The seawater splashed against his cheeks. When Hoffa woke up once again, he found himself lying on a vast beach. Before him stretched an endless ocean, and around the beach, a thick fog hung in the air, distorting the sunlight into strange shapes, making everything indistinct.
But he was already accustomed to such peculiar circumstances.
"Little monster, is that you?"
Hoffa murmured as he sat at the edge of the dreamlike sea.
"It's me."
A calm voice echoed in his ears.
Turning his head, Hoffa saw a strange little creature hovering silently beside him. It had a head formed of dark, swirling smoke with a single white point of light at its center. Below, its tendrils quivered incessantly—this was the offspring of Leviathan, the God of Nightmares.
"Why don't you take on the form you had earlier? That was much more pleasing to the eye," Hoffa teased.
The little monster replied indifferently, "It's been fifty years. No one remembers me anymore. Now, I can only cling to the consciousness of other beings to survive."
"Where did you find that beautiful host? Can't you appear like that in dreams?" Hoffa chuckled. "You don't really align with human aesthetics in this form."
"Choosing a beautiful female host simply makes it easier to move within human society and gain convenience. However, it has no relevance to our next course of action."
"You all think so highly of me," Hoffa smirked. "Yet here you are, tagging along fifty years into the future."
"I couldn't follow you. As an offspring, I cannot withstand the tearing force of time. But I did keep my promise—I found you in this world fifty years later."
"I help you recover, and you help me survive?"
"Exactly."
"But I'm doing just fine without you."
"It's too early to say that. Follow me."
With that, the little monster floated off the beach and into the mist.
Hoffa stood up and followed, asking, "Are you taking me to the nightmare world? I'm not afraid of nightmares anymore."
"This time, it's not your nightmare," the little monster said calmly. "It's this world's nightmare."
As the words fell, the mist began to dissipate, revealing a peculiar world before Hoffa's eyes.
Towering steel fortresses rose from the ground. The sky was filled with thick black smoke, making it seem as though this world had no daytime. Giant airships hovered in the sky, their dominating color scheme a somber black. In the distance, Big Ben stood wrapped in a web of steel, while the streets were interwoven with iron pipelines, like the coarse veins of a primitive creature, sprawling cold and unyielding.
"What is this place?"
"London, fifty years ago. The world you left behind," the little monster replied.
"Fifty years ago... London?"
Walking slowly through the unfamiliar and narrow streets, Hoffa observed the emptiness around him. The streets were devoid of life, eerily silent. The rusted pipelines bore no national emblems or insignias of any kind. If not for the faintly recognizable silhouette of Big Ben in the distance, he would have had no idea this was England.
"Did Germany win?" Hoffa asked.
"No. No one won. Everyone lost," the little monster replied faintly.
At that moment, Hoffa noticed a figure approaching—a street sweeper dragging a large box and sweeping the streets with a broom. The man was wearing a black raincoat, his figure emaciated. Most peculiar was the cage atop his head, an arm's length in size, fastened securely around his neck with iron locks.
The sweeper moved mechanically, inch by inch, sweeping the ground. As he shuffled past Hoffa, the latter noticed that the man had his eyes closed while sweeping.
"Hey!" Hoffa called out, moving closer and attempting to touch the sweeper.
But his hand passed straight through the man's body.
"You can't wake him. This is just a fragment of my memory," the little monster explained.
"Why is he dressed like that?" Hoffa asked, watching the figure fade into the distance.
"He's sleepwalking," the little monster replied calmly.
"Sleepwalking?!" Hoffa was baffled.
Without further explanation, the little monster spiraled once. The London street before them dissolved like ink seeping into a deep pool. The pipelines, the sweeper, and the metallic Big Ben vanished without a trace.
The inky blackness reassembled, its colors deepening to a bloody crimson. When the transformation was complete, Hoffa found himself standing on an iron scaffold within a massive factory.
