"Have you ever dreamed?"
A female MC held her microphone toward me and flashed a charming smile, dressed in a cool office outfit. For a split second, I almost said that my dream was standing right in front of me, large and obvious.
But I quickly regained my composure and recited the line I had practiced for so long.
"My dream is very simple. It is…"
…
Beep.
Beep.
I was sitting in front of an operating table. No, actually outside an operating room. Inside, nurses and doctors were performing surgery, and I could only watch through a small glass window.
Beep.
That was when I realized the strange sound was coming from my phone.
It was my editor. Apparently, he urgently needed a manuscript.
"It's already the deadline?"
Too fast. Everything over the past few days had happened far too quickly, so quickly that it could be summarized in just a few sentences. Or was it simply that I felt it was too fast?
I hurried into the restroom, opened the Notes app on my phone, and tried to find the manuscript I had prepared in advance.
"Did I save it? I remember writing it, right? I did, didn't I? Where is it? Where is it?"
I clenched my teeth and slammed against the restroom stall door, hoping I wasn't disturbing anyone.
I tried to close it, but it wouldn't lock. Had I broken it? It seemed so.
Sitting down on the toilet seat, I decided I wouldn't submit anything at all.
To hell with the money.
"Ahhhh, damn it."
I stared blankly into nothingness, trying to forget this false reality.
But when I tried to sink into the emptiness, my head began to buzz.
Like a bottle of cola lightly shaken, my brain started hissing, gas and soda spilling out in the form of meaningless song lyrics.
It was gentle at first. Then it wrapped around my head like a soft tide gradually swallowing the shore.
The last thing I remembered was someone shouting. Someone holding me back. Someone pinning me down.
I didn't understand what was happening. I lifted my eyes.
The restroom mirror had shattered into a thousand pieces.
…
Have you ever dreamed?
Dreamed of escaping reality, of living inside your dreams instead.
There are lives we long for, yearn for, because they are too perfect, too beautiful.
So we seek illusion, where reality and dreams are separated by only a single step.
Someone once said that reading a novel is living a life, and dreaming a dream is becoming a person.
My name is Joe. I heard that line in passing during a business trip and decided to try dreaming about it.
"Hmm… why don't I try reading some novels?" I asked myself.
Classic literature was too long winded, too dry. So I started with web novels instead.
"Oh, this is great."
I read the trending ones, the newly rising ones, the long completed ones.
"But why… is everything so simple?"
The joy I felt at the beginning gradually turned into doubt.
There was always a regressor. A transmigrator. Someone overwhelmingly powerful. Someone weak but pretending to be strong. Someone who knew everything that would happen.
"Oh no, there are still other genres, other lives I can read," I thought, searching through different tags.
…
I'm not sure when it happened, but I began to feel oversaturated with web novels. So I tried reading classics instead.
Some were good. Some were difficult. Some I dropped. Some made me wonder why no one seemed to know about them.
But the feeling was not the same as at the beginning.
Perhaps I still preferred that dreamy sensation when reading those familiar archetypes.
I knew it was strange. The characters were all predictable in some way, yet they made you dream more deeply. Even knowing how the story would unfold, how it would end.
"Why don't I try writing something myself?" I thought.
After all, I was tired of my repetitive life. Why not try something new?
I wrote familiar character types. Sometimes slightly novel, sometimes classic. I walked back and forth, daydreaming about plotlines, about characters, about stories.
I dreamed of stories where I could be those characters and become part of the narrative.
But come on, that is enough fantasy.
I liked those types of characters, but I could never be like them. I had lived this life for many years. I knew dreams were always beautiful.
And then one day…
I rested my head on my desk.
Reports were scattered across it, and my computer screen still displayed unfinished work.
I took a sip of coffee. Comfortable enough. I had not slept for over a day. What I needed now was a long sleep.
In my exhaustion, I often thought about one thing.
Why do online authors and readers love stories about transmigrating into fictional characters and standing above ten thousand people?
I always knew the answer.
I just kept postponing giving it, because thinking about it would not change anything anyway.
I yawned.
It was already past 10 PM.
A short nap would not hurt, right?
I glanced at my phone's wallpaper. Several figures were there.
But none of them had faces.
…
"Hey! Someone call an ambulance!"
"There's a dead person!"
What the hell? I was just trying to sleep. What happened? Who died?
I tried to push myself up and open my eyes.
All I saw was pitch black.
"Ah… everyone…"
…
Sometimes a door closes. Another door will open for us. But what slips through isn't necessarily light.
…
Sometimes, I even find myself repulsive. Every time I look into the mirror, a sense of fatigue washes over me. I sigh and tuck the hand mirror away. My name is Ron Irus. Well, it's Ron, and "Irus" is what I call myself. I'll officially register Irus as my surname if I ever become wealthy and famous enough. Perhaps.
