Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 420

**Chapter 420 – Memory**
*Conqueror Sea, North Shore, Nahawa*

The moon gave way to the rising sun, time flowing steadily onward. In an instant, the night had passed. As dawn broke, Nahawa stirred once again beneath soft morning light.

In the early hours, the city awakened. Most people emerged from unusually restful sleep—deep, undisturbed, and dreamless. For them, the night had seemed unremarkable.

But as citizens readied for the day, bathed and dressed, subtle oddities on the streets suggested the night had held more than met the eye.

The first clue came from the closed food stalls and eateries—normally brimming with morning customers. Every corner where breakfast was usually sold was deserted. Confused patrons wandered, only to learn the cause: cooks and vendors had all overslept. No one had risen in time to open their shops.

And it wasn’t just the food vendors. All around Nahawa, signs of disruption appeared. Policemen, meant to be on patrol, were found dozing against lamp posts. No paperboys made their usual rounds—newspapers delayed. Even thieves had been discovered curled up mid-theft, caught slumbering on rooftops instead of fleeing with loot.

Most shocking of all was what had happened to the Leaden Slumber Syndrome patients. Those who had been locked within the city’s three mental hospitals were discovered wandering the streets, having slipped out during the night.

A large number of them, once unreachable and utterly inert, had begun to recover their senses. Though still groggy and slow, they could speak in broken phrases, even recognize loved ones. Their condition—formerly deemed irreversible—now showed clear signs of healing.

While Leaden Slumber had never reached epidemic levels, its high frequency compared to other cities had long plagued Nahawa. The presence of the three nearby asylums loomed heavily, and whispered rumors over the years had only worsened the sense of unease. For many residents, the threat of the syndrome hung over them like a dark cloud.

People feared becoming its next victim. And as the illness grew more aggressive in recent times, a quiet exodus had begun. Some younger citizens, unable to bear the dread, had fled the city altogether.

So, the unexpected improvement seen that morning sparked cautious relief. Those who feared the creeping grasp of the sickness now clung to this sudden glimmer of hope, many offering silent prayers to the Holy Trinity in gratitude.

As the day wore on, Nahawa slowly found its rhythm again. The early chaos gave way to familiar routines.

Meanwhile, Dorothy, having returned to her hotel in the early morning hours after an exhausting night, lay in deep slumber. Not even the cawing gulls outside her window disturbed her sleep. She finally stirred well past noon, stretching leisurely in the warm light that filled her room.

She rose and pushed open the heavy curtains, letting sunlight flood the space. Throwing open the window, she breathed in the salt-laced wind and looked out across the wide sea and the bustling city below. A faint smile touched her lips. She turned, washed up, and dressed.

She selected a brown checkered dress from her luggage and slipped into it, carefully brushed her hair, settled her hat atop her head, and fastened her polished leather shoes. With an air of ease, she descended the stairs and stepped out into the lively streets.

Dorothy wandered toward a familiar café and ordered her brunch: a potato cake, chilled vegetable soup, a crispy meat roll, and a glass of milk. She ate slowly, letting the flavors settle, and tuned into nearby conversations—listening for any chatter about the strange occurrences of the night.

“Looks like most people hypnotized by that moth woke up this morning… Ordinary folks only slept deeply for one night… No one really remembers what happened after dark. Other than a handful of clerics, no one even saw the moth…”

“And… those who had their Dream Cocoon drained by the Leaden Slumber—some of them are actually recovering! I saw essence recondense into Dream Cocoons last night in the forest. I thought it was possible… but I didn’t expect they’d actually come back. If the essence wasn’t fully digested, it seems it can reform. But once it’s truly assimilated… that’s lost for good.”

Dorothy absorbed the murmurs with quiet thought. As she’d guessed, only those with less severe cases of the syndrome were regaining lucidity. The long-afflicted remained unchanged, trapped in their comas.

‘When I destroyed that moth… some of its dispersed spiritual essence turned back into Dream Cocoons. The rest simply vanished. That must have been energy the moth had taken too long ago—it couldn’t be recovered. It’s heartbreaking. Some people were too far gone to wake again. The Black Dream Hunters have left scars in this city too deep to fully heal.’

Her heart heavy, Dorothy turned her focus to the task she’d put off during breakfast: reviewing the memory bubbles she’d collected overnight. These remnants had been expelled from the psyches of dying cultists—and moths—during the final confrontation.

Most bubbles disintegrated quickly. But those tainted with mental toxins endured, clinging to the Phantom Scale Fragrance Cage she wielded. The same phenomenon had occurred during her first descent into the dream realm, when she absorbed forbidden knowledge.

Once she finished her meal, she began examining the bubbles. She soon identified three distinct clusters—each resembling a unique grimoire.