Below him were rows upon rows of steel assembly lines. Upon the conveyor belts lay neatly cut slabs of flesh. The air reverberated with the rhythmic clang of machinery.
Mechanical arms rotated, grabbing chunks of flesh from the conveyor belts and tossing them into a massive scarlet grinder. The flesh was ground into a pulpy mass, which fell onto the conveyor belts and was transported away—a dystopian dieselpunk world of chilling efficiency.
In the distance, lines of men emerged from the factory, all wearing cages on their heads. They moved with their eyes closed, carrying raw materials: dead deer, cows, pigs, and sheep.
The men, identical in appearance with their metallic cages and closed eyes, marched like ants, placing the animal corpses onto the conveyor belts, where they were processed into chunks of flesh and fed into the scarlet grinder.
"This is a food factory in Berlin," the little monster explained, hovering near Hoffa's ear. "Such factories are everywhere, dedicated to feeding the living."
"Are all these people sleepwalking?" Hoffa asked, incredulous that humans could work with their eyes shut.
"Every single one," the little monster replied flatly.
Just then, two burly men with cages on their heads emerged from the other side of the conveyor belt. With their eyes closed, they tossed a withered, lifeless human body onto the belt.
The cold machinery dismembered the corpse in an instant, feeding it into the grinder.
The sight made Hoffa's stomach churn. He bent over, clutching his mouth in horror. "Humans are being... eaten too?"
"Ethics no longer exist," the little monster said calmly.
Before Hoffa could respond, the horrifying factory dissolved into crimson mist, dissipating bit by bit.
The mist reassembled, and this time, Hoffa found himself in a massive dining hall spanning tens of thousands of square meters. The hall was lined with hundreds of service counters and thousands of neatly arranged tables and chairs.
Countless people with cages on their heads and trays in their hands queued silently. They moved forward like an ant colony, their eyes closed.
Behind the counters, chefs wearing black uniforms and metal cages served food with their eyes closed, placing portions onto each tray.
The food consisted of boiled vegetables and processed protein—gruesome mixtures containing hair and teeth. The sight alone was enough to turn anyone's stomach.
But no one saw it.
Hoffa walked through the rows of tables and chairs, growing increasingly alarmed as he went. The people seated wore cages on their heads, mechanically picking food from their plates and stuffing it through the gaps of their headgear into their mouths. In this dining hall with tens of thousands of people, not a single voice could be heard. The only sounds were the chilling clinks of knives and forks colliding, sending shivers down the spine.
It was eerily silent dining.
The little monster said, "This is the world Sylbie Spencer created using me. In this world, no one can escape from their dreams. They sleepwalk, work, reproduce, and live in the real world, yet their consciousness remains captive."
"Captive, like livestock for all humankind?"
"You could put it that way."
"Classic Sylbie."
Hoffa looked at the people in cages silently eating in the dining hall. For some reason, he felt a sudden urge to laugh. No crime, no violence, and complete equality—wasn't this the legendary utopia? But as his lips twitched, he found he couldn't laugh at all.
It was too terrifying.
"Does no one resist?" he asked, trembling. "Out of all the people in the world, so many wizards, hasn't anyone fought back against him?"
"They're resisting," the little monster said, its usually calm voice laced with rare sarcasm. "But not in this world. Would you like to see their dreamscapes?"
"Their dreamscapes?"
"That's right, the dreams of those who were captured fifty years ago."
"Take me there," Hoffa murmured. Confronted with this cold and horrifying reality, his brain was on the verge of shutting down. He thought he understood his old rival, but now it seemed he knew nothing about Sylbie Spencer.
The little monster flew to a silent sleepwalker, circling above their head.
Suddenly, Hoffa's vision went dark, and his consciousness began to sink.
When he woke again, the dining hall and the crowd of diners had disappeared. The monotonous fog reformed around him, but it took much longer than Hoffa had expected. Eventually, the fog split into vibrant colors, gradually coalescing into blooming flowers that fell from the sky.
