This dream was different from all the others.
Not that there was no dream—just an endless darkness, black as if someone had shoved him into the bottom of a pot.
Maybe it’s a nightmare from the stress of being fired.
Orlando thought to himself.
Just as he was waiting for the nightmare to pounce from some corner, something lit up ahead.
Not a light turning on—someone was walking over.
The figure was small, even petite—a full head shorter than him, with narrow shoulders, looking like a little girl.
But her body was off.
Her limbs were metallic, silver-gray, covered in gears and springs, every joint clicking and turning like a miniature humanoid clock tower.
Her torso was made of precise metal plates, with dark gold light seeping through the gaps, like the cracks of a furnace.
The most exaggerated part was the pair of wings on her back—metal.
Made of countless tiny gears and blades, they flapped slowly in the darkness, each flap producing a faint mechanical sound, like hundreds of pocket watches ticking at once.
Her face was a clock.
A round dial, white face, black markings, two hands—hour and minute—slowly turning.
This must be tonight’s nightmare.
At least it’s not Dante.
Knowing it’s a nightmare is better—since it’s all fake, I can sleep peacefully tonight.
“Speak.”
Orlando was taken aback.
A little girl?
“Watcha doin’?”
The clock head tilted, its neck emitting a slight creak, like a door that hadn’t been oiled.
Her hands rotated twice, as if digesting those three words.
“Why do you talk like that?”
The voice carried a hint of confusion and a subtle trace of disgust.
“Then what can I say?”
True—I just took her for a nightmare, did I expect her to use honorifics?
The clock head was silent.
The second hand ticked for about ten seconds.
“Fine,” her tone held a resigned ‘I’ll let it slide,’ “Let’s get down to business.”
Her body drifted forward a bit, gears spinning faster, the clicking doubling in intensity.
“Do you want me to call you Orlando, or—”
“Orlando.”
He answered quickly, cutting her off before she finished.
The clock head tilted again, this time to the other side.
“Fine,” she seemed a bit disappointed, “Though I prefer the latter.”
Orlando naturally assumed he was a human male and had no attachment to the identity of Olivia.
But the fact that she knew his other identity meant she was no ordinary being.
“I’ll skip the introductions,” her dial’s hand spun once, as if rolling her eyes, “My name is Victoria. As for who I am, I’ll explain later.”
Victoria.
Orlando ran the name through his mind. Nothing.
He had never heard of any clock-headed loli named Victoria—of course, a normal person wouldn’t know such a thing either.
“So you called me here,” he pointed to the pitch-black void beneath his feet, “Watcha doin’?”
Victoria’s metal wings suddenly spread wide, making a loud whoosh like hundreds of fans opening at once.
Her voice rose an octave with clear displeasure:
“Recognize the gap between us, Orlando. Your time is like a handful of loose sand in my eyes. Even if you’re a dragon, it’s the same.”
A handful of loose sand—in her eyes, his time was no more valuable than dust on the floor.
Dragons live for millennia, and to her, ‘it’s the same.’
What in the world is this being?
“Fine, Miss Victoria.”
He emphasized “Miss” with a tone that said ‘I’m playing along, now get to the point.’
“We’ve chatted long enough. Time to get to the main topic.”
Victoria’s wings folded in a bit, gear speed slowing to a relaxed rhythm.
Her dial tilted slightly downward, as if looking down at him—though she was shorter, making the gesture a bit funny.
“Actually,” her voice suddenly turned lazy, like she was gossiping about something unrelated to her, “I’ve been watching you all along.”
Orlando said nothing.
“How should I put it,” her metallic body spun half a turn in the air, as if finding a comfortable position, “It’s been pretty rough. Captured by a silver dragon, raised as a daughter.”
Orlando’s fingers clenched, nails digging into his palms.
Old mother dragon.
Daughter.
Those two words were like needles, stabbing a place he didn’t want touched.
“Don’t mention that old mother dragon to me,” he said, voice low but tone hard, like stone hitting iron, “I don’t want to see her.”
On Victoria’s dial, the hour and minute hand stopped—not a mechanical failure, but a deliberate pause, a meaningful silence.
Then the hands resumed, and the metal plate vibrated, producing a sound that carried a knowing smile that sent chills down the spine.
Though she had no mouth, Orlando could hear it.
“Such venomous words,” she said lightly, “But one plate of snacks and you’d fold, right?”
Orlando froze.
Not from fear, but from being hit dead-on.
His expression froze, lips slightly parted, unable to speak.
Because she was right.
Back in Skyreach City, whenever he threw a tantrum, Astrid never got angry.
She would bring a plate of snacks—a silver tray with delicate little cakes sprinkled with icing sugar, smiling at him.
At first, he would frown and push the tray away, saying, “I’m not eating your stuff.”
Then, within half an hour, he’d be wolfing it down under Astrid’s soothing touch.
Victoria didn’t wait for his answer.
Her hands turned a few more times, her voice becoming serious, most of the laziness gone.
“I’ll tell you directly. You might think you’ve escaped. But right now, you have no way out.”
Orlando’s brow furrowed again.
“You might think you can survive in Ostoria,” Victoria’s wings opened slightly, mechanical blades lifting one by one like a peacock’s tail, “But actually, far from it.”
Her dial faced him directly, both hands pointing straight up, like an eye taking aim.
“This country has an ‘execution line.’”
Execution line—once your finances drop below a certain threshold—losing your job, getting sick, a gap in pay—the dominoes start falling.
Can’t pay rent, kicked out by the landlord.
Credit collapses, can’t borrow money.
Can’t find a job, living on the streets.
Living on the streets makes it even harder to find a job.
A one-way street from ’employed’ to ‘homeless,’ no turning back.
That’s the execution line.
Indeed, if he can’t find a job in a month, he’d be close to that line.
“What do you want me to do?”
He asked.
On Victoria’s dial, both hands jumped simultaneously.
That motion was probably—satisfaction.
“Go back to Eldron.”
“Are you kidding?”
His voice dropped an octave, low to a whisper.
Eldron—he had just escaped from there, left to die by his teammates, captured by a silver dragon, turned into a monster.
Now he wants me to go back?
Go back and do what?
“I’m not kidding.”
Victoria’s voice was flat, hands ticking steadily, gears turning steadily, every part declaring—she was serious.
“Just go back to Eldron.”
She paused, wings folding against her back.
“If you don’t believe me, you can keep waiting until you have no choice left. I suggest you act fast, otherwise—”
She didn’t finish the ‘otherwise.’
She didn’t need to.
That ‘otherwise’ hung in the air, heavier than any words.
Orlando took a deep breath.
“Who are you?”
He asked.
Victoria’s body began to fade—not retreating, but blurring from the edges, like a painting soaked in water.
The gear sounds grew distant, the wings’ light dimmed, the dial’s hands slowed.
Just before she vanished completely, her voice came from far away, like an echo from the bottom of a well.
“After you return to Eldron, I’ll tell you—”