Dragon Raja: Reboot

Chapter 159 Dream (Part Two) Free Chapter

A dark shadow drifted by, skimming across the long corridor and the chilly night, flying into the solemn church, over the candlelight and thorns, and perched on the boy's shoulder, bringing him its newly captured prey.

In a word.

The prey is a single sentence.

The conversation that took place in the basement traveled an incredible distance to reach the boy's ears a few seconds later.

"That's how kids are; they're more sentimental, but they'll always grow up."

Then the little messenger immediately flapped its membranous wings and returned to the basement to hunt for new messages.

A single sentence may not mean much, but a combination of many sentences can be quite meaningful.

Thousands of dark shadows floated between the basement and the church, landing on the boy's shoulders and densely covering the entire area, like angry wasps covering the intruder's body.

But the shadows would not harm the boy. If they landed on the boy's arm, they would crawl respectfully with their legs bent and their wings folded, just like slaves in front of their masters, respectfully bringing their prey to the boy's ear before leaving.

The boy was their master.

Each shadowy figure brought back a word or a burst of laughter, so every sound from the lavish banquet was delayed for a few seconds before reappearing in the boy's ears, even the heartbeats and breathing of the men and women were captured and sent over.

If anyone could see these messenger-like shadows, it would be an incredibly shocking sight—the magnificent Milan Cathedral at that moment resembled a bat cave, with black shadows coming and going like a tidal wave, some even swirling above the boy's head to form huge black vortices.

The boy, shrouded in shadows, listened quietly as thousands of black wings unfurled around him.

There truly exists a power in this world that can transcend the "rules"!

With this power, the boy transformed this sacred church into a forbidden place, a place of devil's sacrifice!

"Are you going to cremate her body?" came the sound of clinking glasses.

"The Gulvig name is finally over. Let everything turn to ashes. Cremation tomorrow." A calm and steady male voice said.

"Caesar has been lying there for three days now, is that alright?"

"That's just how kids are; they tend to be more sentimental, but they'll always grow up."

"I think he is still very attached to his mother. In order to communicate with that woman, he even learned sign language."

"I would find it more natural if he were to burst into tears, but did you notice his expression at the funeral? That was his mother."

"Kids can be strange sometimes, even if they have an exceptional lineage. But don't worry about that, every strange child grows up."

The boy tilted his head.

Adults can be so naive sometimes, always thinking that as time goes by, children will become sensible and filial, no longer rebellious or crying, and will become the kind of person they expect them to be.

The boy, too tired to listen any longer, stood up and waved.

The shadows rushed toward him like a tide, but with this wave of his hand, an invisible barrier seemed to open around the boy. The shadows dared not cross this barrier, and instead swirled and turned, converging into a long black dragon that left through the open window.

Everything quieted down, and the floor was covered with crystal-like feathers that obscured the color of the carpet.

The boy walked on these "crystal feathers" to the church and won, where something was covered by a black tarpaulin.

With each step he took, countless sounds exploded around him. Those crystal-feather-like things were actually "fragments of sound," ethereal things materialized by the extraordinary power of the shadows. This was the prey they hunted to present to their master; all the sounds in the world could be their prey.

When feathers are crushed, sound is released; when feathers pile up like dense snowflakes, the sound bursts out like a torrent.

The boy could hear the shrill, distorted cries of celebration surrounding his mother's death, echoing in his ears.

……

On the day of wrath

The world will turn to ashes.

David and Sibyl prophesied this.

When the day of judgment arrives

To measure everything rigorously.

How the world will tremble.

……

The music progressed to the second section of the Requiem Mass, "The Day of Wrath," and the entire church resounded with this powerful, fiery, and thunderous chant.

The heavy hammer struck the drum like lightning through the dark clouds; the deep male voices and soaring female voices mingled, like the judgment of the apocalypse. Countless angels flew in the sky, singing of God's power, their white wings covering the heavens and the earth.

This famous piece is not only written to mourn the dead, but also a song of judgment!

The boy sang along, his voice trained to be both high-pitched and deep, each note a powerful and resonant sound!

He abruptly ripped off the black tarpaulin...

That's a motorcycle!

Matte black paint, modified silver quad exhaust pipes, and thin red stitching along the edges of the high-speed tires... A Harley-Davidson Fat Boy low-seat special edition!

In the 1991 film Terminator 2, the man named Schwarzenegger rode a motorcycle like this, spinning a rifle to load it, firing shot after shot, blasting the T-1000 liquid metal robot away!

Every man dreams of owning a Harley-Davidson, which, even when stationary, resembles a crouching leopard!

This Harley is much smaller than the regular version. Although every part meets Harley's quality requirements, this little guy is like the youngest brother among a group of Harley big brothers, with a seat height of only 2/3 of the normal version.

A completely custom-made Harley-Davidson, every part had to be molded anew, and the brakes and transmission had to be retuned. Although there were blueprints, producing this was essentially handcrafting a completely new motorcycle, and the price was unbelievably high. It was a birthday present for him when he turned nine, and it had to be custom-made because at that time he was too short to ride a regular Harley-Davidson.

No matter the cost, it doesn't matter, because the woman can't wait any longer.

He still remembered when the woman split open the wooden crate to reveal the motorcycle, and she patted his head, saying, "Riding it makes you a real man, Caesar, show your mother!"

He understood the woman's intentions better than anyone else: it wasn't about using money to demonstrate maternal love, but rather that the woman wouldn't wait until he grew up...

From the day he was born, his mother was destined not to live to see him grow up.

But women so desperately want to see him grow up...

So that day he rode the motorcycle, soaring through the air across the entire garden, landing on the roof of his father's Rolls-Royce, leaving scratch-like tire marks on the shiny paint.

He was pleased when the woman cheered him loudly; he liked it when women were proud of him.

The boy got on the motorcycle and picked up a square metal bucket, a bucket of kerosene.

He started his motorcycle, drove slowly to the central altar, skillfully bypassed all the candlesticks, and came to the hexagonal coffin, where he poured the entire barrel of kerosene onto the coffin.

He gestured in sign language to the woman in the coffin: "Mom, those who caused you... pain will pay... the price for their deeds!"

He held a Zippo lighter, raised it, and looked down at the woman's face one last time, staring at her expressionlessly.

The woman said that men shouldn't cry because crying is useless, and only cowards cry.

"When you still have things to do, you don't have time to cry."

So he thought he would only cry before he died, when he had exhausted all his strength and had nowhere else to go.

He tossed the lighter onto the hexagonal coffin, and before the leaping flames could touch his clothes, he reached out and grabbed the tassels of the purple curtain, ripping it open with all his might. This enormous curtain, which had covered most of the dome, had its edges blown down above the hexagonal coffin, and now it collapsed entirely, covering the coffin and all the candlesticks, as if the sky had fallen. Or perhaps, after being pressed down for a few seconds, the entire purple curtain was burned through, seemingly transforming into a raging inferno seven or eight meters high.

The fire alarm activated instantly, and a torrential downpour of water rained down from the sky. But before the water could completely extinguish the fire, the hexagonal coffin would be reduced to ashes.

Between the curtains of water and fire, Harley-Davidson motorcycles roared past the central altar, their black silhouettes as sharp as knives!

As the slightly tipsy men and women danced gracefully or clinked glasses at the dinner, they suddenly heard the roar of an engine echoing down the long corridor!

Before they could react, the thick wooden door was slammed open from the outside. A small black motorcycle sped across the table laden with wine bottles, flowers, fruit, candlesticks, and crystal glassware, recklessly smashing and crushing everything in its path. Red wine and juice splattered in the air, and the elegant ladies in evening gowns and high heels screamed and covered their heads in fear. Meanwhile, some of the men reached into their bags—at this lively family dinner, these refined gentlemen were carrying weapons in their bags: ivory-handled pistols…or antique Malay knives!

Someone immediately approached and pushed the hands that were gripping the weapons back into their bags.

"It's Caesar," the person trying to take control of the situation whispered.

The little motorcycle drifted gracefully at the end of the long table, smashing a master-crafted silver fruit platter into the wall. The boy lifted the motorcycle's front, waving a still-burning curtain of flame, while arrogantly twisting the throttle, making the small, ferocious toy roar even more domineeringly. The heat from the four-pipe exhaust was overwhelming, and the bare-armed ladies were caught in the blast, clutching their arms and screaming.

The boy shook his head vigorously, his beautiful, golden hair gleaming.

He gritted his teeth, his snow-white teeth gleaming.

He looked down proudly at the men and women who had frightened him; they were his "elders," but his eyes were full of sarcasm, and his gaze was so bright that no one dared to look directly at him.

"Caesar! What are you doing?" someone tried to shout.

"Pay the bill," the boy said coldly, throwing the curtain in front of one of the aunts, pulling out an unfilled check and tossing it on the ground, the signature in flamboyant Italian.

"Excuse me for interrupting your celebration, but I just held a cremation for my mother, and I think I burned down the central altar," the boy said coldly, looking at the old gentleman who was trying to control the situation. "Uncle, please help me fill in the appropriate number for the bishop. Tell him that although I am grateful for the Mass he held for my mother, I don't like his accent."

The gentleman stared into the boy's eyes, his tone unusually stern: "You're all grown up now. You shouldn't be fooling around like this. You're the heir to the Gattuso family; you need to learn the rules!"

"I see the rules written on your faces," the boy tilted his head, looking around at his dignified and elegant elders, "but all I want to do is run over them!"

He let out the roar of a most rebellious street kid, restless, arrogant, and unrestrained—a roar a man could only utter during the peak of his hormonal arousal, like the howl of a young lion. He shifted gears, the motorcycle retraced its path, ran over the long table again, landed with a beautiful drift, and sped away down the long corridor, crashing through the ornate iron door to the basement and disappearing along the garden path.

The roar of the four-pipes could be heard from a great distance, representing his mockery of his esteemed family, his powerful patriarchs... and even the whole world.

Only when a person is in their most glorious and illustrious youth does they have the right to utter such sarcasm!

The elders were left speechless, their eyes filled with unease. No one had told the boy they were having dinner there, yet he seemed to know everything. He probably also knew that the family was overjoyed at his mother's death.

Actually, the dead woman was nothing... but his son was named Caesar, the name of a great king... what king would forgive someone who caused his mother so much suffering?

The thought of this sends chills down one's spine.

The uncle silently picked up the check from the ground, and signed it...

"Caesar Gulweg".

"He actually used his mother's surname... Is he trying to deny that he's a member of the Gattuso family?" An elder leaned over for a look, his voice tinged with unease.

"We're celebrating the disappearance of the Gulweg name, but it seems like it's far from over..." the uncle said in a low voice.

"Should this kind of child inherit the family business?"

"We must tame him, at all costs. Who inherits the family is not something we can decide; it's his bloodline, his one-in-a-million bloodline!"

(This chapter's portrayal of Caesar was removed from the collected edition.)

(End of this chapter)