Abigail was in a daze for quite a while, until Braun squatted by the creek and washed off the obvious bloodstains on his body, only then did she suddenly realize—
Grimson was dead.
The Dream Weaver, who held her past and could tell her who she really was, had already turned into a speechless corpse, brain matter smeared on the rocks, and dark red liquid seeped through the gaps in the moss.
A great sense of bewilderment instantly engulfed her mind.
She still didn't know who she truly was... nor did she know how much of her past memory was real and how much was fabricated by that goblin.
Braun wiped the water stains off his hands and walked over from the creek side. After seeing Abigail's expression, he paused for a moment, then glanced towards the direction of the cabin.
"Go back and take a look." Braun said succinctly: "That goblin said he could 'return' your memories to you. He couldn't possibly store every memory he handled in his own head, there must be a place where they're kept."
—That is, if he hadn't already destroyed or discarded them.
Braun left his sentence unfinished, which Abigail naturally understood in her heart. She nodded silently, turning to follow Braun's footsteps.
After walking a few steps, they suddenly sensed something was off with the sounds around them.
They turned back at the same time and saw that the usually silent cloak was actually manipulating the goblin's corpse—
It circled the corpse several times, first pulling at the clothes, then tugging at the legs, and finally, possibly disgusted by the blood-soaked body, it started to lift one of the corpse's arms.
If poppets could convey emotions, Braun's forehead vein would surely be throbbing at this moment.
"What are you doing?" he asked with a frown and an unpleasant tone: "Don't play with everything, just get rid of it!"
"No, I'm taking it with me!" the cloak argued back.
Braun said with disdain: "Why take it? Are you afraid of being too clean?"
The cloak retorted confidently: "Although this old guy is dead, the body might still be useful, right? Don't a lot of Dark Magic techniques use things like blood and bones for identification? Even when Voldemort resurrected, didn't he use his father's blood?"
Braun: "..."
Reluctantly, he couldn't deny that the cloak's idea kind of made sense!
Seeing him silent, the cloak immediately quivered: "See, doesn't the great cloak feel wise and mighty? How about this, if you help me carry this thing, I'll forgive your rude tone and misunderstanding of my wisdom just now!"
It said, dragging the goblin towards Braun, with the blood dripping onto the grass, the pant legs scratching the ground, and losing one of its shoes.
Braun's gaze grew more disdainful, even with a hint of "why don't you dream on" coldness.
He turned and left, using action to refuse the cloak's suggestion, but also not persisting in making it dispose of the corpse.
The cloak stood still for a moment, then turned its body towards Abigail. But before it could speak, the woman seemed to ignore him, quickening her pace to catch up with Braun.
Cloak: "...Is everyone this unwilling to work? Truly lazy people!"
It turned to "look" at Grimson, pondering for a moment, then secretly nodded to itself, as if making some kind of resolution.
Subsequently, the cloak let down a corner of its hem like a rope, wrapped around one of Grimson's wrists, lifted the goblin up, and hovered about two to three feet off the ground, swaying along slowly behind the two figures ahead.
So when Abigail turned her head, she saw an even more eerie and spooky scene—
The dark cloak levitated in mid-air, with a goblin corpse whose head had collapsed hanging below. That limp corpse dangled, swaying slightly with the cloak's flight, its toes occasionally grazing the grass tips on the ground.
The afterglow of the sunset cast down from the mountain, shedding a blood-red hue over everything.
Accompanying it was the endless drip of goblin blood—"drip, drip, drip," as if it would never stop.
Abigail, who was originally an Iron Warrior who wouldn't utter a sound even when stabbed in the stomach, shivered sharply at this moment, goosebumps reawakening on her arm.
She endured for a moment, ultimately unable to suppress the chilling sense creeping up her spine, stopped walking, and silently let the cloak float ahead of her.
"Thanks, you're so kind."
As it passed by her, the cloak "nodded" politely in thanks, while complaining: "...That jerk Braun didn't even think to wait up for me."
