Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 415

**Chapter 415: Metamorphosis**
**Conqueror Sea, North Shore – Nawah**

Night had taken full hold of Nawah. With most residents tucked away in their homes, the streets lay in hushed stillness, cloaked in a tranquil darkness.

Within a lavish suite in one of Nawah’s finest hotels, Dorothy sat at a desk, face set with concentration. Before her lay the Sea of Literature Navigation Record, its pages filled with handwriting she knew intimately—her brother Gregory’s script.

Earlier, Dorothy had reached out to Gregory through the Record, asking him to question the Fox regarding Pammoth and the strange disturbances that had unsettled Nawah. At last, Gregory had replied. Now, having pored over his notes, Dorothy felt a chill of revelation rising within her.

“The Butterfly and the Moth… So it’s the Black Dream Hunters behind all this chaos. And the deities they invoke—the Moth God and the Butterfly God… This is a major breakthrough.”

She murmured under her breath, eyes locked on Gregory’s words. The sheer detail the Fox had provided left her both impressed and alarmed. Their history with the Black Dream Hunters had prompted the Fox to reveal significant intel with almost no negotiation—a windfall that exceeded Dorothy’s expectations.

‘It seems… the Fox has aligned herself with the Butterfly God’s faction. Judging from titles like “Illusionary Dream Knight” and “Envoy of the Moon,” this Butterfly God must be the Dream Knight—one of the four Moon Shadow Riders and a subordinate divine under the Mirror Moon Goddess, much like Sir Arthur the Wind Rider.’

‘When I was young, the Lady of the Lake stories spoke of fairies acting as her heralds. This Butterfly God is also called the Fairy Queen—it fits. That places her as a deity tied to the Third-era Mirror Moon pantheon. But what confounds me is the sudden emergence of a rival—the Moth.’

‘The Black Dream Hunters claim the Moth is the evolved form of the Butterfly—that the Moth God is the Butterfly God’s higher incarnation. But the Fox rejects this, calls the Moth a false god. The truth remains hidden.’

As she considered the Butterfly God, her thoughts turned to the Moon Shadow Riders. Of them, she had confirmed three: Sir Arthur the Wind Rider, once the founding monarch of Prithvi and its national hero, though he was now considered deceased and his title vacant; the Blood Knight, whose connections to Aggelho and the Spider Queen were shrouded in complexity—yet the Spider Queen now sat upon the Scarlet Shadow Throne of the Eight Spikes; and finally, the Dream Knight, identified as the Butterfly God, embroiled in a conflict against the Moth God. The actual relationship between the two remained ambiguous.

Two members of the pantheon still lay beyond her understanding: the Ghost Rider and the supreme Mirror Moon Goddess herself. Whatever calamity had befallen the Mirror Moon Goddess must have shaken her entire divine lineage.

Finished with the Butterfly God, Dorothy shifted her attention to a more urgent topic detailed in the Sea of Literature Navigation Record—something Gregory had termed the “Pseudo-Moth.”

‘Pseudo-Moths… beings crafted through rituals invoking the Moth’s power. Neither fully of this world nor the Dream Realm, they grow by absorbing nourishment from human dream cocoons. It’s clear—this is what’s been driving the bizarre events plaguing Nawah.’

‘To help their Pseudo-Moth mature, the Black Dream Hunters secretly propagate the Moth cult, promising blissful dreams to attract converts. These followers have their dream cocoons seized. Long-term draining leads to mental collapse—that’s what’s behind the so-called Exhaustion Plague.’

‘According to the Fox, the Black Dream Hunters gain their powers differently from typical hidden-world practitioners. Rather than cultivating their own spiritual energy, they draw it directly from the Pseudo-Moth. As the Pseudo-Moth grows, the abilities it bestows increase. This method diverges from the norm and explains why they possess Dream Divination skills but cannot wield Enlightenment energy in the traditional sense.’

‘They don’t channel spiritual energy themselves; they’re granted powers by the Pseudo-Moth. It makes them auxiliaries of Enlightenment in name only—they aren’t true practitioners.’

This, Dorothy realized, answered the long-standing question: why such a seemingly potent group hadn’t changed the power dynamics of the hidden world. They operated outside the conventional framework.

‘But how far has this Pseudo-Moth progressed in Nawah? The plague has gripped the city for over a decade now. Recent investigations suggest hundreds are currently afflicted, with total victims numbering into the thousands…’

Her brows drew together in concern. Nawah’s population hovered around 150,000. Several thousand mentally broken by the Exhaustion Plague implied a horrifying ratio. Without the Black Dream Hunters having infiltrated so thoroughly—and without the lure of the Moth cult’s promises—the scale of affliction would’ve been impossible to conceal.

A Pseudo-Moth that had devoured so many dream cocoons must have reached an advanced state—possibly what the Fox called the “False Cocoon” phase.

The thought alone was enough to stiffen Dorothy’s resolve. What the Black Dream Hunters were doing—feeding the dreams of the city’s people to this twisted being—was even more abhorrent than the Placenta Sect’s blood rites or the Eight Spikes Nest’s madness.

Having finished analyzing the report, she wiped Gregory’s words from the Sea of Literature Navigation Record and shut the book. She then closed her eyes, drawing out the poisonous knowledge embedded in the information. The harvest was significant—three points of “Shadow” energy and two of “Enlightenment.”

Now in possession of the Fox’s findings, Dorothy had a clearer view of Nawah’s plight. The presence of the Pseudo-Moth demanded action. She couldn’t turn away—not now.

