36. Government's Move

A month had already passed since Murphy returned to the waking world.

The world, unsurprisingly, refused to be quiet about it.

The news of his reappearance—alive, well, and eerily calm—spread like wildfire. For a brief moment, it even overshadowed Broken Sword's declaration to enter the Third Nightmare, a feat previously thought impossible. The media went into a frenzy. Debates sparked. Conspiracies brewed. Documentaries were rushed into production. Everyone had a theory, and none were right.

Murphy, on the other hand, was caught in a whirlwind of at least a hundred interviews.

From Awakened Associations to international news outlets, from intellectual roundtables to spiritualist channels claiming him to be a "Reincarnated Messiah"—he sat through them all. Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes he just stared until they stopped asking questions. Either way, it was exhausting.

Rumors were everywhere. That he was the lost descendant of some legendary Awakened. That he was the final weapon of a secret society. That he had been raised by a Legacy Clan secretly.

He didn't bother denying any of them.

But amidst all the noise, there were blessings too.

Paul's company shares skyrocketed overnight—not because of any announcement, but simply because Murphy was seen leaving the building once. Investors poured in like worshipers. Arie, ever the quiet strength behind the house, finally allowed herself a private sigh of relief. They had him back. Nothing else mattered.

And today?

Today was the first day of his enrolment into the Academy.

The Academy he was joining wasn't just a place for learning—it was a place where Nightmare Candidates and future Awakened gathered. A crucible of ambition and survival.

Honestly, this wasn't even the season for Sleepers to enter the Academy.

But exceptions were made.

And Murphy—eleven years old, carrying the whisper of legends behind his gaze—was granted one.

Not because he begged. Not because he pulled strings.

Because everyone simply pitied him. A boy who returned from a Nightmare that should have claimed him. A child prodigy shaped by loss, shadowed by grief.

Still, Murphy wasn't here for prestige.

He wasn't here to show off.

And unlike many others, he certainly wasn't here to "find himself."

He came for one person.

A name most in the world of Awakened barely acknowledged.

Julius.

He wasn't strong.

He didn't have an Aspect that sent chills down the spines of others.

Neither did he possessed some talent as a fighter, healer or tank.

But what he possessed was something more dangerous than brute force. Something irreplaceable.

Knowledge.

Julius was a Dream Researcher—one of the few in the world who had truly dared to catalogue the chaos, the laws, the shifting logic and metaphysics of the Dream Realm.

Where most explorers lost their minds or their lives, Julius mapped.

He remembered the unseen.

He recorded the forgotten.

In the story Murphy remembered from his previous lives—though fragmented, broken across layers of death and rebirth—Julius's lesson were crucial and helped the main cast survive. Without him, their path would have ended in the Winter Solstice.

Murphy needed him.

Not as a follower.

Not as a pawn.

Not even as a friend.

But as a Teacher who could teach him how to survive in the treacherous place of Dream Realm.

'It's been… what, two? Maybe three years since he enrolled here?'

That was the thought that flickered through the mind of the Awakened woman standing at the Academy gates—her posture too straight, her smile too polished.

She was beautiful, in a composed and deliberate way. Not fragile, but graceful. Like a statue carved to inspire both trust and awe.

Murphy studied her with a quiet gaze as he approached.

'They've placed someone like her at the gates… for me.'

Even before she spoke, Murphy knew the truth.

They were watching. They were planning.

The woman stepped forward and extended a hand, her voice dipped in warmth.

"Welcome, child. My name is Elaine. I'll be your guide. It's an honor to finally meet you."

Murphy took her hand lightly, polite but unreadable.

"Oh, sorry to trouble you. My name is Murphy."

She smiled, effortless and radiant.

"It's no trouble. Not after everything you've endured. It's the least we can do."

Her words were coated in concern, but to Murphy's ears, they sounded like honey poured over iron.

'She's trying to butter me up.'

And in that moment, the web became visible.

Her warmth. Her Awakened status. Her beauty. Her placement here.

It wasn't kindness.

It was calculus.

'They want me. No—need me.'

The government.

They were beginning to make their moves.

