Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 421

Chapter 421**Influence**

The midday sun poured through the spotless kitchen windows, casting warm light over a girl with bouncy curls and a massive ribbon perched on her head. She hummed a lively tune while bustling about, joyfully preparing lunch.

Perched on a footstool to reach the counter, she deftly assembled two plates: one with roasted chicken legs, a chunk of bread, and a mixed salad; the other stacked with crisp-fried fish. Once she finished plating, she poured milk into a cup and a shallow saucer.

After double-checking the arrangement, she loaded everything onto a tray and carried it into the dining area. Seated at the table was a sleek black cat, its eyes fixed intently on a hand mirror adorned with crescent moon carvings, as though trying to peer beyond its surface.

“Grandpa~ Lunch is ready~”

The girl—Salia—set the tray down and transferred the dishes with care. She nudged the fish plate and saucer of milk toward the cat, claiming the chicken and cup for herself. At the sound of her voice, the black cat gave a slight nod and gently pushed the mirror aside.

“Mmm… I hear you.”

He began sipping the milk delicately. Salia sat opposite him, glancing curiously at the ornate mirror beside him. “You’ve been staring into that mirror for ages now,” she said, “and you looked… upset. Did something happen?”

“Something did, yes. A report just came through the Shadow Mirror. The Black Dream Hunters caused a major disruption this morning. All the Pseudo-Moths we had been monitoring shifted their Dream Realm coordinates at the same time. They’ve gone completely off the grid…”

He licked more milk as he explained. Salia blinked, startled. “All of them moved at once? That’s unheard of! Nothing like that’s happened before…”

“Not since your memories began, no. But it’s happened in the past. Whenever the Black Dream Hunters face internal turmoil, they scatter like this—repositioning the Pseudo-Moths to protect secrecy. Something must have shaken them. And whatever it was, I doubt it’s good.”

His tone was somber as he used his paws to pick at a fish fillet. Salia’s brows drew together as she processed the news, then a thought surfaced. “Something bad… Oh! That reminds me—when I was in the Dream Realm last night on a hunt with the Security Bureau’s Black Dog, he questioned me about the Black Dream Hunters. Said it was on behalf of detectives from Rose Cross.”

“Rose Cross?” the black cat echoed sharply, momentarily forgetting his meal. He looked at Salia with sudden gravity. “You’re telling me Rose Cross *specifically* asked about the Black Dream Hunters last night? Are they entangled with them now?”

Salia nodded. “Seems like it. The detective said he passed through a small village in southern Castiglia where people were falling ill with something called the Exhaustion Plague. Apparently, the sick were worshiping a Moth God promising beautiful dreams. I immediately knew it had to be a Pseudo-Moth breeding site. So, I gave Black Dog a basic rundown—nothing sensitive. Just enough so the detective could stay cautious. I mean, Patronus-sama always protects me in dreams, right? It felt safe to share what little I did.”

She paused, then added thoughtfully, “But, Grandpa… what if they acted on that info right away? Maybe Rose Cross attacked, and that’s what caused the Black Dream Hunters to panic this morning?”

She took a bite of her bread as she voiced the idea. The black cat gave a firm shake of his head. “Unlikely. You gave them that intelligence last night. The Dream Realm disruption happened this morning. If they had acted on it immediately, it would’ve been recklessly fast. They’d barely have had time to process the data. Besides, based on their previous behavior, Rose Cross doesn’t seem particularly hostile toward the Black Dream Hunters—or even very informed about them. I doubt they’d move so suddenly.”

His tone was cool and logical. Salia’s shoulders slumped a little. “Oh… I just thought it’d be nice if they clashed. Patronus-sama might be able to handle the Pseudo-Moths directly if Rose Cross stirred things up in the Dream Realm…”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” the cat warned gently. “We can’t count on outsiders to handle those traitors—especially ones with unclear intentions.”

He nibbled at another piece of fish before continuing. “Still, this turn of events is troubling. I’ll dig deeper into what happened. In the meantime, if you get a chance, try subtly bringing it up with that Black Dog—or even the Dragon. See if you can learn how that detective’s doing after the encounter at the Black Dream outpost. Which city was it again? Has anything strange happened there recently? Don’t be direct. Just ease it into conversation.”

Salia nodded at the instruction, downing the last of her milk. “Got it, Grandpa.”

———

**Nawah, Conqueror Sea North Shore**

That afternoon in Nawah’s southern harbor, the Church fleet remained docked. Word of the strange events from earlier that morning had spread among the sailors and passengers alike, filling the air with tension.

Given the Church’s nature, most had sensed something abnormal had occurred during the night. While they couldn’t grasp the full extent, those who had directly witnessed the incident wore expressions of silent horror.

Inside the flagship *Buen<e/m>*, Captain Jord lay half-reclined on his bed, looking pale and drained. A group of men in official priest garb stood before him—Inquisitors from Troyes, dispatched to take over the Abyssian Cult investigation. But the situation awaiting them in Nawah had turned out to be far beyond what they had anticipated.

“Captain Jord,” began the senior inquisitor seated near the cot, “your report indicates that last night, a massive unnatural entity—shaped like a monstrous moth—appeared. It hypnotized the city and attempted to devour the minds of those under its spell.”