…
I am twelve years old this year, but everyone at the Jinlus Orphanage usually calls me "little brother." Whether they are ten or seventeen, they all call me "Little Ron." It's strange, but I don't pay much attention to it. I suppose it's because everyone looks after me more; sometimes they say I'm stupid or mentally deficient, so I need help. I think they're wrong because my teacher said everyone has their own kind of intelligence, and everyone should eventually follow their own path. But I'm not smart. My grades are terrible. I'm not good at physical activities because I'm very weak. I'm not good at art because I find it incredibly dull.
I watch the sunbeams piercing through the window curtains. I am in a room overflowing with colors—colorful squares of vibrant yellow and blue stacked atop one another. Toys surround me; or rather, I placed them there. I want to feel like a superhero facing a horde of beasts.
"Brrrr." "Bratu!~" "Hey Ron, come out and play!"
Bratu, a boy from the orphanage, hails me from outside the window. How peculiar—how did he know I was on the second floor?
"Coming!"
I shout back and dash down the stairs. However, within my vision, shades of green, purple, and yellow begin to blend together. The ordinary staircase I walk every day—that monotonous reddish-brown—is no longer a dull color. With every step I take, a ribbon of color wraps around me like a cloak. Then, those colors suddenly swirl together into black. I am wearing a jet-black cloak. It feels magnificent. But as I step onto the final stair, it turns snow-white, tightening into a pristine white suit. I can see it clearly, but the moment I step onto the floor, everything goes dark, then returns to normal. I don't dwell on it much; I've seemingly grown used to this.
"I'm here, I'm here!"
I bolt through the playground, but then I spot Lunas. He's two years older than me but stands at an astonishing height of 1.8 meters. He is whispering something to a few other children and Bratu. When they hear me, they turn around.
"...Oh, Ron."
Lunas scratches his head, looking at me and then at the paper in his hand.
"What's that?" I ask.
Lunas whispers a few more things to the other kids, then shakes his head as he looks at me. "A report about you came in. Do you remember those tests from a few days ago?"
I nod vigorously. The gazes of the others grow increasingly strange with every word Lunas speaks.
"IQ: 112. No psychological disorders. No mental illnesses. Body: Normal, currently in late-stage puberty."
Even though Bratu and the others were prepared, this is still far too confusing for them.
"Vecic, what do you think? Did he cheat?" "Do you think he's smart enough for that? No—are you smart enough to even ask that, John?" "Dammit, if cheating actually worked, I'd have an IQ of 200, I wouldn't be here."
The comments fly back and forth. Lunas looks at me and says he'll try asking the director. As for me, I jump for joy—because from now on, they can't call me a fool anymore.
…
Currently, I am reading The Kingless Lord. In short, it's a book about the death and aftermath of a monarch, leading to the decline of a generation. I love it. I usually read it in the classroom while everyone else is out playing. Suddenly, I spot a strange silhouette at the classroom door. The person carries a heavy scent of guava and grape perfume—the kind that makes you cover your nose even from ten meters away. He has dark blue-black hair styled in a slicked-back look, a boastful arrogance flickering in his eyes. Though veins are visible on his hands in the shadows, they aren't calloused at all. On the contrary, the soft curves of his hands show they are quite well-cared for. He wears a suit that appears simple, but the embroidery on the fabric—though seemingly random—invisibly forms a pale blue octagonal symbol.
A nobleman, Ron thinks.
The figure with the bright blue-black hair looks at me and shakes his head, his expression resembling the Shisa dog the orphanage keeps. When the figure leaves, I immediately stand up to follow. Whenever I tail the teachers, they usually smile and give me candy. I follow him down a long corridor. I'm trembling slightly because the hallway is drenched in sunlight; this is the path to the director's office. I've always been afraid of Mr. Haller, the director, because he hits me whenever he gets the chance. But I tell myself, "Don't be afraid." I'll just get back up, just like that time I fell down the stairs. I run straight to the door, where only a sliver of light peeks through. Inside, two different men are arguing incessantly, as if they are about to kill each other. One voice belongs to old Haller, the other to the stranger. I hide by the edge of the door, waiting for something. Then, a thunderous roar hits my ears, forcing me to clutch my head.
"You bastard!!! She's just a child, A CHILD WHO JUST AWAKENED HER CORE. Please, she'll die!" "I'm not telling her to go die! I said I want her, Emma, to be my adopted daughter, and she will be protected under the Crystal House!" "What's the difference?! She'll be forced onto the battlefield, and then she'll die!" "She'll die from YOUR IGNORANCE first!!!!" "You're the ones supposed to be settling the conflict at Agler City, so get back there!! The last time I served, you generals were busy chasing girls and bedding slaves in your villas in the heart of the army!" "And without us, this country would have died long ago! So, SHUT UP!"
…
Why? Why would a noble family kill Emma, Lunas's girlfriend? Isn't being adopted into the arms of parents a good thing? And is that "conflict" a good thing? I don't know. Perhaps I should read more books.
…
It was strange. The moon that night was far too bizarre. It looked like a human curling up inside a blood-red eyeball, with nerves intertwining like a web.
...
Static—
This is my report. It seems that while making a perfect cake to give to Emma, I accidentally caused a catastrophe?