Chapter 228 – Freddy's Breakdown
"The Savior is… Freddy?"
The group—who had just been brutally beaten by the monster—stood frozen in disbelief.
"Father Gideon…" Gale's eyes flickered with doubt as she tried to grasp his true intentions.
"Heh, you Church people are seriously insane," Henry spat out a mouthful of blood.
"Ah… isn't he the Savior?" Pence asked blankly.
"Pence, has your brain been punched into your ass?!" Henry roared.
"Hey, even if this is a dream, this is way too absurd," Winona said, clutching the swelling on her head.
"I actually believed you had a plan."
"Looks like the alliance between factions will have to wait," Lombarn thought grimly.
"I'll need to prepare that spell in advance—just in case."
"That lunatic ignores authority, lies constantly, and acts like a madman. I will personally file a report to the Vatican!" Wilton snarled, glaring at the distant figure.
"Father Gideon… what exactly are you trying to do?" Bettis asked anxiously.
Even though she had once gone through the Memorial Incident with him, she couldn't read him anymore.
Yet the most shocked of all was Freddy himself.
The ruler of dreams.
The ender of children and teenagers.
The terror of Elm Street.
The pioneer of anti-fatigue and the undisputed king of forced wakefulness.
For decades, Freddy had dominated the killing business—feeding on fear, reveling in blood.
Which dream had ever not ended with prey fleeing in panic?
Sure, a few humans had dared resist—like that girl Nancy once upon a time.
And yet, Freddy had always returned.
Humans had never truly defeated it.
And now this priest was calling it a Savior?
Hah!
Just like that battered witch said—this was absurd even by dream logic!
"If you have any other tricks," Freddy said coldly,
"you'd better use them fast. I don't have patience."
Gideon, however, calmly stepped aside.
Just as confusion crossed Freddy's face, a voice rang out.
"Mr. Freddy! Please save my daughter!"
The mother and child who had been force-fed holy water the day before stepped out of the crowd.
The mother was barely standing, her body weakened by extreme anxiety.
Then another person stepped forward.
"Mr. Freddy, the Church's faith has corrupted me—please cleanse it!"
"I drank so much holy water! I must be polluted! Please have mercy on me!"
Freddy: ???
It brandished its blades threateningly.
"Get lost! You livestock waiting for slaughter! Do you even know who I am?!"
"Have you forgotten the nightmares this face gave you?!"
Freddy lifted the brim of its round hat, revealing its twisted, hideous face.
Then it tugged at its sweater, emphasizing the red-and-green stripes.
"Yes! That's it!"
"These are the symbols everywhere on Elm Street!"
"That must mean he's the Savior! The whole town was hinting at it!"
The crowd grew even more excited, surging toward Freddy.
"Damn it, stop hugging my legs!"
"Back off! 'Cleansing' is an insult to my entire killing career!"
"These are murder claws! Don't press your face against them—your affection makes me sick!"
People clung to Freddy's body, pinning it in place.
Some even wiped their snot onto its sweater.
For the first time in its existence, Freddy felt something new.
Despair.
These humans—who had been terrified of it just moments ago—were now acting as if brainwashed.
Bettis, Gale, and the others watching from the side were once again rendered speechless.
What they were witnessing was completely beyond comprehension.
"So… this is the power of faith," Winona muttered, rubbing her head.
"No wonder the great witches of history were driven out."
Wilton, however, looked unsettled.
Something flickered in his eyes—
A realization he didn't want to acknowledge.
Inwardly, Wilton thought, "Is this the true power of the Lord? Then what were all those years I spent studying the Scriptures supposed to be?"
Elsewhere—
Freddy's patience finally snapped.
Its bladed glove tore free from the crowd, fingers clamping tightly around a man's head.
"Never," Freddy sneered, "has a piece of prey dared come this close to me."
The next instant, the blades drew inward.
Yet Freddy's expression froze.
The expected spray of blood never came.
Those razor-sharp claws—once steeped in countless murders—bent against the man's skull like soft plastic foam.
"Oh! Mr. Freddy touched my head!" the man cried in rapture.
"Is this… salvation?!"
The crowd erupted into even greater frenzy, crushing in tighter. Freddy felt as if its body were about to be flattened.
But what truly shook it was what had just happened.
"Haven't you noticed yet?"
Gideon's calm voice cut through the noise.
He stared straight at the nightmare incarnate.
"You've grown weaker."
Freddy said nothing, still stunned.
So Gideon continued.
"You struggled just to free one arm. Your blades have lost their sharpness."
"For these people, the fear you once inspired is fading."
"And that," Gideon said quietly,
"is the source of your power."
The roar of the crowd seemed to recede into the distance.
Freddy locked eyes with him, enunciating every word:
"That. Is. Impossible."
"There's nothing impossible about it."
Gideon stepped toward Freddy. The surrounding crowd recoiled instinctively, hiding behind the monster instead.
"From our very first encounter, I found something strange. When attacking, you were willing to sacrifice lethality—just to preserve your iconic appearance."
"If that isn't stupidity, then it must serve another purpose."
"And seeing your 'Freddy symbols' plastered all over Springwood confirmed my suspicion."
He stamped his foot lightly on a sewer cover engraved with Freddy's face.
"In dreams, you are overwhelmingly strong—but all you ever do is make people afraid."
"You didn't even wipe us out completely. Instead, you kept reinforcing your image as something terrifying."
"Which means that our fear… is essential to you."
