"Whoosh—"
Even in his sleep, Mo Wen's brows remained furrowed. Once again, he found himself in that endless field, his solitary footsteps echoing in the silence. Ahead, a grand academy loomed—majestic yet distant, both inviting and oppressive.(See Series 1, The Night of Hunting Games.)
It was a place he had never set foot in, filled with unfamiliar faces and alien surroundings. The dream felt like a descent into some infernal realm. Horrific monsters with twisted forms lunged at him, their snarls filling the air. Around him lay the bodies of villagers and classmates, drenched in blood. Their vacant eyes and rigid expressions were like frozen masks, as if trapped in an endless nightmare.
His dream played out like a black-and-white silent film, cold and repetitive, replaying itself every time he slept. He strained to see the faces around him, but they stayed hidden in a dense, unyielding fog.
In the rare calm between nightmares, Mo Wen always returned to his childhood bedroom. A warm orange glow from the old bedside lamp filled the room, driving away the night's chill. His father sat at his usual desk, his silhouette softly lit, like a timeless painting.
"Dad, what are you looking at?"
A young Mo Wen would rub his sleepy eyes and ask in a small voice.
His father would turn around, a gentle smile spreading across his face as he pulled Mo Wen into his arms.
"Another nightmare? What did you see this time?"
Mo Wen's eyes widened, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and innocence.
"Dad, there were so many little black bugs! They were chasing me—so many of them—it was terrifying!"
His father's expression grew serious as he glanced at Mo Wen's arm. A few faint black spots dotted his skin, fading but still visible. He said nothing, only gently patting Mo Wen's back.
"Don't be scared. The nightmares will all go away." His father never told him to be a brave young man. Instead, he spoiled him and shielded him, just like most dads in the world.
"Dad, what are those black things?" Mo Wen's voice was hesitant, tinged with lingering fear.
His father was silent for a moment, then finally smiled and shook his head."Just a dream. Nothing to be scared of. Go back to sleep. I'll be right here."
Reassured, Mo Wen nodded as a wave of drowsiness swept over him. He climbed out of his father's arms and back into bed, soon falling into a deep slumber.
Mo Wen loved dreaming. Only in his dreams could he see his father again. Sometimes, he even wished that the dream world was real and that what people called reality was nothing more than a fleeting illusion.
If he had to wake, he wished he could wake back in his father's presence. Even with nightmares haunting him, the sight of the warm orange lamp and his father's silhouette always brought him peace, enough to lull him back into sleep.
Three years ago, on an ordinary day, Mo Wen received a call from his father's colleague. The news shattered his world—his father had disappeared without a trace and never returned. Confusion, despair, and a hollow ache took root in Mo Wen's heart, leaving him haunted by questions that had no answers.
From that day, dreams became Mo Wen's only link to the past. In them, his father was still with him, and the villagers and friends felt as real as ever. Those dreams, wrapped in a soft glow, seemed to preserve lost time untouched. Each dream was like a door to another world—a world of memories, warmth, and regret. It was a world he longed to stay in but could never truly remain.
Suddenly, a soft voice pulled him out of his dreams.
"Good morning."
The intelligent alarm system in his phone began playing the "Today in History" program:
"Dear listeners, ten years ago today, District 19 reported an unprecedented fungus and spore outbreak. According to Dr. James, this mysterious ancient strain originated deep within the primeval forest and was accidentally introduced to the city through animal transmission. Thanks to the government's relentless efforts, all infected individuals were swiftly isolated and treated, bringing the situation under control.
During this time, Dr. James and countless other scientists worked tirelessly to study the deadly strain, opening a window for humanity to explore the unknown. Tragically, Dr. James—a brilliant scientist who dedicated his life to his work—passed away in a traffic accident after a year of relentless effort. His untimely death is deeply mourned, but his research remains a cornerstone in humanity's fight against future crises."
The show continued playing, but Mo Wen's mind had long drifted away. He sat dazed on his bed for a while until the peeling paint on the walls and the chipped bed frame came into focus. Ah, that's right—he was in his rented basement. The space was so cramped that even rolling over felt like he might accidentally headbutt the neighbor through the wall. The air was so stale that every breath made him wonder if he was inhaling pure carbon monoxide.
"Ring ring ring!"
The phone rang so urgently, it felt like a college professor chasing him down for a late assignment. Picking up, he heard the district manager from his courier company on the other end.
"Is this courier 9527? Tomorrow, you're going to the quarantine zone to pick up supplies!"
Since moving to the big city, Mo Wen had earned a collection of nicknames. He used to be called "Out-of-Towner,""Tall Dummy," or the mysterious "That Guy Over There." Now, 9527 was his latest badge of honor.
"Yes, boss. What? Uh... yeah, I get it. Right away, Manager!" But while his mouth agreed with lightening speed, his heart thumped nervously.
"Uh, Manager, just a tiny question. Uh, isn't the quarantine zone supposed to be, you know, dangerous? Didn't the government say entry was forbidden?"
The manager's tone was as impatient as someone dealing with a coworker who owes them money.
"Next Monday, you're going in with the volunteers. Your job is simple—take two bags of supplies inside, get the orders, and bring them out. You're delivering packages, not off on some grand expedition!"
Listen to this guy—like delivering packages was just a "by the way" task now. Mo Wen's heart raced, but his mouth could only keep up the flattery:"Of course, Manager, no problem! But… uh… are you sure it's safe?"
Then came the managerial nuke:"If you're not going, should I go instead? If I don't see you Monday morning, consider yourself resigned!" And with a decisive click, the call ended.
Mo Wen stared at his phone, which suddenly seemed to glow in his hand—probably because it represented his sole source of income. Yet deep down, he couldn't help but think: When did a courier career turn into a death-defying mission? It seemed even the most ordinary jobs these days demanded a "live free or die trying" mentality.
Sighing, he shuffled over to the mirror and muttered to himself,"Life sure is a tough teacher. Every lesson is harder than the last, and there's no refund on tuition." As he brushed his teeth, he hyped himself up with his usual mantra:
"Life beats me down a thousand times, but I'll love it like my first crush!"
He got so into it that toothpaste foam nearly splattered across the mirror.
Once on his electric bike, the city greeted him with neon lights still flashing like a nightclub, though the streets were eerily empty, like he was the last online player in a deserted game server. As he rode, his mind wandered back to when he first arrived in the city. Back then, in his early twenties, his eyes sparkled like freshly polished car headlights, and he always wore a grin. Life felt as simple as riding forward—no GPS required.
And now? His hair, flattened by the helmet, had transformed into "electric bike chic," a signature look that made passersby ask,"Hey man, did you sleep on the floor last night?" To which he would sheepishly reply,"Nope, one level lower—I live in the basement."
At just 20-something, tiny wrinkles had already started marking his forehead. His life had shifted from "adventurer" to "survivor," and his fearless confidence had been sanded down by the grindstone of life until all that remained was a faint memory of ambition, paired with a permanent craving for discounts.
Feeling hungry, he stopped at a breakfast stall and bought a bag of hot pork-and-scallion buns. They hung from his bike's handlebars, steaming and fragrant. The smell made him crave them, and he quickly ate one after another with his free hand.
At that moment, he thought: Dreams? Sure, they're nice. But sometimes the biggest goal in life is just to fill your stomach.
The warm buns softened his hunger and his heart. He suddenly remembered the day he left his hometown after graduation. Back then, he'd carried a single suitcase and an outsized dream to "conquer the big city." And now? The city had conquered him so thoroughly that even eating buns felt like commemorating his defeat.