The first described a spiritual cultivation path called the *Dream Hunting Technique*. It detailed how dream entities, even those mimicking others in the dreamscape, could be hunted to absorb “Shadow” essence. In addition to using pseudo-moths to harvest spiritual energy from civilians’ Dream Cocoons, this practice seemed central to the Black Dream Hunters’ power-gathering operations.

‘So this is how it works—drawing power directly from the dream world. Gordon’s trips into the dream realm in simulacrum form… he must be using this technique to chase down dreambeasts. Unfortunately, my draconic form frightens away most such entities. Makes efficient hunting practically impossible.’

She reflected, recalling her suspicions from earlier meetings with her fox companion and her brother Gordon. Now confirmed. But her wyrm-like presence seemed to scatter everything sharp-willed or monstrous enough to be worthwhile prey.

‘Had I known this technique before, I might’ve drawn so much more essence from that moth… So many fragments lost… How much “Shadow” could I have claimed?’

‘Still, had I done that, many of the victims might never have woken. I don’t know if the technique can distinguish between what’s recoverable and what’s not… More tests are needed.’

Conflicted emotions stirred in her. Part of her regretted the spiritual energy left unclaimed—but the sight of people awakening outweighed the loss.

Finishing her review, she extracted the essence from this section: three *Shadow* and one *Enlightenment*.

The second portion contained sacred chants and rituals praising the *Dreaming Moth Supreme*. Vows of allegiance declared unwavering loyalty to the Mothgod.

According to this doctrine, the Black Dream Hunters believed the god was once the *Dream Butterfly Divinity*, who foresaw existence spiraling into unending suffering. The only salvation, they claimed, lay in abandoning reality for a perpetual dream. The Butterfly, evolving into Moth, would serve as the final guide into this eternal sanctuary.

‘A fantasy of a Dream Era? Salvation for all in slumber? Hah… Classic heresy. Just another myth spun to trap desperate minds.’

With a quiet sneer, she filtered only the noxious essence from the memory and extracted three *Shadow* and one *Enlightenment*.

Finally, she turned to the last and most cryptic cluster—likely the remnants of the local cult leader’s psyche. It held insights reserved for the highest tier of the sect.

Within this shimmering memory, the elder had believed their god still lay dormant: its cocoon hidden in the dreamworld’s deepest recesses. Spun from the Dream Butterfly’s own yearning, it was still undergoing its grand metamorphosis. When the chrysalis broke, suffering would end, and the waking world would dissolve into pure dream. Thus, the faithful toiled to hasten the moth’s emergence.

To them, Dorothy’s intervention had been dubbed the “Scale Moths”—flecks shed by the god’s shifting form, mimicking its latent power.

‘So the Mothgod’s cocoon rests at the very core of the dream realm? That tracks. During dream navigation, tremors often pointed back to one central origin… Could that truly be a divine chrysalis?’

‘If these memories are true, then the god is still in larval form. And the soul of the Dream Butterfly lies sealed within. The cult insists the transformation is inevitable… But my fox pupil strongly resists that idea. So many questions still unanswered…’

Weighing the information, she pulled forth the final poisonous extract—gaining six *Shadow* and three *Enlightenment*. A significant harvest.

She tallied up everything she’d gained—between her fox companion’s tips and the spiritual toll from the lightning trap she’d triggered near the Coastal Cliffs. Her essence ledger now read:

Cup: 5
Stone: 4
Shadow: 20
Lamp: 2
Silence: 14
Enlightenment: 14

‘Not bad… That Shadow pool shot past the rest. Hunting truly pays off. I worried about spending it too freely before, but now I can move unseen with ease.’

The abundance of *Shadow* gave her confidence. Those who worked in secrecy treasured such cover—and Dorothy, naturally disinclined toward fame or visibility, found comfort in that darkness.

‘Still… I’ve barely got three *Stone*. *Cup*’s running low, too. I can’t even scrape ten together between them. That’s dangerous—especially considering my dual persona as Thunder Caller and Soul Weaver. I’ll need to resupply soon.’

‘The White Stonemason Guild is efficient at restocking… but they’re mostly located in the larger cities. Where’s the closest one? How far would I need to travel?’

The realization of her dwindling core essences gave her pause. She needed to reach the nearest metropolis, find a guild branch, and replenish her scrolls.

‘With that spiritual quake from last night, Castiglia’s priests and inquisitors won’t wait long. They’ll sweep Nahawa thoroughly. If I linger, it’ll be harder to slip away undetected. Best to leave *today*. Head for the next major city, restock supplies, then chart my path forward.’

Having decided, Dorothy resolved to depart by afternoon. But first, she needed a map to plan the journey.

‘So my trip toward Ivig gets delayed again…’

‘No matter. I never followed a rigid path. Ivig is more excuse than destination—wandering opens doors, food fills the soul.’

With that, she took another bite of her potato cake. Truly, beyond the lingering traces of memory, the one thing anchoring her in Nahawa was the taste of that crispy, golden delight.