I approached her bedroom. She was lying there, her face still carrying traces of tension, probably still haunted by the chainsaw nightmare from the night before. But this ti, I wasn’t going to wake her with force.
First, I went deeper. I wandered through the dark corridors of Gwenneth’s mories, searching for the deepest wounds.
I found them: the mont her father began cheating and shouting at her mother; The chaotic flash of her mother, Delilah, drenched in blood to protect them. And another mory, the one when her close friend was torn apart by a monster in an S-ranked Dungeon, her outstretched hand unable to save her.
With those ntal fragnts, I returned to Gwenneth’s dream chamber. This ti, I would create sothing new, a lie designed to trigger her deepest rage and despair.
The scene shifted. We were in the living room of their old house. A young Delilah stood there with bruises on her face, her lip bleeding. In front of her, Gwenneth’s biological father raised his hand, ready to land another blow.
"No! Stop!" Gwenneth scread in her dream, stepping forward to shield her.
But with a single thought, I rendered her helpless. Her feet stuck to the floor. Her hands felt like they were grabbing nothing. She could only watch, eyes wide with hatred, as the man she despised beat her powerless mother.
As an invisible observer, I waited. Waited for her to break, waited for despair to consu her.
But the opposite happened. After the initial burst of emotion, Gwenneth suddenly went silent. She took a deep breath, and although her face was still tense, there was clarity in her eyes.
"This... is a strange dream," she murmured, trying to steady her voice. "In reality... there’s no way my father could ever do this to my mother. She’s far stronger than he."
’Damn it,’ I thought, frowning. Irritation pulsed through . Fine. If a straightforward lie doesn’t work, then I’ll twist the mories she already has.
The dream changed again. Now we were back on the night that defined her past, surrounded by her father and the cultists. But this ti, the focus was different.
Delilah still protected them, but now her father overwheld her easily. Her spear shattered, and a knife sank into her chest. Delilah fell, dying in front of little Gwenneth and Angeline. Her father stepped forward, took Gwenneth’s trembling hand, and forced her to touch the blood-soaked blade.
"This is because of you."
Gwenneth scread, her grief and rage erupting. But once more, only for a mont. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting hard.
"No... this is wrong," she hissed, biting her lip. "Mother... Mother killed him. She saved us. This... isn’t real."
Fuck! She could even resist distortions of her own worst trauma.
I needed a different approach. Sothing subtler, more poisonous. If pain and anger didn’t crush her, maybe... sothing warm would break her instead.
With a new plan, I reshaped the scene. The violent dreamscape lted away into soft light and gentle warmth.
We were now on the grounds of Nine Stars Academy, beneath blooming sakura trees. Two young girls—Gwenneth at fifteen, and another girl with curly brown ponytail hair, freckles, and a bright smile—sat on a picnic blanket.
"This... is Hazel," Gwenneth whispered in the dream, her voice soft and full of longing.
They shared lunch together. Hazel laughed when Gwenneth clumsily dropped a piece of cake onto her uniform. Gwenneth, usually cold, smiled faintly as she helped wipe it off.
They trained afterward, Hazel fumbling with her magic staff while Gwenneth corrected her posture patiently, sotis stifling a laugh. Between them was a genuine, innocent bond, sothing I never expected from soone as sadistic and dominant as my stepsister.
Watching from behind the scenes, I studied her closely. The small smile on her face, the way her eyes softened when she looked at Hazel—this was real emotion. This was her weakness. Not anger or sorrow, but nostalgia for sothing simple and warm, sothing she had lost.
I let the scene linger, letting her sink deeper into the warmth of this false comfort.
Then, with a twist of my will, I accelerated the dream.
The bright academy grounds dissolved into a dark, damp cave. We were now in the middle of their internship mission with a Rank I guild. Gwenneth and Hazel, now older, had unknowingly entered a Dungeon reclassified as Rank S.
The mood shifted instantly. The air grew freezing. Ice coated the ground. From the shadows erged the Dungeon Boss—a massive, white-furred beast with glowing red eyes and claws sharp enough to carve stone.
The battle was fierce.
In the original mory, Hazel died in an accident. Here, I twisted it. Hazel deliberately leaped forward to take a fatal strike ant for the wounded Gwenneth.
Hazel’s body was thrown back, blood splashing onto the snow.
"HAZEL! NO!" Gwenneth scread, her voice breaking.
Overwheld by grief, a surge of power erupted from her. Golden light burst from her body as her power jumped from Rank A straight to Rank S.
A colossal blade of light ford in her hand. With one furious strike, she cleaved the monster in half.
But the victory tasted bitter. She ran to Hazel’s side. And here, I injected the poison.
Instead of tender last words, Hazel looked at her with eyes full of hatred.
"THIS... IS ALL YOUR FAULT, GWEN," Hazel spat weakly, her voice full of accusation.
"YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE ONE TO DIE! YOU’RE WEAK! YOU MADE LIKE THIS! YOU—"
"...."
Gwenneth froze. Tears stread down her cheeks as she held Hazel’s dying body. She didn’t deny it. She didn’t argue. She simply accepted the guilt I imposed on her.
But as I observed her, I wasn’t satisfied. Yes, she cried. Yes, she was hurt. But sothing was missing. In her eyes, behind the tears, there was still acceptance. A quiet understanding that this wasn’t entirely real.
It wounded her, but it didn’t break her.
Then I felt it again—the pounding headache, like a hamr at my temples, my reminder of [Dreamweaver]’s limits.
My consciousness began to weaken, and I knew I couldn’t stay much longer. If I pushed further, twisting more traumatic mories, it was entirely possible that Gwenneth would realize there was external interference in her dream. Maybe she already had.
’Fine,’ I thought, withdrawing slowly from her dream. If her past nightmare isn’t enough to destroy her, then I’ll beco her new nightmare myself.
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