Dreamwalker: Reign of the Heavenly Sovereign!-Chapter 38

The air felt thick with an unsettling silence, save for the subtle vibration in his hand.

Oliver's grip tightened around the scissors, and a pulse of hunger surged through him. It wasn't physical—it was a gnawing, insidious urge deep within his mind, urging him forward. The scissors weren't just vibrating randomly. No. They were pulling him. Guiding him. A whispering, invisible force.

His pulse quickened.

No. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still. This wasn't right. The scissors—they were made for this. Made for cutting, for butchering. Aiko had warned him. She had told him exactly what they did.

The scissors made you want to kill what you had cut.

And yet, here he was, staring at the pile of sludge that used to be the creature. The humanoid thing, now reduced to nothing but a mass of blackened flesh and waste, a stinking pile that seemed to ripple like it was still alive, even though it was dead.

His eyes tracked the remnants, his mind buzzing with an odd, insistent pulse. It wasn't the satisfaction of victory. It wasn't relief. It wasn't anything he should be feeling.

It was the need to keep cutting.

To keep hunting.

The scissors twitched again, urging him forward. He could feel it. They were leading him somewhere, and his body, against all reason, wanted to follow. He looked down at the pile of remains, the remnants of the creature that had attacked him moments before. The mess of viscous ichor clung to his boots, the smell sickening and suffocating.

But the scissors... they wanted more.

They wanted to lead him somewhere else.

Oliver felt the weight of the blades in his hand, heavier than before. More alive than before.

He couldn't ignore it.

Shaking his head, he reached for the inner pocket of his blazer and drew out one of the two teleportation talismans he had left. His fingers trembled, but not from fear—he was used to this by now. He could feel the talisman's surface warm against his fingers, its faint energy radiating.

The scissors in his other hand pulsed again, sharp and urgent.

Just use it. Just go.

He pressed the talisman against his palm, and his Qi flowed into it, the slight flicker of energy rising as his intent fueled the talisman's power. A thin thread of golden light surrounded him, and he felt a sharp tug on his spirit. His senses expanded outward, the world around him shifting, warping, until he was suddenly aware of everything.

His spirit vision flared. The alley, the mist-covered buildings—everything came into focus in a way that his physical senses couldn't grasp. The buildings were empty. Not just devoid of people—there was no sign of life at all. No birds, no rats, not even the faintest trace of an insect. The world around him seemed vacant, hollow, as if it had been abandoned for ages.

But that wasn't what he was searching for.

No, his focus remained on the scissors. He followed their pull with his spirit senses, trying to navigate through the haze. Unlike the rest of the world, which seemed clear but empty, the distance ahead—a stretch of streets—seemed to bend and shift. The buildings in his spiritual vision moved, like parts of an incomplete puzzle, rearranging themselves in a spiral of confusion.

And then, there she was.

A girl. Running.

Her form was hazy at first, like she was fading in and out of focus, but she was clear enough for him to see. Her limbs were slender, her hair trailing behind her as she moved in a desperate sprint. She was trapped, just as he had been. The streets twisted around her, looping and folding in on themselves like a maze that had no exit. She was running in circles, not realizing that with each step, the world was dragging her further into the same loop—a prison of her own making.

His fingers twitched.

The scissors in his hand began to pulse again, and the urge to move was undeniable. His chest tightened, a feeling of urgency pressing in on him. He needed to go.

Without thinking further, he released the talisman, letting it fade, cutting off the extension of his spirit senses, and just like that, the world around him snapped back to normal. But the lingering image of the girl, trapped in her loop, remained. He could see it in his mind's eye, and it made his blood run cold.

He wasn't trapped anymore.

He wasn't trapped.

Oliver's feet moved before he could process the thought, his legs carrying him in the direction the scissors had guided him toward. The fog around him thickened, curling around his boots like it was trying to slow him down. But it couldn't. His eyes locked on the shifting streets ahead, on the maze that had been set in motion.

He was no longer the one stuck.

The world—this world—had become his to shape.

And the scissors, that dreadful, insistent tool of murder and desire, were telling him where to go.

The girl wasn't running toward freedom.

She was running into a trap.

—

Oliver dropped low.

Flowing River Steps surged beneath his feet—Qi flooding into his calves, ankles, toes—each movement precise, effortless, a dance of flowing fluidity. His body blurred, skipping through the fog like a stone across water. Every step carved through the air, drawing ripples in his wake. The wind screamed past his ears, though no wind truly blew here. Just the illusion of motion, and his will slicing through it.

The alley snapped into view ahead. Not just any alley. That alley.

He reached it just as the thing bent toward the sobbing girl, its broken limbs crackling as they moved like rusted steel rods. The girl was crumpled on the ground, her bag splayed beside her, her eyes locked on the faceless presence just inches away. That smile—not with teeth, not with lips, but with intent—lingered in the air like a curse.

Oliver didn't hesitate.

Golden Qi surged fourth, its blade made out of pure energy—it's radiance sharpened to a spearpoint.

He threw.

The golden sword screamed through the mist like a comet, whistling with righteous fury—

—and slammed into the side of the creature's head.

The impact didn't explode or burst. No. It warped. The blade didn't pierce—it glitched. The creature's head flickered—twisting, fracturing in dozens of frames per second—repeating the moment of impact over and over again like corrupted video. The fog recoiled, and a high-pitched keening filled the air.

The girl shrieked.

The thing twisted around, its body now stuttering between postures—tall, crouched, spider-like—none of them real, none of them true.

Oliver landed on one knee, scissors in hand.

They were screaming.

Not audibly. Not exactly. But he could feel it. The buzzing at the base of his spine, in his gums, behind his eyes. The bloodlust. It wasn't his—but the scissors' need to carve. To correct. To cut what shouldn't be.