Jord nodded faintly. “Yes… It was a creature from the Dream Realm. It bled into reality somehow. I suspect there’s a ‘Shadow’ cult in Nawah—a group with Dream-based abilities. That thing may have been their doing…”

He spoke with sincerity. The inquisitor’s brow furrowed. “We came expecting a straightforward Abyssian matter. But a Dream-centric cult changes everything. There is one such group I’ve heard of… the Black Dream Hunters. Could they be involved?”

Jord exhaled shakily. “I can’t say. Groups like that are experts at hiding. We’re used to fighting Abyssians and the Gloom Gold Society—not opponents who attack through dreams. It was… overwhelming. We were nearly wiped out.”

The inquisitor’s tone turned reassuring. “And yet, Captain, you held your ground and protected Nawah. The Lord stands by those who defend the innocent.”

“No,” Jord murmured. “It wasn’t *us* who defeated the creature… It was a dragon.”

The inquisitor froze. “A dragon? Are you *certain* of that?”

“I am. A dragon. Not some metaphor or legend. A real one, like those stories from before the Savior’s time…”

The inquisitor’s face darkened. “Captain, are you absolutely sure? Could it not have been an illusion—a dream manifestation? You did say the creature had dream-affecting powers…”

“Perhaps,” Jord admitted. “I *was* struck by it. My mind was spinning. What was real and what wasn’t got mixed up. But even so… that dragon—whatever it was—moved within the Dream Realm. I’m convinced it was a true Dream Dragon. Not some figment. Others—Santus and the others—saw it too. It wasn’t just *my* vision. It came when all seemed lost… and it saved us. Some even wondered if it might have been a messenger of the Lord…”

His voice wavered. The inquisitor responded sharply. “Careful with your words, Captain. There is no record in scripture of divine messengers appearing as dragons. That borders on heresy.”

Jord sat up straighter. “Forgive me. That wasn’t what I meant. We are faithful. No one mistook it for a divine being. It was simply… the words of a man who just barely escaped death.”

His apology hung in the air. The inquisitor remained skeptical, but didn’t press the point. “So noted. I’ve heard enough. Between this Dream Moth entity and the dragon, the gravity of what transpired in Nawah is clear. I will escalate this to our superiors. In the meantime, Captain Jord, you and the three others involved must remain here. You’ll be assisting our inquiry.”

The air thickened with tension. Jord sat up abruptly. “You want the four of us to stay? That’s impossible. We’re escorting pilgrims to the Holy Mother Sanctuary. Their protection is in our hands! We only stopped here to hand off the Abyssian case and recover!”

The inquisitor shook his head. “This crisis supersedes your escort mission. You are essential witnesses. Without you, the investigation is crippled. You *must* stay.”

Jord’s jaw clenched. “But our duty—”

“The pilgrimage continues. We require only the four of you. The fleet can function without its top officers.”

Jord pushed back again. “That may be true. But *our* squad holds all the White-ranked strength. Without us, the convoy’s vulnerable.”

The inquisitor replied coolly. “Nawah is near Ivig. Safe routes are available. If even strange vessels make it through unscathed, your fleet surely will. More importantly…” he paused, eyeing Jord, “…you are clearly suffering aftereffects. Physical and mental. Sending you into the field again risks even more lives. Staying here aids both the investigation *and* your recovery. Let your second-in-command take charge. I’ll report this situation to headquarters. These are exceptional circumstances—you’re not to blame.”

Cornered by logic and concern alike, Jord let out a heavy breath. “Understood. We’ll remain. Let the fleet move on.”

———

That same afternoon, within the crumbling walls of a forgotten house in Nawah, a young man wandered like a shadow. Thin to the bone, skin pallid, clothes hanging loose, he moved like someone half-absent from the world.

He was a painter—once diagnosed with the Exhaustion Plague nearly two years prior and placed in hospice care. That morning, he’d awoken alone in the empty city. Led by fragmented memories, he found his way back to this derelict home. The floorboards groaned underfoot, dust blanketed every surface, and tattered canvases leaned against walls.

At a familiar vase, he retrieved a hidden key, long forgotten. Rust screamed as he unlocked a door and climbed narrow stairs to a small attic studio.

Inside, the walls were covered in old paintings. Dozens of them, all depicting nightmarish moths—some rendered in surreal smears, others etched with eerie precision. These were remnants of his moth-worshipping days, works inspired by distorted visions.

He approached the back of the attic where an unfinished moth sketch sat on an easel. He stared at it, hand trembling with the desire to complete it. But after a moment’s hesitation, he tore it from the frame and replaced it with a fresh sheet.

Ignoring the dried paints, he grabbed a pencil. His first act upon returning home was creation. His hand flew across the page, driven by a feverish impulse. Time dissolved.

From those frenzied lines emerged a new image—one completely at odds with the moth-covered walls.

A snarling jaw. Claws sharp as nightmares. Towering wings stretched wide. Scales like ancient stone. A spine bristling with jagged ridges. A dragon, born from pencil and breathless need. No longer grotesque. Not a symbol of decay—but of overwhelming might. Primal force made visible. Sovereign. Untouchable.

The pencil dropped from his fingers. The young man sank into a nearby chair, chest heaving. He couldn’t look away. His eyes remained fixed on the powerful figure he had summoned from memory and dream, utterly absorbed in its silent roar.