illusionary dream

"Fight! Hit her!" Amidst the din, the crowd surged toward a single spot, then stalled there. A throng encircled two women, watching them yank each other’s hair, scratch faces, and scream red-faced with rage. No one tried to intervene—instead, the onlookers grew more and more entertained. It was the end of a minor tribulation in the mortal realm, where human lifespans barely reached forty or fifty. In this era, the mortal realm teetered close to the asura and hell realms; people here stumbled constantly into senseless conflicts. Men, women, the elderly, children—all flew into fists at the slightest provocation. Yet amid such chaos, they’d grown desensitized, accustomed to it. Life was unbearably dull now; beyond venting their emotions, there was little of consequence to do. Palm-sized screens hovered in the air, swirling around the two women to film them from every angle, broadcasting the scene live with running commentary. The screens—thin as paper—were controlled via a laser regulator embedded in one’s fingernail, fused seamlessly with the nail itself. It emitted invisible low-frequency light, allowing instant control of the floating screens. A seventeen-year-old girl with blue hair—she’d just started in this line of work—had scraped together enough money to rent a laser regulator and screens, though she’d resorted to some unsavory methods to do so. Alone in the world, she craved quick cash. This was her first time livestreaming, and she had no clue what she was doing, fumbling through it blindly. Hiding where the crowd thinned, she let her imagination run wild: "The long-haired one’s a homewrecker—she stole the short-haired woman’s husband! Yeah, she deserves to get beaten!" On this version of Earth, there was no such thing as reputation rights; everyone faced the risk of being slandered. Her livestream had only five viewers, but that was better than zero. "What if I blow up one day?" Everyone told themselves this. After all, in the endtimes, hopelessness and boredom coexisted with fleeting delusions that decorated the era’s lies. "Ozan? Ozan, is that you?" The girl heard a soft call, a gentle, lingering male baritone. She froze, panicking—she’d hidden herself this far away, even worn a wig. How could anyone recognize her? She spun around in a hurry, only to see darkness. "Oh no! It must be—illusion ghosts!" Illusion ghosts were common in asura realms. They saw through every person’s traits and deepest spiritual needs, luring them before delivering a fatal strike. People had warned her not to wander into the city’s asura zones, where all manner of demons and monsters lurked. But she was the type to charge ahead until she hit a wall. Before coming to the city center, her neighbor Ji had cautioned her: those lacking spiritual energy would suffer internal wounds here. She tried to move, but sudden weakness overwhelmed her, leaving her unable to walk. She collapsed like someone with hypoglycemia. "It’s over." Orphaned young, she’d lived alone. Who knew when she’d wake up now? She’d dreamed of striking it big with livestreaming, earning K-coins to live better. Now that hope was shattered. Livestreamers swarmed everywhere, jostling and irritable. Tempers flared—shouting, screaming! Soon, many stopped filming the fighting women, turning instead to a new brawl: several people arguing over laser regulators, which they’d switched to attack mode. In an instant, the scene devolved into another asura battlefield, with countless deaths and rivers of blood. Such was life at the end of a tribulation—living day to day, no more. Yet if there was one small mercy in these endtimes, it was this: mortals could glimpse a tiny corner of the high-dimensional paradise with their own eyes. Those struck by lasers or attacked by others, in their final moment before collapsing, caught fleeting glimpses of paradise’s radiance. They died smiling, perhaps thinking, Finally, escape from this chaos... Suddenly, intense flashes of light erupted. "Official" measures had arrived. After all, Earth was still under direct Galactic rule. Ten thousand years had passed since the high-civilization ** of Sumeru, at the galaxy’s center, discovered Earth’s civilization. Though Sumeru was far too distant to directly govern or participate in Earth’s affairs—seeing Earth as humans might see ants: tiny, chaotic, illogical—they’d built a powerful light power station on the moon. Whenever chaos erupted, they fired bursts of white light to calm the "human ants," restoring order. The fallen were then "sucked" into transport ships launched from the moon, reduced to their DNA prototypes, stored via special methods, and shipped back to Sumeru—much as humans once collected animal specimens. But Ozan was still alive somewhere, unconscious. No one knew when she’d wake. In endtimes, people indulged their emotions recklessly, acting without foresight, caring little for life or death. Perhaps only a handful still tried to live earnestly. The ships arrived swiftly—Sumeru’s advanced technology, though adjusted to match Earth’s pace, was still blindingly fast. Three ships came, whisking away 180 people in three minutes. Giant screens on their exteriors scrolled with real-time data on the "loaded" humans. The information was exhaustive, but no one cared; people ** bother with such tedious details. The "surviving" onlookers stood still, forbidden to move. Among the silent, vacant crowd was a bald teen—around seventeen, thin, short, looking malnourished. He wasn’t bald by choice; he’d never grown hair, thanks to a large red birthmark on his scalp. His mother was perpetually busy, so he’d raised himself, often playing alone or with the girl next door. He was Ji—Ozan’s friend, the one who’d told her about all sorts of new things. Ji hadn’t seen Ozan in days. He didn’t know why she’d been so busy lately. They used to watch movies and read books together—thrilling stuff. The books weren’t forbidden, but they’d been buried deep underground, a discovery Ji had made alone. Exploring an abandoned well one day, he’d ventured down to find crates of books, movie discs, a reading sofa, a lamp, and hidden wires. He’d been entranced, and Ozan was the only one he trusted enough to share them with... Years of reading had made him hypersensitive to words. His gaze tracked the scrolling screens: Zhang Jia, 40, scholar, 181cm, 90kg, ** appearance, lecherous. Caught ** a girl’s skirt; flew into a rage in the city center. Being dragged to the authorities when struck by ****. Ozan, 18, livestream view count too low, flew into a fit of rage, suffered a violent emotional collapse... The teen jolted when he saw the girl’s name. "Flew into a fit of rage, suffered a violent emotional collapse"—those words didn’t fit Ozan at all. But time was critical: she’d been pulled into the ship. Once she reached the moon, there’d be no return. She’d be disassembled like trash. The only friend he could share his secrets with would vanish, leaving him the loneliest person alive. Terror gripped him. In a flash, he activated his sharpest thoughts, forcing himself to find a solution in seconds. But these were Sumeru’s tools. How could he stop them? He had to try. Then he remembered something from the books: The last option to solve a problem is to stop solving it—and create a new one. The teen stepped away from the crowd, walking toward the ships, silent. In that moment, he became a true outsider—who could remain so calm, marching toward death without emotion? His behavior triggered the monitoring system’s automatic checks, which flagged him as a possible high-civilization alien or AI infiltrator. The system responded: a robot in a silver suit—tall, muscular—emerged from the ship. These robots were usually invisible, appearing only when necessary. The teen was ready. As soon as the robot appeared, he pulled a book from his arms and screamed, "I have a book!" A "book" stood out more than any human here. Books could enlighten wisdom—and in endtimes, that was forbidden. If humans awoke, it would spell disaster for the entire galaxy. It was a game-changer. All three ships and every robot within three kilometers swarmed him. Seizing the chance, the teen sprinted into the ship holding Ozan, crashing through the iron door with unexpected strength. "Ozan! Ozan, wake up!" He frantically pinched her **. Lucky for him, he carried a lollipop—he’d started keeping them because of Ozan. In a split second, he popped it into her mouth. Just before the robots could arrest them, Ozan’s eyes fluttered open. The incident exploded. By accident, he became an internet sensation, dropping a bombshell. Speculation ran wild: netizens playing detective wondered if most people "absorbed" into the ships, like Ozan, had merely fainted. But there was no way to check now. Crowds flocked to film the teen, pestering him about the book—but all they found was Ozan. Only she craved fame; the teen cared nothing for it. He was taken into custody.