"But you're not incapable of killing."
"I read the reports before entering. Over the past three days, trapped victims have died at regular intervals."
"So I formed a bold hypothesis."
"Your power comes from fear—but every soul can only produce a limited amount of it."
"When someone no longer has value…"
"They die."
By now, Freddy's expression had completely changed.
Henry, Wilton, and the others stared in shock, old events snapping into place in their minds.
Gideon smiled faintly.
"Turning the Church into the public enemy—on the surface, it's a clever move."
"If some foolish clergymen had taken the bait, they really might have fallen into your trap."
Wilton frowned. Somehow, that remark felt uncomfortably personal.
"But that same move cracked your monopoly over fear."
"Because one land cannot have two opposing lords."
"So that's why you staged everything in the square," Freddy growled.
"Exactly!"
Gideon clapped his hands once.
"Thanks to your help, I was able to make them hate the Church far faster than I ever could alone."
Bettis's eyes lit up at last—she finally understood Gideon's plan.
Freddy's face darkened.
It refused to accept this conclusion.
"Impossible! Even if they hate the Church, those stupid humans would never willingly come to me!"
"How did you do this? Dream manipulation?"
"Well…" Gideon rubbed his nose.
"Who knows?"
Freddy wasn't wrong. Words alone could only create a second source of terror at best.
What truly turned the tide was [Envoy of Sin].
At the peak of their emotions, Gideon stole the seeds of fear Freddy had planted—and grafted them onto the image of the Church instead.
From that moment on, the balance completely reversed.
Freddy's decision to appear personally only deepened the illusion.
At the same time, Gideon saw something new.
His vision split.
His left eye still saw Freddy.
But his right eye hovered above everything, observing from a godlike vantage point.
Within his field of view floated countless "panels," like cinematic title cards.
Whenever he focused on one, images played:
Bloodshed.
Massacre.
Pursuit.
These were Freddy's past killings.
Then Gideon noticed the very first panel.
It told the story of a woman.
December. Springwood. Hathaway Psychiatric Hospital.
Sister Amanda Krueger was sent by the Church for routine community outreach.
The facility housed over a hundred violent criminals and mentally ill patients—
Yet only two guards were stationed there.
With no protection, Amanda entered alone.
At first, the visit went smoothly.
Though leering eyes followed her, the presence of a guard on the stairs—and the "truth" in his hands—kept the inmates in check.
An hour later, Amanda finished her rounds.
Then the guard suddenly left for an emergency, locking the doors behind him.
She screamed for help, but her voice drowned beneath the inmates' noise.
When the light at the exit vanished, she realized her fate.
Greedy eyes returned.
Hands reached out.
Her screams were swallowed whole.
---
The following September.
Amanda gave birth in a Springwood hospital.
For the sake of the Church's dignity—and her own trauma—
she left the boy at a local orphanage.
---
Seven years later. June.
"Freddy! We're not playing with you! Your father was a criminal lunatic—you're the devil's child!"
"Freddy! You don't get extra food! This orphanage doesn't belong to you!"
---
Fourteen years later. November.
"Multiple arson incidents reported in Springwood…"
"Dead animals found near elementary school grounds…"
"Freddy Krueger admitted to juvenile detention for the fifth time…"
---
Thirty-five years later. May.
"Twelfth child disappearance reported…"
"Suspect: boiler room worker Freddy Krueger…"
"Case dismissed due to insufficient evidence…"
"Church obituary: Sister Amanda Krueger found hanged in Hathaway Hospital…"
"Freddy Krueger found dead in boiler room. Cause unknown…"
---
Gideon narrowed his eyes.
This differed slightly from the original story—but it was still a social tragedy.
A horror born from neglect, cruelty, and indifference.
"On some level," Gideon sighed,
"North America really does need reproductive choice."
But the psychiatric hospital incident troubled him.
Two guards. One nun.
And they simply forgot her?
Unless they were complete idiots, something else had happened.
Yet Freddy's dream showed no answers.
Above the panels floated three overlapping vertical layers.
"Multiple dream strata," Gideon murmured.
If a single dream was a three-dimensional world, then he was now seeing in higher dimensions—freely browsing every dream Freddy had ever constructed.
He realized he might have gained a higher authority—
Likely because Freddy's fear-based power had weakened.
"So that's it."
At the top layer was a school classroom—Gideon, Gale, and the others nodding off.
The hunting ground Freddy had built for them.
Below it: the town—already beginning to blur, on the verge of collapse.
And at the bottom—
A boiler room.
There he saw a familiar figure.
Mark.
Bruised. Terrified. Running for his life.
Gideon focused.
Behind Mark—
Another Freddy.
But this one was wrapped in almost tangible evil.
Compared to it, the Freddy before Gideon looked like a fresh graduate.
"So this is the real body," Gideon realized.
"Don't think you—" Freddy started.
"That's enough," Gideon cut him off coldly.
No more time to waste.
He raised a crucifix and walked forward.
"No—no! You can't kill me!"
Fear finally appeared on Freddy's face.
Its body shrank visibly, aging in seconds.
"I—I am the lord of dreams! You can't control my—"
The crucifix flashed.
"Wait! We can negotiate!"
Freddy collapsed, barely standing.
Then—
A sharp whistling sound.
"You… how dare you… attack an old man…"
Freddy stared down at the crucifix embedded in its chest.
Moments later, it dissolved into a pool of corrosive foam.
---