And this?

This was their first opening gambit. Not a threat. Not a leash.

An invitation.

"They're keeping an Awakened near me to charm me… to dazzle me. They want me to see the world from their side. From power's side."

But why?

Murphy's eyes narrowed slightly as he walked beside Elaine, her voice gliding through introductions and directions.

'Could it be… because of Broken Sword's statement?'

It made sense. More than he cared to admit.

When Broken Sword and his cohort return from their Third Nightmare… they won't be mere Ascended anymore.

They'll be Saints—beings who reshape mountains with a breath, who stand above the tide of ordinary struggle, beyond even the laws of cause and consequence.

And when that happened, the balance would shatter.

Valor. Immortal Flame. Song.

Their growth would be so cataclysmic, so divine in scale, that Legacy Clans and even the Government would no longer be able to command them—only beg or burn.

'And me? I'm the piece on the board that they're trying to play.'

A bargaining chip.

A soft-spoken miracle.

'The government is trying to make me into a legend.'

Not out of love. Not out of faith. But for leverage.

A myth they could sell. A symbol wrapped in sorrow and stitched with hope—just rare enough, just precious enough, to be bartered like ancient gold.

They didn't want to raise a hero. They wanted to auction one.

To Asterion, the one who collects rare talent.

To Ki Song, the one who couldn't give birth.

To Broken Sword, the one who wishes to revive his clan.

To Valor, the one who sees everyone simply as a tool.

In exchange, they'd ask for mercy.

Neutrality.

Time enough to create a Saint of their own—one born of strategy, not sacrifice.

But what they didn't know…

Was that none of that would happen.

Not the way they thought.

After Broken Sword returns, blazing from the depths of the Third Nightmare…He will walk the earth for barely a year before he will challenge 4th Nightmare. And even clear it. But...

he will be betrayed. His sword will break. His legend will dim. His soul—gone.

Asterion will be banished. Not slain. Not defeated. Banished.

It would be Valor and Song who will rise as the owner of the world.

Whispering behind veils. Rewriting laws with their shadows.

For a decade, they will reign.

Not through blood, but through fear.

Not through force, but through memory.

And Murphy?

He would not be anyone's bargaining chip.

And Murphy, smiling faintly as he followed her through the marble halls of the Academy, whispered in the back of his mind:

'Do they really think I don't see it?'

"Now, Sleeper Murphy," the counselor said with a warm smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, "we'll take you for psychological counselling. Just to make sure you don't have any… lingering mental disturbances."

Murphy nodded, his expression pure sunshine.

"Okay."

But inside, his thoughts were colder.

'This isn't counselling. This is soft interrogation. They want to build a profile. To control me. To map out the boy wrapped in headlines and see if I can be managed as they wish.'

Soon, he was seated in a clean, well-lit room with artificial sunlight and a pot of dying lavender on the windowsill. The woman across from him looked more like a beloved aunt than an agent. Her voice was soft, her smile even softer.

"I'm really glad you're here, Murphy. Let's start simple, alright?"

She tapped her pen lightly on a clipboard. "Would you mind telling me the type of Aspect Ability you received? Is it combat-based, supportive, sorcerous, or maybe something… unique?"

Murphy tilted his head, pretending to think.

"Hmm… I'm not really sure."

He scratched his cheek, sheepishly. "I can grow vines. From the ground. But they're not very tough."

As he spoke, he gestured casually.

A soft rustle.

A slender vine coiled up from the floor like a green whisper, winding around the leg of the chair. It reached for a book from the table with almost childlike care, then gently placed it back onto the bookshelf.

The vine trembled. The edges browned.

It withered in silence.

Murphy looked at it and offered a sheepish smile.

"They work okay for small stuff," he said, voice apologetic. "But they wear out really fast."

The counselor smiled, jotting something down.

"Oh, that's alright. Most powers of Sleepers are like that in the beginning. They tend to be a bit... underwhelming until you grow into them."

Her tone was gentle. Reassuring. The kind used for frightened animals and special children.

Murphy offered a small nod, eyes wide with innocence.

