Merin turns and closes the door, sealing the room from the outside world.

This man is not sick.

He is trapped.

A lingering victim of the Dream Demon.

Merin chose this household deliberately.

It lies close to his estate.

If the demon still maintains threads here, then this man is a living anchor.

Merin sits down beside the bed.

He places two fingers lightly against the victim’s wrist, feeling the faint pulse beneath skin stretched too tight over bone.

Then he exhales.

His Blood Qi circulates.

Golden strands surface beneath his skin, calm and controlled.

Within his dantian, the Dream Gu stirs.

At Merin’s command, it emerges.

Not physically at first—but as an imprint of will.

Then reality follows intention.

The Dream Gu manifests, its purple body traced with golden star-like flecks, tethered to Merin by threads of luminous blood Qi.

It crawls forward and bites gently into the victim’s neck.

The man does not wake.

The Dream Gu’s power flows inward.

Merin closes his eyes.

His spirit follows the connection.

—

The world shifts.

Merin stands outside a mansion.

The sky is wrong—too still, too flat.

Colours are muted, edges blurred.

This is the victim’s dreamscape.

A crude imitation of reality, stitched together by fear and memory.

Red lines stretch outward from the ground, from walls, from the victim’s own shadow, threading into the distance like veins.

Merin does not explore.

He has no intention of playing along.

He raises his hand.

The Law of Dream responds.

Not illusion.

Authority.

The dreamscape shudders.

Merin strikes once.

The ground fractures, not like stone, but like glass.

The mansion folds inward, collapsing into fragments of memory and emotion.

Red threads snap in clusters.

A shrill scream echoes through the collapsing dream.

Not human.

Merin does not hesitate.

He strikes again—this time following the scream itself.

Space twists.

For a brief instant, he sees it.

A distorted silhouette fleeing through layers of dream and shadow.

A spider-like presence recoiling in pain.

Merin’s will carves through the gap and lands a mark.

Not a wound.

A brand.

The scream sharpens, then cuts off abruptly as the connection snaps completely.

The red threads dissolve.

The dream collapses into nothing.

—

Merin opens his eyes.

The room returns.

He withdraws the Dream Gu smoothly, reabsorbing it into his body as its power settles deeper into his flesh.

On the bed, the victim stirs.

His breathing deepens.

Colour slowly returns to his face.

After a few moments, the man’s eyes flutter open—confused, unfocused, but awake.

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Truly awake.

Merin stands.

The Dream Demon has been driven back—and marked.

With that mark, the thread is clear.

Not a guess.

Not a hunch.

A direction.

He turns and opens the door.

The anxious face of the victim’s wife fills his vision, eyes red, breath caught in her throat.

Merin steps aside.

“He’s awake.”

For a heartbeat, she does not move.

Then she rushes past him, stumbles to the bedside, and collapses over her husband, sobbing openly as she clutches him like he might vanish if she lets go.

Merin does not stay.

He glances once, then walks out.

Outside, Gong Qiu, Zhang Shan, Mei Ji, Zhu Jie, Ming Li, and the others close in around him, their expressions frozen somewhere between disbelief and awe.

Zhang Shan is the first to speak, her voice trembling.

“Lieutenant… how did you heal him?”

Merin does not slow.

“I have my way.”

He closes his eyes.

The mark burns faintly in his perception—no longer tied to the victim, but to its source.

East.

Not vague.

Not distant.

Specific.

“Now,” he says, opening his eyes, “let’s go.”

—

They leave the house quickly.

Merin steps into his carriage and gestures inside.

“Mei Ji. Zhang Shan. Come.”

Both women hesitate for a fraction of a second, then obey, climbing in with him.

The others signal a nearby carriage, piling in with hurried efficiency.

The drivers crack their whips.

The carriages surge forward.

Inside, Merin gives calm, precise directions.

They cut through the streets at speed, passing markets, courtyards, and patrols that barely have time to register the insignia before they are gone.

They enter the inner city.

They pass the street that leads to Merin’s own estate.

Then another.

Then another.

As the buildings grow taller and the streets cleaner, the air itself seems to change—heavier, more controlled.

Finally, the carriage turns.

A wide street opens before them.

At its end rises a vast compound of stone walls and guarded gates.

The Yang Estate.

The carriages slows.

Then stop.

They step down.

Gong Qiu stares up at the gates, his face draining of colour.

He leans toward Merin, voice low.

“Lieutenant… why are we here?”

His throat tightens.

“This is the Prime Minister’s estate.”

Merin follows his gaze to the guards stationed at the gate, their eyes already sharp with suspicion.

“Because,” Merin says evenly, “the culprit is inside.”

Shock ripples through the group.

Eyes widen.

Mouths open.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Merin steps forward.

“Let’s go.”

He does not wait for agreement.

He walks straight toward the gate.

“Open the gate,” he commands.

The guards exchange glances.

One of them steps forward, trying to maintain composure.

“Sir, please wait—”

“Divine Guard duty,” Merin cuts in.

“Open the gate.”

Without waiting for permission, he pushes open the smaller side gate set into the massive doors and steps inside.

“Sir, wait!” a guard shouts, moving to block him.

