After every ruin, someone rushes to declare: "A new era has begun."
After the collapse of the Death Realm, the sealing of the void, and the total disintegration of the Bureau, humanity was like an old PC force-rebooted. The screen went black, flickered back on—only to reveal a flood of junk pop-ups:
"NEW ORDER ONLINE!"
"Register now and enjoy the future!"
"Nightmare Insurance Plan—guaranteeing your second sleep!"
Governments may vanish, but humanity never runs out of them. A group calling itself the New World Committee seized the stage. Leaders stood on the rubble, dust still clinging to their suits, and solemnly declared:
"We will rebuild a world that is fairer, more transparent, and—uh—one in which nobody ever has nightmares again."
At the word "nightmare," people's eyes lit up. Everyone remembered those sleepless nights filled with guillotines, nagging ghosts, and infinite hallways.
But soon, they learned the New Order wasn't much better than the old.
First came the Bureau of Dream Censorship. Everyone was required to submit daily dream reports.
Dream of flying? Labeled "desire for freedom"—permitted.
Dream of fighting? Labeled "potential violence"—fined.
Dream of streaking? Labeled "mental pollution"—mandatory re-education.
Naturally, fraudsters made fortunes selling fake dream logs. Anyone who wrote "sunny meadows, happy families" got government subsidies. Black markets sold downloadable "Dream Templates" for a high price—copy-pasted visions of smiling suns, running children, and people holding hands.
Soon, every citizen's dream report looked identical, as if all of humanity were stuck acting in the same boring commercial every night.
Erin tried to resist. She wrote in her log:
"Last night I dreamed the void had returned, hiding in the Committee's break room, waiting to stir their coffee into a black abyss."
The next morning, officials politely summoned her."Sorry, but your sense of humor has been classified as high-risk. Please join our Happiness Training."
Happiness Training consisted of watching 24-hour motivational shorts: orphans getting into college, companies doubling profits, chickens crossing roads without getting hit. Survivors either went insane—or laughed until tears streamed down.
Erin sneered: "So the old world ruled with fear. The new one rules with forced happiness. No difference at all."
Meanwhile, the nightmares never truly vanished. They lurked in the collective unconscious, slipping out through cracks.
A man woke at midnight to find a monster made entirely of folders rummaging under his bed for "unsubmitted dream files."Another dozed on the subway, then opened his eyes to see every passenger faceless, their heads blank sheets of paper.
The Committee always explained calmly: "Minor system glitch. Please don't panic."
Strangely, each "glitch" was followed by a shiny new law:
"Double dream data submission required!"
"Nightmare dreamers must attend Positive Thinking Classes!"
"The word 'Void' is hereby banned in public spaces!"
As if nightmares were their business partners, feeding them crises in exchange for more control.
Survivors realized the truth: this "New World" was just the old one wearing a mask. The void hadn't been destroyed—it had learned to smile, dressing itself in "order."
One night, Erin and a few comrades gathered in a ruined archive. Someone passed her a moldy book—the remnants of The Shadow Dossier.
Ethan's crooked handwriting glowed under lamplight, mocking them across time:"Humanity's talent has never been defeating nightmares, but institutionalizing them."
Erin closed the book, smirking coldly. At last, she understood.
Raising her glass, she told the others:"To the New World. May it last three days longer than the old."
They burst into laughter. In the ruins, their laughter rang absurd and bitter, yet strangely defiant.
The New World had indeed been built.
But whether it was worth living in—was another joke entirely.