"Step back!" Oliver barked to the girl.

She scrambled behind him, eyes wide and soaked with horror.

The creature's form jittered again. A stilt-leg struck the ground, extending toward him unnaturally fast.

Oliver's Qi surged in response. His hand swung.

The scissors met limb.

SNAP.

The world screamed. Not from sound—but from reality folding inward.

The severed limb disintegrated midair, becoming static, then pixels, then dust.

But the scissors—hungry for more—twitched in his grip.

The creature retreated, but only for a breath. Then it grew. Taller, wider, the alley stretching to accommodate its writhing mass. Faces formed along its body—hers, his, others—blinking and speaking words that hadn't been spoken yet.

"You truly are disgusting," Oliver snarled.

The thing lunged.

Oliver dodged left, spun, kicked off the wall. Flowing River Steps again—his body flickered through impossible angles. The scissors danced in his hand, singing to him, guiding him.

He cut again.

Once across its midsection.

Twice across its reaching arm.

The creature rippled—chunks of it vanishing into blank white like torn-out pages. Still, it didn't fall. It twisted around itself, regenerating, looping through fragments of time. It tried to be everywhere at once.

But Oliver's Qi cut through the lie.

He could see the center. The root of it. The node where its cursed presence anchored the alley to itself. It wasn't hiding. It wanted him to see it. A challenge.

A dare.

Oliver reached behind him, fingers dragging across the air. His golden Qi sword returned to his grasp, summoned back with a hiss. He spun both blades now—Qi and Scissors, one forged from discipline, the other from madness.

He whispered.

"...let's butcher it."

Then he charged.

His muscles surged, skin taking on a molten red hue. The Yin-Devouring Yang Beast Technique ignited within him. Yang energy erupted through his body, reclaiming every ounce of cultivated power. His Qi dimmed, meridians thinned, his cultivation dropped like a stone—

—but his power only grew.

"First Yang Beast Technique!" His voice cracked like thunder, his body gleaming orange as he lunged headfirst into the creature.

Oliver's blades met its flesh. The hiss of burning meat echoed through the alley. He didn't stop. A stomp, a twist, and he launched upward, slicing through the thing's abdomen and its congregation of mismatched, moaning heads.

The creature screamed, its wounds sizzling as Yang energy infected every torn inch of it. Its intent twisted into a smile—a bloody, amused grin—and then—

Boom.

Oliver was flung like a rag doll, crashing into the alley wall. The creature's hand pulsed with a white light only one man in this world should have known.

"White Cane's Counter," its dozens of heads spoke in unison.

Oliver's eyes widened.

His breath hissed through clenched teeth.

"That's my technique.".

Then he gritted his teeth and blitzed toward the thing's central skull. "I knew those heads were vile!" he roared, his Yang energy eating away at what remained of his cultivation. From nearly the peak of the early stage of Qi Refinement, his cultivation plummeted—yet each drop only condensed his wrath.

He struck again, power crashing through him like a tide.

"Roaring Elephants Veins!!" he howled. Veins thickened beneath his skin, pulsing with molten Yang essence.

The creature raised its lanky arm, a futile defense. Oliver remembered the technique's flaw—it could only counter physical force. Elemental and spiritual strikes still burned through.

His blades shimmered red, his skin a radiant ember. As he closed in, an ethereal outline of an elephant shimmered behind him.

Then he struck.

His Qi sword clashed with the white-tinged limb, and for a moment, resistance. But only for a moment.

Then—slice.

The limb fell, severed. Oliver spun midair. Now came the Scissors. They pulsed with madness, their aura warping space around them. He opened the blades wide—

—and drove them into the creature's skull.

Using the embedded weapon as an anchor, he twisted midair again. His golden blade pierced into the back of the creature's head and shoulders, tearing chunks of flesh free in a rhythmic, vicious dance.

The Scissors sang, delighted. His body twitched—Yang mutation blooming beneath his skin.

The beast shrieked, thrusting its last remaining arm toward him. No technique this time. Just raw desperation.

Oliver looked down at it, unimpressed.

"Giving up, huh?" he muttered.

Then he ripped the Scissors free. "Fine. Let me show you how it's done."

He crouched low, then exploded forward.

"White Cane's Counter!!"

His Qi plummeted, but he didn't care. He'd end it now.

His Qi sword blocked the attack. He twisted. His Scissors bit deep. Then—slice—his sword severed the limb, ending the counter.

He dropped to the ground and dashed forward, blindingly fast. His target: the remaining leg.

A clean cut. Then a leap. He landed on its back, blades carving into flesh like paper. The alley screamed. The winds howled. The mist thickened in protest. The sky itself turned.

But Oliver didn't stop. His blades hissed as they danced through meat and bone. Static. Screeches. The sound of muscle sizzling and splitting.

He butchered the creature. Ripping through sinew, peeling back its spine, bathing himself in viscera. Madness and power were one in his grin.

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He didn't know how long it lasted. Time had no place in that alley. It was only when the hum of Tokyo nightlife buzzed into his ears—followed by a sharp, human scream—that he paused.

He blinked.

A middle-aged woman lay sprawled across the bed in the penthouse, her eyes wide with shock as she stared at his gore-soaked form. The expensive, plush surroundings—a luxurious bed with satin sheets, softly glowing lights, and velvet curtains—were completely at odds with the brutal scene before her. Her scream rang out, sharp and loud, but it didn't feel like fear.

Was it horror?

Or arousal?

Maybe both.

In her hand, a dildo, now forgotten, lay discarded beside her as she gaped at the horrific spectacle. Oliver, drenched in blood, looked up from the carnage he had wrought. He stood near the bed, his weapons still in hand, the room now a grotesque fusion of opulence and violence.

"Hello—"

"...Mama."