Chapter 527 - 4: Nightmare Transformation
"AHHH—!!!"
Ron’s eyes were wide, his pupils dilating from sheer terror until they nearly filled his sockets. He stared fixedly at the pale face right in front of him.
He wanted to leap out of bed, to escape this bizarre presence next to him, to flee this room and run out into the sunlight!
However, his body betrayed his will.
Two consecutive rounds of terrifying nightmares had already drained him of all his strength.
His limbs felt as if they were filled with cold, heavy lead, or perhaps bound tight by invisible ropes of fear. They were stiff and refused to obey him.
He tried to lift his leg, but his calf twitched spasmodically, devoid of any strength.
He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled weakly. He couldn’t even muster the strength to push away the blanket.
He could only remain where he was, gasping for breath.
The flame of the oil lamp cast flickering shadows across his terrified, contorted face and the boy’s calm, placid one.
But no matter what, the boy remained lying on his side, completely still.
Those dark, hollow eyes that had just opened simply watched Ron calmly. They held no curiosity, no malice, not even the slightest flicker of emotion that belonged to a living being.
Ron’s teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, making a soft CLACK-CLACK sound.
He stared at the boy, convinced that if he looked away for even a second, the thing would pounce.
After what felt like an eternity, he couldn’t take it anymore.
"You... you..." The words struggled past his trembling lips as he finally managed to form a complete sentence. "What are you... doing lying here?"
The boy’s pale, almost expressionless face twitched slightly.
A calm voice, devoid of any emotion, spoke:
"I’m copying you."
Ron froze.
It took him a good two or three seconds to process the meaning of that sentence.
’Copying me?’
’Copying me by lying here?’
The realization struck him as absurd.
He subconsciously blurted out:
"Then why didn’t you copy me and scream?!"
The moment the words left his mouth, he froze again, realizing how ridiculous they sounded.
But his mind, gripped by fear, was incapable of more complex thought.
The boy’s calm gaze remained unchanged.
Then, the placid voice spoke again, without the slightest ripple of emotion, as if stating an obvious fact:
"That would be too foolish."
"Too foolish..."
Ron repeated the two words subconsciously, his voice dry and bewildered.
The next second, adrenaline surged through him like a bursting dam, flooding his brain!
"Who’s foolish?!"
A hoarse roar erupted from Ron’s throat, overpowering the tremors of fear. It carried the madness of a cornered animal!
His eyes, which had been unfocused with fear, instantly became bloodshot. He glared so intensely it seemed they might split open, fixed on the calm face just inches away.
"Who are you calling foolish?! You ghost! You monster!"
His extreme fear had morphed into violent rage.
He no longer tried to run. Instead, he lunged over and fumbled frantically on the dilapidated table beside the bed!
His fingers brushed against cold, hard metal—the greasy parts he’d been fiddling with earlier, and a wrench.
Without a second thought, he snatched the heaviest object, the rusty wrench. He poured all his fear, anger, and despair into his arm, swung it wide, and brought it crashing down on the boy lying on the bed!
"Die! Just die!!"
The wrench whistled through the air, aimed squarely at the boy’s head.
However, just like all the blades and needles before, the heavy wrench passed through him without any resistance, as if striking nothing more than a dense plume of smoke.
He had swung with so much force that his arm, along with half his body, passed through the boy’s form. He staggered, nearly falling onto the other side of the bed.
"GRAH!" Ron let out a frustrated roar, quickly retracting his arm. Without even looking, he swung the wrench backhandedly, sweeping it toward the boy’s waist!
Again, it passed right through, stirring only a faint current of air.
"Monster! Nightmare! Get out of my place! Get out!" Ron was utterly frantic. He stopped aiming and just swung the wrench wildly—again and again—smashing, stabbing, and thrashing at the space the boy’s figure occupied!
Smashing at that calm face!
Stabbing at that thin chest!
Sweeping at that seemingly fragile neck!
Every strike was delivered with all his might, with a ferocity meant to pulverize his target into dust.
The whistle of metal slicing through the air, Ron’s own ragged breathing, and his crazed shouts filled the entire room.
"BANG!"
The wrench smashed into the bed frame, sending splinters flying.
"CLANG!"
The wrench scraped against the edge of the stone table, showering sparks.