Beneath the flowers stood a colossal stone statue of Sylbie, carved into the mountainside, thousands of meters tall. The statue smiled serenely, holding a flower between its fingers like a benevolent Buddha.
Milky white springs flowed from between the statue's fingers, cascading onto the grass below. On the verdant fields, countless men and women ran joyfully, completely naked, each one as beautiful as an angel. Rivers of milk coursed through the landscape, vibrant fruits grew abundantly, and rainbows stretched from the heavens.
Some people lay on mountains of gold, drinking wine; others embraced their lovers under trees; and still others sat at long tables, feasting endlessly on exquisite food that never seemed to run out.
Everything was indescribably beautiful.
Even the most idyllic paradise couldn't compare.
A gentle breeze brushed past Hoffa as he stood on the grass, his eyes wide. After witnessing the cold and brutal reality just moments ago, the sheer magnificence of this sight left him with a storm of conflicting emotions.
The little monster spoke: "This is the real world in their eyes. Most people can no longer tell the difference between dreams and reality. If everyone believes this life is real, then what reason is there to resist?"
"Giggling and laughing..."
A group of angelic little girls ran past Hoffa, chased by a blissful boy.
Darkness enveloped his vision once more, and the dreamscape, as vivid as a classical oil painting, disappeared.
Hoffa awoke in a chair, drenched in cold sweat. He had returned to reality. Around him were scattered instruments and unconscious band members.
The thousands of people who had come to watch his performance in the theater now lay on the ground, asleep and unresponsive. For the first time, Hoffa truly saw the audience for what they were: impoverished vagrants, drug addicts, unemployed drifters, and rebellious punk teens.
He exhaled deeply.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps echoed softly from backstage.
A blonde woman emerged from behind Hoffa, stepping in front of him. Her voice was calm and indifferent. "If not out of sheer desperation, who would ever believe this cold and harsh world to be real?"
"Isn't this exactly what you wanted?" Hoffa said quietly. "If everyone believes in you and lives in dreams, then your return to your ancient form would only be a matter of time."
"You've got it wrong. I am the Goddess of Nightmares, not Sweet Dreams," the blonde woman said coldly. "Sylbie Spencer used me and desecrated me. He will pay for that."
"Then make him pay. Let him have nightmares."
"I can't," the Nightmare Goddess replied.
"Why not?"
"He can endure all nightmares and remain perpetually awake. I can't touch him."
"Classic Sylbie," Hoffa muttered half to himself, half sarcastically. "But really, you're a goddess of nightmares, and you can't kill a cursed guy who can't even use magic? Just destroy him outright."
"You seem to misunderstand the nature of gods," the blonde woman said. "We are the embodiment of the world's laws, bound by them as much as we represent them. I am a nightmare. By rule, I cannot interfere with reality.
"Even if I wish to kill Sylbie Spencer and regain my freedom, I must support another human to do it. I can never act directly. Just as the Grim Reaper will never personally swing his scythe before mortals—the ones who kill must always be human."
"So you want me to return to fifty years ago?"
"Exactly."
"You really are blunt about your goals," Hoffa said, covering his face with his hands.
The blonde woman stared at him, her gaze so intense it made his scalp tingle.
Hoffa looked up. "I don't want to be anyone's tool—not yours, not the Nightmare Goddess's, not Leviathan's progeny."
"You have no choice," she said slowly.
"I do," Hoffa said, clenching his fists.
"Sorry to burst your bubble, but your presence in this reality is far less stable than you think," she said, turning her back to him. "This world's existence hinges on your defeating Sylbie Spencer. The longer you stay here, the less real this outcome becomes.
"When you exceed the time threshold, this world will be replaced by Sylbie Spencer's nightmare reality. By then, everyone around you will be a sleepwalker. Even if you wanted to return, it would be too late. That's the purpose of him exiling you fifty years into the future."
(End of chapter)
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