Chapter 261: Hugo Wanders Through Wonderland (Part 2)

Drawing on his repeated experiences entering ordinary minds, Hugo knew that human consciousness spaces generally appeared as voids of darkness, filled with strange objects representing the person's most recent thoughts.

The surface layer of consciousness was relatively empty, mostly consisting of mundane fragments; if one had to depict it with a concrete scene, it would be a square floating with countless shards and odd objects, beneath which lay the deep unconscious.

Under normal circumstances, the structure of human consciousness was not complex: beyond these two layers, there might be a few floating rooms, each with different properties—some people had many, others none; at least among the countless patients Hugo had encountered, this was always the case.

But today, this consciousness space was different, because the moment Hugo landed, he saw a restaurant standing in the square.

It was a distinctly Gotham-style restaurant, tall and narrow, with a sign hanging above its door reading "Iceberg Lounge," though unlike any such place, it was surrounded by actual sheets of ice and several small icebergs, like guards standing sentinel at its entrance.

At that moment, a slender figure stepped out of the restaurant, saw Hugo, and froze. "Who are you?" he asked.

Hugo also froze, for he had never encountered a living being within a human's consciousness space before.

If a human were likened to a peach, the consciousness space would be the pit at its center—the pit itself being part of the peach, and no peach ever contained a complete peach inside its own pit.

The consciousness space was a manifestation of the self, so no one could recreate another version of themselves within their own consciousness—at least, not in the overwhelming majority of cases.

Yet now Hugo witnessed this strange phenomenon: within the pit, he saw a complete peach—not just complete, but excessively, unnaturally complete.

The Cobblepot before him dressed and groomed nothing like his real-world self: he wore a tailored suit, his hair slicked back, his shoes polished to a shine, and wore a smile far too smooth for his age.

Hugo had seen many people depict a more perfect version of themselves in their consciousness spaces, but usually not as a fully formed human figure—more often as key objects or keywords.

For instance, someone lacking formal education might wish for a better degree, and their consciousness would contain symbols of exams, grades, acceptance letters, or diplomas—or perhaps a single small room representing that cherished hope.

Most human brains lacked the capacity to manifest imagination with such fine detail, let alone sustain such intricate fantasy while in a hypnotized, relaxed state.

This was the first time Hugo had ever seen someone imagine another version of themselves so vividly, so concretely—as if it carried a soul.

"You?" Cobblepot regarded Hugo with confusion. "Is this your hypnosis? You actually made it in here?"

Hugo stared at him and the building behind him—the Iceberg Lounge—but Cobblepot kept that smile. "Since you're here, why not come inside for a while?"

Hugo followed Cobblepot into the Iceberg Lounge—and something even more astonishing happened: everything inside was rendered with startling, lifelike detail.

This was nearly impossible. Though a person dreaming might believe they saw concrete objects, if a second person entered their dream, they'd find most dream elements vague, hazy, and wildly inconsistent.

This was the brain's default state during relaxation: it ignored unimportant details and conveyed only core concepts.

But this Iceberg Lounge within Cobblepot's unconscious was not like that. From the grand layout and decor down to the grain of the bar's wood, the sheen reflected on the barstools—everything was precise. If this restaurant appeared in the real world, it could open for business immediately, requiring no renovation.

This was utterly beyond Hugo's expectations. Even the most skilled interior designer would need countless revisions to translate their mental blueprint into a finished work. If an interior designer could render their imagination with this level of microscopic precision, they would unquestionably be the most successful designer in the world—without exception.

Before Hugo could recover from his shock, the restaurant door opened again, and a grown man in a suit entered. Cobblepot greeted him: "Professor Frises, here so early today?"

"Oh, Cobblepot, there you are. How's your lesson going? Did you learn the new material?"

"I'll review it later…"

Watching their smooth exchange, Hugo, still stunned, began analyzing unconsciously: this Professor Frises likely represented the role of academic pressure in Cobblepot's mind—appearing whenever Cobblepot contemplated reviewing or assessing his learning.

Hugo stepped forward, watching the newcomer Victor closely, searching for any inconsistency—but found none. Though he'd never met this Professor Frises in reality, he could already tell from Cobblepot's mental image that he was wise, learned, and refined.

Before he could form a conclusion, the door opened again, and a man in a long overcoat, holding an umbrella, entered. Hugo exclaimed in surprise: "Shiler?"

"How's it going, Mr. Cobblepot? Has your condition improved? How's your mood lately? Still not planning to move?"

