I wasn’t mistaken. The content of the Sixth Oracle was exactly as I had read earlier.
"Capture them," huh? Was that supposed to mean I should fight and subdue them? If they’re going to give me commands, they could at least be a bit clearer…
It would’ve been a lot more helpful if the Oracle had plainly stated:
"The prophet is lying in wait, having set traps—go defeat them!"
Even better, they could’ve included a marked map showing the prophet’s location. Then I wouldn’t have had to waste time interrogating the count. Not that I’d skip the interrogation entirely; the guy had enough crimes to warrant a beating either way.
The Oracle window was as unhelpful as ever, and the typo still grated on my nerves. “Prophets,” plural? Was that a typo? Or not…?
I stared hard at the text in the Oracle window before shaking my head. Instead, I opened my inventory and pulled out a White Moon Shop Ticket—a reward from completing the Fifth Main Oracle.
I hadn’t used it yet since the ticket would be consumed upon purchase, but I’d taken a peek earlier. The shop had some amusing and unique items for sale, though I wasn’t sure about their practicality.
"Open White Moon Shop."
With the ticket in hand, I gave the mental command. A translucent shop window materialized before me.
----------------------------------------
[White Moon Shop]
* Infinite Rope (A)
* Poisonous Bloom of Resentment (A)
* Trap for Night Visitors (A)
* Seal Carved from a Ten-Thousand-Year-Old Tree (L)
* Bundle of 1,000 Vampire Beetles (L)
...
I scrolled further by clicking [View More] and was greeted by a cascade of bizarre items. None of these existed in my past playthrough of Doomsday Chronicle, and most were rare, A-rank or higher, with some being almost impossible to obtain through conventional means.
I browsed carefully, analyzing descriptions and performance stats displayed alongside the item illustrations. This prevented any unfortunate mistakes, such as purchasing useless gear.
After some deliberation, I finalized my purchases: an S-rank mental defense accessory to counter charm skills, a trap designed for stealthy intruders, and a few potions.
[You have used a White Moon Shop Ticket (1/3 remaining).]
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The shop window disappeared as soon as the transaction was complete, and I carefully stashed the items in my inventory. Then I turned to Rubin.
“I’m heading out. Don’t follow strangers offering candy.”
“If you’re late, I’ll follow anyone.”
“I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
At my reassurance, Rubin’s drooping ears perked up. Leaving him behind, I reluctantly trudged toward the villa where traps undoubtedly awaited.
----------------------------------------
Approaching the villa, I noticed no one trying to stop me. A few guards loitered near the entrance, but their vacant expressions made it clear they were entranced or bewitched. Passing them without incident, I entered the building.
The air shifted.
"!"
It felt like stepping into the stomach of a massive, unseen creature. A sensation all too familiar from my gaming days—I could guess what was happening.
Sure enough, a notification popped up:
[You have entered the Hidden Dungeon: "Nightmare Woven by the Prophets" (?? Rank).]
The entire villa had been transformed into a dungeon.
Normally, only monsters with immense magical power could "Dungeonize" a space, so how could a mere descendant of a nightmare demon—one prophet—achieve this? And what was this "Nightmare Dungeon," anyway? I’d never encountered one before.
Crossing the grand hall cautiously, I was interrupted by a whisper that seemed to crawl into my ears.
"It’s your fault."
I froze. The voice came from nowhere, yet it was as clear as if someone stood beside me.
“Who’s there?”
Clenching my war hammer tightly, I infused it with divine energy. More whispers followed, vile and persistent.
"If only you weren’t here…"
"It’s not too late. Just end your life now."
"Die! Die! Die!"
The whispers pressed heavily, laced with malice—a psychological attack meant to break weaker minds.
But me?
“Get more creative, will you? Telling me to die is so boring.”
After all, I was no stranger to hardship. Life had thrown enough at me to fill ten tragedies. I’d been buried in debt straight out of graduation, wrestled with bullies at work, fought to get unpaid wages, and even endured drunken brawlers picking fights at barbecue joints.
If words alone could kill me, I’d have died a thousand times over already.
The whispers fell silent. Taking advantage of the lull, I swung my hammer with all my might.
CRASH!
The marble statue standing in the center of the hall shattered into pieces, shards scattering like glass. Driving the hammer into the floor for emphasis, I called out.
“Come out and face me already. Stop skulking in the shadows like a coward.”
For a moment, silence. Then, slow, deliberate footsteps echoed from the second floor.
From around the corner emerged… the boss of this dungeon, the one who had orchestrated it all.
“So,” I said, staring at them, “You’re the prophet?”
“Yep, I’m the old prophet. Took you long enough! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? I even visited your dreams to ask for help!”
The "prophet" sounded more exasperated than threatening. I recognized their pink hair and lavender eyes from the dream—except for the bat-like wings on their back, a signature of nightmare demons.
“I was busy,” I replied curtly, studying them.
They grinned, flapping their wings playfully.
“You’re lucky. I was going to fill this place with monsters, but you seemed eager to chat, so I came out personally. You know how rare that is?”
Ignoring their smugness, I tightened my grip on my hammer. It was clear this would be anything but straightforward.
And the more they talked, the more I realized something bigger was in play.