"Hah! Hah! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!"
But no matter how he attacked, from what angle, or with how much force, the wrench—and the arm gripping it—could only pass through the boy’s body again and again, as if he were venting his fury on a hyper-realistic illusion.
The boy hadn’t moved an inch. He remained on his side, the hem of his clothes not even fluttering.
Those dark eyes calmly followed Ron’s frenzied movements, watching his panting, grimacing form as if observing a farce that had nothing to do with him.
Gradually, Ron’s roars faded into garbled snarls, which then gave way to ragged, broken gasps.
His arm ached, numb and sore, almost impossible to lift. The feeling of exhaustion and cold despair once again spread through his body.
Sweat, mixed with the cold sweat from before, soaked him completely.
CLATTER. The heavy wrench finally slipped from his weakened grasp, hit the filthy floor, bounced once, and rolled to a stop in a corner.
Ron hunched over, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving violently. He gasped for air like a dying dog.
He lifted his head. Sweat dripped from his hair, and in his blurry vision, the boy was still lying there, completely unharmed, his breathing rhythm unchanged.
’I can’t hit him.’
’I can’t hit him at all.’
All his frantic efforts had been in vain. He had only succeeded in making himself look like a ridiculous clown.
The last dregs of his strength and anger drained away with his sweat, leaving only endless fatigue and a bone-chilling despair.
Ron slowly straightened up a little, slid down the cold wall, and sat on the floor.
He raised a trembling hand and wiped away the mixture of sweat and tears on his face. His hollow gaze fell on the figure on the bed. His voice was hoarse and weary, tinged with a resigned defeat:
"Just say it... What do you want...?"
He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and he spat out a few final words:
"Do whatever you want... You damn... nightmare monsters..."
"Nightmare?"
The boy’s steady voice cut through Ron’s despairing mumble.
For the first time, his placid tone seemed to contain a subtle flicker of something.
"Not Elementalization?"
Ron was taken aback by the sudden question. He blinked his stinging, sweat-filled eyes and repeated subconsciously, "Ele... Elementalization? What Elementalization?"
The boy watched the confusion on his face. The subtle flicker of emotion seemed to subside, returning to absolute calm.
"You don’t know."
Then, as if he’d realized something, he added, "Right. You shouldn’t know."
Then, his gaze focused on Ron again as he posed a second question:
"Then, what is Nightmare Transformation?"
A series of disjointed questions.
It left Ron feeling numb.
He quirked his lips into a sneer that was uglier than a grimace, carrying the air of someone who had nothing left to lose.
"Why should I tell you?"
The boy showed no reaction to the emotion in his words.
He just looked at Ron and said flatly:
"That’s not up to you."
Just then, a faint sound came from the direction of the room’s heavy iron door.
CLICK.
It was the sound of a key being inserted into the lock.
Ron shuddered violently. His unfocused gaze snapped to the iron door, full of shock and uncertainty.
’Uncle Scar! Uncle Scar is back!’
CREAK!
The heavy iron door was slowly pushed open from the outside, letting in the even dimmer light of the corridor, accompanied by a familiar, heavy footstep that sounded tired and irritable:
"...Damn thing was a pain in the ass to find... and expensive as hell... Kid! Where the hell are you? Why didn’t you light another lamp...?"
As he spoke, he squeezed halfway through the doorway.
And then, his words died in his throat.
It was as if an invisible hand had seized him by the neck.
His entire body froze in the doorway, and the object in his hand fell to the ground with a THUD.
His cloudy eyes went wide, his mouth hung slightly open, and the fleshy muscles of his face twitched uncontrollably.
Right in front of him, no more than two or three steps away, a figure was standing silently.
Dressed in an immaculate black robe.
With long, ink-black hair cascading over its shoulders.
And that pale, youthful face, now watching him calmly.
Compared to Ron, who was on the verge of collapse from fear and nightmares, the older, more experienced Uncle Scar reacted much faster and with more cunning.
He almost immediately bowed his body slightly, his voice becoming extremely respectful:
"My... My Lord, you... you have awakened?"
The boy gave no indication that he noticed Uncle Scar’s sudden display of reverence. In the exact same tone he had used with Ron, he repeated the question:
"What is Nightmare Transformation?"