This time, Abigail no longer felt like the dead were staring at her from behind, yet the broad cloak swaying in the wind and the corpse kept appearing before her eyes, which hardly eased the creepiness.
She remained silent for quite a while, eventually sighed, and caught up to say, "Mr. Cloak, let me carry it for you."
As she spoke, she had already waved her magic wand, casting a Levioso spell on the corpse.
"Wow, you really saved the day!" the cloak said joyfully, "To be honest, carrying this thing, I kind of feel... uh... well, it's not that I really mind, mainly worried that it'll bother my owner when they wear me in the future!"
It seemed to suddenly remember that Abigail was the one doing the work at the moment, and quickly added:
"Wizards are the best, see, using Levioso, clean and respectable! So professional! Anyway, if you ever need cloak services again — whether for warmth, wind protection, or emergency use as a rope — just find me anytime! I promise I'm a thousand times more useful than those mindless cloaks out there!"
Abigail's mouth twitched, not wanting to utter a single word.
Still, the Goblin's corpse was now under her "carry," and though she still felt chills, the subtle sense of control gradually eased the horror in her heart, making it seem as though her resentment toward the "Dream Weaver" was purified in the process.
Before long, they returned to the chaos-stricken cottage.
Braun quickly checked inside but did not find Abigail's memories; however, he collected some possibly useful items:
Ancient scrolls and thick books on the bookshelf, hanging rare herbs and minerals, and a few magic wands that the Goblin used as decor.
After a simple sweep, the two opened the movable wooden plank door that the Goblin had previously crawled out from.
Beneath the door, a narrow staircase extended downward, a very unique smell akin to Flying Broom Maintenance Oil permeating the darkness.
"Lumos."
Abigail murmured, and a soft light emitted from the tip of her magic wand, dispelling the darkness.
The basement was more spacious than imagined, almost three times the size of the small cottage above ground, its walls adorned with various bizarre forging tools, while workbenches and display racks held numerous completed or semi-finished magic tools.
Goblin by birth is half an Alchemist, and after learning, they can almost be considered the top craftsmen in the Magic World, forging weapons that sometimes possess very peculiar characteristics.
However, compared to top Alchemists, Goblins, though skilled in precise manufacturing, lack imaginative and creative prowess, which results in them being regarded only as craftsmen, not acknowledged as Alchemists.
Abigail caressed those blade-cold weapons—dagger, hammer, crossbow arrow, long sword, curved knife...
Each of them was sharpened, exceptionally lethal.
She could almost see Grimsen, the Goblin, forging these weapons day and night with deep-seated hatred, hoping for the day he could personally confront the wizard in battle.
Yet he wasn't brave enough to step out of this haven for revenge; nor was he generous, having crafted so many weapons, but neither disdain nor trust the Scourers, ultimately giving none to Bloren and his crew.
Suddenly, noisy shouts came from outside the movable door:
"Hey! You two, come quickly and see what I discovered! I guarantee you'll be amazed!"
Abigail suddenly snapped back to reality, shed the occasional sentimentality, and helped Braun collect the basement's magic items, then both left the basement following the staircase.
Behind the cottage, there was a mound-like stone structure, looking like a granary, hidden among tall trees and rather inconspicuous.
The cloak was floating around there yelling, randomly throwing the corpse into the grass by the door. Upon seeing the two, it excitedly pointed at an open stone door, loudly saying:
"Haha, I knew the blood would be useful! Look, look! Is this what you're searching for?"
Braun entered first, followed closely by Abigail, and once inside, both involuntarily held their breath.
Inside the "granary," there were no other sundries, only rows of simple wooden shelves built along the walls.
And on the shelves, countless Crystal Bottles were neatly, densely arranged. In each bottle, a wisp of silvery mist was sealed, gently swirling while emitting a pearlescent glow.
Memories.
Thousands upon thousands of memories, stolen, altered, or purely stored by Grimsen, the "Dream Weaver." They lay quietly in this crystal prison, like a galaxy formed by frozen time.
Abigail's heart raced. Her past, her lost self, possibly... is right here!