Chapter One: The Living Dead

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"Red Alert: Cases of 'living dead' are still increasing daily around the globe. Please ensure you plan your sleep schedule carefully."

"Based on current cases, the characteristics of the 'living dead' are as follows:"

1. Falling into a deep comatose state for more than twenty-four hours, unable to be awakened.
2. Eyes bulging, jaws clenched tight, a face twisted in agony, body arched backward; in severe cases, spasms and convulsions from terror.

"Cases of living dead awakening have begun to appear in various parts of the world. According to their accounts, each of them experienced an extremely long dream."

"A nightmare from which they could not wake."

With a snap, the boy irritably switched off the radio in the construction site dormitory, shouldered a bag of cement, and headed downstairs.

His name was Wu Que. His long hair floated gently, his features were delicate and refined, and his eyes, beneath thick lashes, were as beautiful as a fawn’s. Yet now, those eyes were veiled with gloom.

His father had passed away when he was five. Afterward, his mother single-handedly ran a small bun shop, raising him and his twin sister. Their lives, though poor, had been filled with warmth.

He had thought such simple happiness would last forever, but fate had other plans.

One ordinary afternoon a week ago, Wu Que returned from school to find his sister running toward him in tears, her eyes full of terror.

"Mom... Mom’s gone mad!"

Summoning his courage, Wu Que stepped into his mother’s bedroom, only to witness a scene he would never forget.

His mother lay on the bed, her eyes bulging like a goldfish’s, bloodshot veins crawling across her pupils, the corners of her mouth stretched into a ghastly grin. Her molars were clenched tight, emitting a persistent creaking, her hair stood on end, and her whole body twisted and convulsed in pure terror.

The siblings rushed her to the hospital, but the doctor’s verdict was:

"I’m sorry, we’ve done all we can. She can only remain in a vegetative state."

With disaster befalling his family, Wu Que sold their house as quickly as possible, withdrew from school, and took on three part-time jobs. Still, the crushing weight of medical bills and living expenses for the family left him gasping for air.

Now, he trudged across the worksite with a sack nearly as heavy as himself. His shoulders were raw and red from the burden, his legs ached fiercely, but he pressed on stubbornly, his heart filled with frustration.

"Some have already awakened. How wonderful."

"If only Mom could wake up too."

But fate seemed determined to make things harder. A sudden breeze lifted dust and grit from the cement path, stinging Wu Que’s eyes. His already unsteady body faltered, and the cement spilled all over the ground.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"

The spilled cement was the final straw that broke the camel’s back. Wu Que’s eyes reddened instantly. He could not understand why, when he was already so wretched, the heavens still tormented him so.

Just as he was contemplating finding a sturdy beam on the site to hang himself from, a flyer drifted to his feet.

Printed in crude black letters, the headline was simple and direct:

"We have found the cure for the living dead."

Wu Que stared at the words, as if the entire world had fallen silent, leaving only the pounding of his heart in his ears.

"Forget it. If he really had the answer, why not just apply for a patent?"

Regaining his composure, Wu Que sighed and tossed the flyer aside.

"Better just get back to work."

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But the flyer seemed stuck to him, spinning back into his hand with the breeze.

Wu Que gazed at it, his heart a tangle of conflicting emotions.

After his shift, he took the flyer and followed the address written on it, muttering angrily to himself as he walked.

"Damn it, damn it! Just because I spilled a bag of cement, they’re docking a whole day’s pay!"

But what good was cursing? This world was a place where the ruthless devoured the weak; those who played dirty got ahead.

Following the address, Wu Que wound through old, narrow alleys until he stopped before a tile-roofed house, plastered with spring couplets and talismans.

The house was dilapidated, but the couplets and talismans were fresh and new, giving the place an eerie, sinister air.

Especially the talismans—the color was nothing like paint.

They looked much more like fresh human blood.

Wu Que hesitated, but thinking of his mother and sister, he gritted his teeth and pushed open the decrepit door.

At once, the mustiness of long-abandonment mingled with the stench of something burnt assaulted his senses. Inside was a rickety wooden chair, upon which sat a man.

Though it was the height of summer, the man was wrapped tightly from head to toe, only his deep-set eyes exposed. He spoke not a word, simply watched Wu Que enter.

Wu Que hesitated, then stepped forward with the flyer in hand.

"Sir, hello, I found this flyer—"

"I’ll give you a sum of money," the man interrupted, his voice quiet but carrying an undeniable authority.

"Wha...what?"

"I’ll give you money, and tell you how to cure the living dead."

"Give me your family’s bank account."

Wu Que quickly recited his family’s account number—he needed money desperately, after all.

The man in black drew out a phone, tapped it a few times, then, with a sudden motion, crushed the device in his palm.

"Is that even humanly possible?"

Cold sweat crawled down Wu Que’s spine like a worm. He swallowed hard, edging toward the wall, ready to bolt should the man be distracted.

Just as he tensed to run, his phone’s familiar ringtone blared.

"Stupid big brother, pick up! Stupid big brother, pick up!!"

A long silence. The only sound in the shabby room was Wu Que’s ringtone, echoing off the walls.

"That brat—didn’t I tell her I was going out for something important?"

Wu Que’s fists clenched tight. Seeing the man in black unmoved, he decided to answer the call.

His sister’s first words left him frozen in shock.

"Brother! Why is there an extra million in our account? What have you done?"

Wu Que stiffened, then quickly regained his composure, lowering his voice into the receiver.

"I’m fine, don’t worry. I found a job that pays quickly, but I might not be able to see you for a while. Be good, take care of Mom."

He hung up, ignoring his sister’s anxious protests, and turned to face the man.

"Do you believe me now?" the man asked coldly.

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"I believe you," Wu Que replied, clutching at this lifeline with desperation. "Sir, please—tell me how to cure the living dead. I don’t know what you want, but no matter what you ask, I’ll do my best to fulfill it."

"You need to become a Dream Mender," the man said.

"Dream Mender...what is that?" Wu Que was bewildered by the unfamiliar term.

"When a person dies, their soul splits. The soul itself binds to the body, keeping it from decaying, while the spirit drifts in the void, vulnerable to transformation and dream infiltration."

The man’s voice was monotone, emotionless, almost mechanical.

"A Dream Mender is one in the state of spirit. If you wish to save your loved ones, you must first save others."

"But what exactly does a Dream Mender—" Wu Que started to ask, but was cut off.

"Don’t ask too much. Knowing too much will only bring you harm."

At this, Wu Que fell silent.

The man coughed, then continued.

"You will enter the dreams of others and complete missions inside. If you succeed in your first dream mission, you will be transported to a place called the Dreamspace, where my associates await. Tell them your family’s information—they will take care of the rest."

"Now, come here," the man suddenly commanded.

Wu Que hesitated, but the image of his mother in her hospital bed drove him forward.

From behind, the man drew a knife and held it out.

"Take it."

Wu Que hesitated. As the man extended the knife, his forearm was exposed to the air—there was no skin, only muscle, scorched and melted like burnt plastic.

Now Wu Que understood the source of the burnt smell.

Was this man before him even human?

As Wu Que stared in stunned silence, the man’s voice came again.

"Take it."

Gritting his teeth, Wu Que accepted the knife.

It was a long blade, entirely black, with a heavy hilt and a blade that glinted coldly.

With a sickening squelch, blinding pain shot through him. Wu Que stared in disbelief at the wound in his own chest.

Blood blossomed across his chest, flowing down the man’s scorched forearm.