Hugo could see that Shiler played the role of a gentle physician in Cobblepot's mind.

But that made sense, Hugo thought. In Cobblepot's medical records, he'd seen no aggressive therapies—only conservative talk therapy and counseling. No wonder Cobblepot saw Shiler as a good doctor. Yet Hugo believed this overly cautious approach was merely Shiler's inaction.

In reality, Hugo frowned, exploring Cobblepot's inner world while murmuring: "Come on… let me see what you fear most…"

He pressed a button on the machine. Two shrill alarms blared—and Cobblepot's consciousness space shattered violently.

A piercing scream erupted from the breaking space. Hugo saw a towering, blood-splattered old woman wielding a long knife—her finger larger than the entire Iceberg Lounge—her face drenched in blood, slashing wildly, shredding Cobblepot's consciousness in an instant.

Hugo, still connected to the machine, screamed aloud, then jolted awake, sitting on the floor gasping for breath for a long time.

Hugo rose, pressing his forehead. He whispered: "I should've known… fear manifests more vividly, more destructively…"

Cobblepot merely stirred like waking from a nightmare, his face pale. Hugo forced himself to speak: "The results are decent. Your willpower is just fragile—you're easily disturbed by images you fear…"

"I know," Cobblepot said calmly. "I have nightmares often."

Seeing Hugo exhausted, he felt disdain. He felt no improvement in his condition from this hypnosis, yet the doctor looked utterly drained.

He shook his head. Before leaving, he thought: next time, he'd come when Shiler was here. This substitute doctor was terrible.

Hugo did not abandon his efforts after this setback with Cobblepot. He thought it might be coincidence—that Cobblepot was a rare genius child whose details manifested with unusual clarity, but still, it fell far short of the Mind Palace. It was merely a more refined visualization of dreams and hopes.

Another name from the medical records felt familiar to Hugo: Victor Frises.

Hugo had heard Cobblepot call him "Professor Frises" within his consciousness.

The file stated Victor suffered from mild anxiety, with vague symptoms and one recorded course of medication—apparently cured quickly. Yet Hugo remained curious: he wanted to see if Victor matched the image in Cobblepot's mind. He called Victor again.

As Shiler's colleague, Victor naturally knew he'd resigned. But Hugo claimed the issue was a billing error and requested Victor come in personally to discuss it.

Billing, taxes, and insurance were taken seriously. Victor saw nothing odd—he'd come before for the same reason.

Entering the treatment room, when Hugo proposed a simple follow-up, Victor didn't question it. He assumed Hugo was checking whether the previous doctor had overprescribed—and readily lay down on the chair.

Hugo used the same method to enter Victor's consciousness—and the moment he stepped in, a violent gust of freezing wind knocked him to the ground.

Before him stretched an endless, frigid ice plain. Hugo looked around, bewildered—there seemed to be no edge.

As previously noted, the surface layer of human consciousness resembled a square—not a plain—because consciousness space had limits, bounded by imagination and thought. But Hugo walked for a long, long time across this endless snowfield and saw no boundary.

There were only three things here: ice, snow, and snow turning to ice. Even the wind might not exist—Hugo heard no sound of wind. This was a space of absolute silence.

But silence made it colder. Hugo felt only one sensation from start to finish: cold. Extreme, unbearable cold.

Hugo gritted his teeth, holding his breath, determined to uncover the secret of this consciousness space. But no matter which direction he walked, how long he trudged, what posture he took, or what words he shouted—only endless snow and boundless ice answered him.

No abstract concepts. No memory fragments. Nothing a human mind should contain. Only ice. Only snow. Only cold.

Just as Hugo was on the verge of despair, he finally saw a flicker of flame at the horizon. He pushed forward, walking for who knew how long, until even his consciousness felt numb with cold—until at last, he saw a small campfire.

baimengshu.

Around the fire stood three figures: Cobblepot crouching, warming his hands; Victor standing nearby, reading a book; and Shiler adding wood to the flames…

Again Shiler? Hugo thought. Why is he everywhere?

But beyond that—there was nothing else. Looking at the endless snowfield, Hugo's heart had gone numb. Yet he still did his duty: he pressed the button on the machine, determined to see what Victor feared.

Then he heard a faint "crack" from within the consciousness space—like something breaking—then louder, louder…

In an instant, a terrifying storm swept through everything.

When Hugo's consciousness returned to his body, he clutched his arms, shivering uncontrollably. His teeth chattered.

In an office warmed by heaters and a roaring fireplace, he felt a cold he had never known in his life.