward him.

Seamus’s chest caved with grief. Was this it? She wasn’t dead because of a car accident. She had been murdered.

"Mother, mother, please."

And he was helpless against it. Against the death of his mother.

The nursery rotted away, swallowed by shadows. Black liquid seeped down from the ceiling, pooling, then shaping into a tall, thin figure. Its skin was ink, its eyes two burning coals.

It leaned close. "Who is the killer?"

Seamus’s voice cracked into rage. "What the fuck is this, Isolde?! What kind of sick game are you playing?! Show yourself!"

The creature tilted its head. "Who is the killer?"

"Fuck you! It was them! Those men! Don’t you dare—"

Ice seared through his stomach. He looked down to see the shadow’s hand buried in him, blood spilling hot and fast.

"Wrong," the creature whispered. "You need to be punished."