Merin turns his head slightly.

Pressure rolls outward.

Minor Inner Refining Realm.

Controlled.

Focused.

The guards freeze mid-step, bodies locking as if caught in invisible ice.

Merin walks past them without another glance.

His team follows, stunned but resolute.

Behind them, the pressure lifts.

The guards gasp, stumbling back as sensation returns.

One of them spins and runs toward the inner compound at full speed.

—

Inside the estate, chaos is already spreading.

Maids rush through corridors.

Guards shout orders that overlap and contradict.

Someone screams for a doctor.

Another voice breaks into sobs.

Gong Qiu moves closer to Merin, his voice tight.

“Lord… are you certain?”

Merin glances at him.

He understands the fear.

This is not a den of criminals.

This is the heart of political power.

“Don’t worry,” Merin says calmly.

“I will protect you.”

They move deeper.

The closer they get to the main residence, the more frantic the atmosphere becomes.

A maid nearly collides with them, tears streaming down her face.

“My lord collapsed!”

“Someone help!”

Merin’s steps do not falter.

He and his team exchange brief looks.

No one speaks.

They all feel it now.

Whatever lies ahead, it is already unfolding.

And Merin is exactly where he needs to be.

They follow the maids down a side corridor and stop outside a wide, ornate room.

From the doorway, Merin takes in the scene in a single glance.

A young woman kneels by the bed, her hair dishevelled, tears streaming unchecked as she clutches the unconscious man’s hand.

An older woman—likely his mother—stands beside her, sobbing openly, her body shaking as she calls her son’s name again and again.

Several young men and women crowd the room, relatives and attendants alike, all wearing ashen expressions, fear and disbelief carved into their faces.

On the bed lies a young man.

Pale.

Still.

Breathing—but only just.

Merin lets his spirit spread.

Carefully.

Quietly.

What he finds confirms everything.

The young man is alive.

His body is intact.

But his spirit is scattered, fragmented, torn apart as if something had been feeding on it and then fled violently.

Merin exhales through his nose.

So this is it.

The Dream Demon did not merely spread chaos at random.

It chose a host.

A central node.

Someone close to power.

Someone who could move unnoticed.

Someone whose sudden “talent” would draw no immediate suspicion.

The culprit is clear.

The Dream Demon used this young man.

And now, having been struck and marked, it has abandoned him.

Gong Qiu and the others quietly gather around Merin, speaking in low voices.

“We checked,” Gong Qiu says grimly.

“That’s Yang Li.”

“The Prime Minister’s only son.”

“He was designated heir at a young age.”

Zhang Shan continues, her voice tight.

“Yang Li’s cultivation talent was always poor—both as a warrior and a spiritual refiner.”

“It caused a lot of instability around his position.”

Mei Ji adds the final piece.

“But three or four months ago, he suddenly broke through to the second stage of Spiritual Refining.”

“And his cultivation started advancing rapidly after that.”

Merin’s gaze remains on the unconscious young man.

Three or four months.

Exactly when the Dream Demon began acting in the capital.

Exactly when the first scattered victims appeared.

A soft sound of footsteps draws his attention.

An older man enters the corridor.

His back is straight, his face stern—but the moment his eyes land on the room, that composure cracks.

Prime Minister Yang.

Their eyes meet.

Recognition flashes in both.

Merin steps forward and inclines his head slightly.

“Lord Yang.”

The Prime Minister barely acknowledges him.

“Marquis Duan,” he says, his voice strained.

“Can you wait a few minutes?”

“I need to check on my son.”

Merin nods without protest.

“Of course.”

The Prime Minister enters the room at once, pushing past attendants, kneeling by the bed as he calls his son’s name with barely restrained desperation.

Moments later, servants rush in, followed by one doctor—then another—then several more.

They examine Yang Li repeatedly.

Pulse.

Breath.

Meridians.

Spirit.

After tense minutes, the verdict is unanimous.

“He is alive.”

“But we cannot determine why he has not awakened.”

One of the doctors hesitates, then adds quietly.

“This resembles the sleeping case.”

The room fills with murmurs.

Fear spreads.

Slowly, the Prime Minister rises.

He turns.

His eyes lock onto Merin, who leans calmly against the wall near the doorway.

“Marquis Duan,” the Prime Minister says, voice low but sharp,

“Why are you here?”

“I don’t recall any member of my household reporting this case to the Divine Guard.”

Merin straightens.

He does not evade.

He does not soften his words.

“I came,” he says evenly,

“Because your sleeping son is one of the culprits behind the case.”

The effect is immediate.

Shock ripples through the room like a physical wave.

Gasps.

Cries of disbelief.

The young woman by the bed looks up, eyes wide, as if she misheard.

The Prime Minister’s face hardens instantly.

“Marquis Duan,” he says coldly,

“You’d best be careful with such words.”

“What proof do you have?”

Merin’s gaze does not waver.

He answers simply.

“Because of his current state,” he says,

“is the result of my attack.”

Silence slams down.

Heavy.

Absolute.

Every eye in the room fixes on him.

And the truth, once spoken, can no longer be taken back.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep