The instant the Void Gate snapped shut, it was like someone kicked the world's main power switch—everything went black for three seconds.When the lights came back on, humanity's world looked "normal" again.
—At least on the surface.
The sky was blue once more, the air no longer carried the taste of ashes, and the streets were jammed with noisy traffic again.People woke up to find that the months-long nightmare felt like a collective nap that had gone way too heavy.
Someone clutched his head and wailed in the street:"Yesterday I was arm-wrestling a demon! And today I have to clock in at work?!"
Someone else laughed hysterically in the square:"I died three times, and I'm still alive? Talk about premium after-sales service!"
Most, though, numbly scrolled their phones, reading the official statement:
[Emergency Notice]Due to a temporary global network malfunction, recent mass hallucinations were caused by a system glitch. Please remain calm.
And just like that, death, pain, and madness were stamped "system error."It was scarier than any conspiracy, because it was plausible. Too plausible to refute.
As for the government? Who could tell if it collapsed on its own or was eaten by the "glitch"?The parliament building in the capital looked like it had been fire-bombed, walls blackened—yet the national emblem still shone brightly, like a yellowed smiley face in the smoke.Officials vanished one by one, the rest pointing fingers, until finally they just dumped everything on the ultimate scapegoat: "The Void did it."
And the Nightmare Investigation Bureau?Its headquarters was nothing but an empty shell, file cabinets stuffed with mildewed papers.Open one, and you might still hear giggles from the files themselves:"Ha-ha, stop looking. You are the real archive."
A crew of temp workers was hired to clean up. They lasted three minutes before quitting in unison, complaining:"These documents talk too much. Not a daytime job."
But humanity's real talent is forgetting.Soon, the collapse of the old government, the disappearance of the Bureau—it all became tavern jokes.
Someone joked: "Next time the nightmares come, I'm putting in for overtime pay first."Someone else clinked glasses: "To that savior—we can't even remember his name!"
Then silence. Because they truly couldn't.
That figure was erased. No statues, no photos remained.All anyone remembered was that at the very end, as the world fell apart, there was a laugh.Cold, cutting—and strangely comforting.
On every street corner, a new saying spread:"If you can't hold on, just copy that laugh."
It became survival philosophy. Cheaper than therapy.
The nightmares were gone, but the aftershocks lingered like scars.Children dreamed of black corridors. Old folks swore there were "eyes behind the door." Even dogs barked at empty air.Yet everyone learned to ignore it quickly enough.
"This is recovery," muttered a homeless old man on the ruins, smirking up at the once-again blue sky."When disaster hits, everybody screams for truth. When it's over, everybody begs for amnesia. That's how the world keeps turning—collective dumb-ass denial."
The wind scattered broken Bureau papers through the streets. One sheet fluttered into a sewer grate, rustling like a whisper:
—The curtain may have fallen, but the audience never really left.