‘The Black Dream Hunters’ base has operated undisturbed for ten years, amassing victims and resources alike. Whether for the sake of the people or my own mission, I must bring it down. The Church’s fleet has docked—this is my window. I’ll use their presence. I must locate the Pseudo-Moth, now.’

Determined, Dorothy made preparations to act immediately. Tonight’s objective was clear: find the Black Dream Hunters’ hideout and the Pseudo-Moth’s nest. Without the Church’s help, such a confrontation would be deadly. But with their forces here, she had a rare opportunity.

She summoned her miniature corpse puppets, sending them silently into the night. Once more, they dispersed into Nawah, slipping into its sleeping homes and shadowed alleys to monitor key individuals.

Her surveillance focused on those she had already marked—households devoted to Pammoth, the Enchanted Hospital’s director, and prominent figures like the mayor. These were the most likely conduits to the Black Dream Hunters. Continued watchfulness would surely uncover links.

The night belonged to the “Shadow” realm—ideal for movements like hers. If she could catch even a single thread of activity from Black Dream tonight, the Church could be briefed at dawn via ordinary, untraceable channels.

‘Though the Church is here, they may not grasp the Dream Realm’s intricacies. If they fail to counter this threat, things could spiral. I need contingency plans.’

While her puppets infiltrated, Dorothy’s mind shifted to a new strategy. From within the homes of cult followers, her puppets began detailed searches for Pammoth-related items—scriptures, relics, and private rituals. She documented every detail, observing in secret.

“Oh Moth… flutter through my thoughts… grant me dreamless rest tonight…”

Through one puppet, she watched an elderly couple—frail, clad in worn pajamas—kneel before a crude altar dedicated to the Moth. They concluded their modest prayers, shuffled into the next room, and switched off the lights.

No sooner had they fallen asleep than Dorothy instructed the puppet to resume investigating the room. But her search had barely begun when something terrifying unfolded.

The old couple began thrashing violently in bed. Their limbs jerked uncontrollably, eyes snapping open to reveal whites rolled back grotesquely.

“Urghhhh…”

The bed shook beneath them from the force of their seizures. Dorothy stiffened, instinctively on edge.

‘What is this?! Is this what it means to receive the Moth’s “sweet dreams”? This looks like a nightmare, not a blessing!’

Even as she processed the scene, alerts from her other puppets poured in. Elsewhere—across the homes of other cult members, including officials—similar convulsions erupted. Moans and anguished cries echoed. Every victim showed the same signs: spasms, pain, terror. They weren’t dreaming—they were suffering.

The disturbance was noticeable enough to rouse neighbors, who began knocking in concern.

At the Enchanted Hospital, Dorothy observed more uncanny behavior. Catatonic patients rose from their beds like puppets, knelt on the floor, and extended their hands skyward—an eerie display of silent devotion.

‘What is happening… inside their minds right now?’

A cold dread spread through Dorothy. Whatever this was, it went beyond anything she’d encountered before.

……

Far beneath Nawah, hidden from the waking world…

Inside a cavernous underground hall, dim and vast, rows upon rows of figures knelt in perfect circles. Most looked starved and hollow-eyed, dressed in rags—uncanny doubles of the Enchanted Hospital patients. They stared in trance-like worship at the center, arms raised in silent awe.

Around them stood robed attendants, clad in garments of dark grey etched with spiral moth designs. They whispered low chants, encircling a monstrous object at the very heart of the chamber.

A towering chrysalis, nearly ten meters tall, floated unsupported in the air. Its shell emitted a pale, ghostly glow, flickering between solid and spectral. Glimpses of spectral forests shimmered around it. Across its surface writhed clusters of semi-transparent white cocoons—each one squirming before being drawn into the chrysalis and absorbed, a grotesque, gut-turning sight.

At the base stood Garcia, clenching a wooden staff. Her face shone with fervor, eyes locked adoringly on the horrific structure. She lifted her arms wide and proclaimed:

“Feed, O Cocoon! Devour! Swallow every dream not yet claimed! Drink deep of the sleeping minds! Transform now—begin your change!”

“Moth’s Splendor, you must not delay! Danger draws near—Glory Light seeks to pierce our sanctuary! We invoke you—Metamorphose! Cast your shadow over their brilliance! Let the Eternal Dream rule!”

Her cry reverberated through the chamber. The chrysalis responded at once. All the twitching cocoons on its surface vanished—sucked in completely—leaving its shell smooth and taut.

For a brief moment, stillness reigned.

Then a crack formed, snaking across its surface.

In that instant, an unseen force erupted outward from within the chrysalis. It surged through the chamber walls, into the city above, and spread like an invisible tide over Nawah. Its touch cast every weary soul into instant slumber.

Seabirds mid-flight spiraled down, overcome with exhaustion. Patrol officers slumped unconscious where they stood. Roof-perched thieves dropped into peaceful, forced sleep. No creature remained awake.

From her hotel room, Dorothy—already tense from observing the previous night’s horrors—was hit by a crushing wave of fatigue. A heaviness more potent than any natural drowsiness crashed into her mind.

There was no resisting it. To fight was to fail.

In that blink, she sensed calamity.

‘Something… terrible… This is no ordinary event.’

‘I mustn’t… lose consciousness…’

With one final burst of willpower, Dorothy clasped her arms around herself—and without activating her Current Body State to buffer the effect—unleashed her own innate lightning.