Chapter 626 - 49: Nightmare Monster

Chapter 626: Chapter 49: Nightmare Monster

He then looked at his fork and knife.

On the fork was cake.

Turkey? Cake?

Mickey’s gaze shifted back and forth between the dining table and his utensils, his mind a chaotic mess.

"Go on and eat, Mickey."

His mother’s voice rang out, a hint of a smile in her tone.

"Doesn’t it taste good?"

Mickey raised his head and looked at his mother.

His mother was still sitting across from him, her face wearing that same loving smile.

Her eyes, the corners of her mouth, every one of her expressions, were exactly the same as in his memory.

But Mickey suddenly felt that something wasn’t right.

He couldn’t say what it was.

But it just wasn’t right.

"Mom," he began hesitantly, "this is... turkey, right?"

"Of course it’s turkey," his mother replied as if it were obvious. "I roasted it myself, how could it be anything else?"

"Then..." Mickey glanced at the cake on his fork again, "it’s not cake?"

His mother laughed, a hint of resignation in her voice. "How could it be cake? You must be muddled from work. Now, eat."

Mickey looked at the dining table again.

Turkey.

A golden, glistening turkey.

He looked at his fork again.

Cake.

A light brown, fluffy cake.

No!

Wrong!

This is absolutely wrong!

Something suddenly exploded in Mickey’s mind.

’What is going on?’

’What in the world is going on?’

He stared at the cake on his fork, at the turkey on the table, at his mother across from him, at this familiar yet bizarre room.

Then, suddenly, inspiration struck.

’A dream!’

’Yes, that’s it!’

’This is a dream!’

Only a dream could be so bizarre and illogical!

Turkey and cake could exist at the same time, his mother could appear out of thin air from another city, time could be contradictory—all of this could only happen in a dream!

The moment Mickey realized this—

The surrounding scenery changed.

The originally exquisite cake, the originally golden and glistening turkey, the originally warm dining table, the originally familiar room—all of it was covered in a layer of hazy gray.

That layer of gray was like mist, or like fine gauze, shrouding everything.

The details of the cake blurred, the turkey’s outline grew coarse, the grain of the dining table vanished, and the painting on the wall became a gray shadow.

Even his mother across from him was the same.

Hazy and gray.

Her features were blurry, her silhouette coarse, like an unfinished statue, or a painting blurred by water.

Mickey was stunned.

But he soon discovered that when he focused his attention on a certain spot, the grayness in that area would recede, and details would emerge.

He stared at the cake.

The gray mist dispersed, and the cake became clear again—its light brown color, its fine texture, he could even see the individual sugar crystals on the frosting.

He shifted his gaze to the turkey.

The gray mist once again shrouded the cake, while the turkey became clear—its golden color, its glistening skin, he could even see the texture of the meat.

Mickey’s eyes lit up.

’A lucid dream!’

’This is a lucid dream!’

He remembered a legend he had heard as a child. In his city, there was an extremely rare, extremely revered profession called "Dream Maker."

Dream Makers could enter the dreams of others, weave dreamscapes, and create anything within a dream.

And the first requirement to become a Dream Maker was the ability to have lucid dreams—to realize you are dreaming while in a dream, and to be able to control it.

Of course, the clear dreamscapes that even the most novice Dream Makers could manifest were far more extensive than this.

Mickey didn’t know the extent of their abilities, but he figured it was nothing like his own—only able to manifest the details of a turkey or a cake.

But this was enough!

Mickey looked around excitedly, trying to focus his attention on different places, watching the gray mist gather and disperse, watching the blurry outlines become clear.

’This is amazing!’

Just as he was having the time of his life—

"Mickey."

His mother’s voice rang out.

Mickey turned his head.

That hazy gray mother with the blurred features was sitting across from him, looking at him with those indistinct eyes.

"Mickey, why aren’t you eating?"

Mickey frowned.

He was in the middle of enjoying himself, and the sudden interruption sparked a wave of impatience within him.

"You’re so annoying," he said, waving his hand as if shooing a fly. "You’re just a figment of my dream, so don’t bother me!"

His mother froze for a moment.

Her expression was invisible on that hazy, gray face. But Mickey could feel it—she was stunned.

"Mickey?" His mother’s voice changed. It was no longer gentle and loving, but held a slight tremor. "What did you say?"

"I said—" Mickey drew out his words, even more impatient, "—don’t bother me! I’m trying to figure out how to control the dream!"

"Mickey!" His mother’s voice suddenly rose, carrying a severity he had never heard before. "How can you speak to me like that!"

Mickey froze.

He raised his head and looked at his mother.

On that hazy, gray face, he still couldn’t make out any features.

But for some reason, he suddenly felt that behind the gray mist, something was watching him.

That gaze made him feel inexplicably unnerved.

But that feeling was quickly washed away by his impatience.

"Alright, alright," Mickey waved his hand dismissively and refocused his attention on a corner of the room. "I know you’re just something from my dream, so stop pretending. I’m busy."

Behind him, there was only silence.

Mickey didn’t turn back.

He just stared at the corner, trying to make the gray mist disperse and reveal more details.

But for some reason, the mist suddenly felt heavy.

Mickey figured he was just tired.

After all, just like training muscles, lucid dreaming could also be trained.