"Oh yes. I can also heal small wounds. Like scratches or bruises. But nothing major."

He raised his hand, pressing a finger against a faint paper cut on his wrist he'd given himself on the way in. A faint shimmer of warmth glowed beneath the skin—barely visible, barely real. Within seconds, the red line vanished.

The counselor's eyes lit up.

"That's quite rare," she said. "Healing abilities, even minor ones, don't show up often in Sleepers."

Murphy blinked, tilting his head just slightly.

"Really? I thought it was pretty common."

'Let her believe I'm confused. Let her feel like the smart one. That always works.'

"Have you experienced any... strange dreams since returning?" she asked, changing topics with studied smoothness. "Anything that feels real, or recurring?"

Murphy paused. Then frowned like a child trying to remember a fading dream.

"Sometimes… I see a big tree. And voices. But they don't say anything I understand. Just... whispers. And sometimes a lady. I think she's crying. That's all."

The counselor gave a sympathetic nod, her pen moving faster now.

"Nightmares are common after trauma," she said. "Especially in children."

Murphy nodded again.

'Good. Keep writing. Build your picture. Make it soft and pitiful. That's the only armor I need right now.'

Things went on like that.

Questions. Smiles. Notes scribbled in careful cursive.

And Murphy—patient, soft-spoken, unthreatening—shared just enough.

Enough to create the impression that his Aspect was all-rounded but harmless. A touch of utility, a hint of healing, maybe a future support role if developed correctly. Nothing that screamed threat. Nothing that made alarms ring.

He described his abilities like a boy proud of a butterfly collection. Curious. Weak. Contained.

The counselor nodded along with growing comfort, visibly relaxing.

"I think you're doing very well, Murphy. And considering what you've been through... you're remarkably well-adjusted."

Murphy gave her a shy smile. One that barely reached his eyes.

"Thank you, ma'am."

'And now you'll write in your report that I'm stable, that I'm manageable, that I'm worth trusting. That I'm no danger. Just a survivor. And government would twist it and present it as something unique.'

He folded his hands in his lap and tilted his head, mimicking the posture of a child eager to please.

It worked.

By the end of the session, she had concluded what Murphy wanted her to conclude:

That his Aspect, though balanced, leaned toward harmlessness.

That his mental state was stable.

That he was ready to return to society.

And that—above all else—he was safe.

Murphy left the room with a smile still painted across his lips, his footsteps quiet and measured.

Elaine was already waiting by the door when Murphy emerged, her posture graceful, a gentle smile curling her lips.

"Would you like to go somewhere?" she asked kindly, tilting her head.

Murphy looked up at her, his expression thoughtful. "Hmm… I'd like to visit the wilderness survival classroom."

Elaine blinked, surprised. "Oh my. That's quite rare. Most children ask for swordplay, sparring, maybe sorcery. No one ever starts with survival."

A pause. "May I ask why?"

Murphy answered plainly, without hesitation.

"How can I survive in this weak and young body if I can't even find food, water, or a safe place to rest? If I end up near a river, how would I swim back if I don't know how to swim? If I need to scale a mountain, won't I just fall and die?"

His voice held no dramatics, no fear—just clear, matter-of-fact logic. The kind that made Elaine fall briefly silent.

She smiled again, softer this time, and ruffled his hair gently.

"You really are smart."

Murphy didn't respond.

The Wilderness Survival classroom was spacious and tastefully decorated—with walls lined in rough maps, hanging coils of rope, and preserved sketches of dangerous flora. A huge window cast rays of warm light across the wooden floor.

But it was also… completely empty.

Just beyond the rays of sunlight, seated behind a wide, battered wooden desk, he spotted a figure slouched like a misplaced coat.

The man looked up, and something in him visibly flickered to life.

"Ah! Come in, young man!" the man called, waving a lazy hand.

He looked to be in the early dusk of his life—old, but not fragile. His hair was a wild mess of black and grey, like a crow's nest caught in a storm. His eyes were slightly too absent, like he had only recently returned from a very long dream. And his eyebrows… they twitched constantly, as though having an independent conversation with gravity.

Julius.