Chapter 98

Chapter 98: The Entire Internet’s Playground

Dreaming is usually a sign of poor sleep quality. The so-called “rest state” dulls sensory feedback, but the muddled brain never truly stops thinking.  

In roughly eight hours of sleep, dreams typically occupy no more than forty minutes.  

But if dreams consumed nearly half the night… though such a phenomenon was virtually impossible…  

“Mi Xiaoliu, is something the matter?” Old Gao adjusted his glasses on the podium, his bald head reflecting light for a brief moment.  

Mi Xiaoliu, who almost never answered questions, raised her hand high. When called on, she stood and declared: “I need to sleep.”  

Heli had told her to always raise her hand and notify the teacher first.  

Old Gao adjusted his glasses again.  

Should I thank this boy for at least giving me a heads-up?  

The esper academy employed lenient teaching methods, minimizing student stress. As long as no more than five students slept per class, teachers turned a blind eye.  

But having fewer than five students not sleeping was pushing it.  

Oh, and a few were pretending to sleep—actually playing on their phones.  

Summer drowsiness was expected, but usually only in the afternoon.  

One nap period should suffice.  

“This period will be self-study,” Old Gao murmured before leaving with his textbook.  

Of course, “self-study” never meant actual studying.  

Shaking herself awake, Yiwen blinked.  

She had no idea which period it was—no one else did either. She checked her phone.  

Huh… Slept from first period to second period in the afternoon. No wonder I’m starving.  

She’d dreamed again, but the memory slipped away the moment she grasped it. Dreams were cruel like that.  

She vaguely recalled it being about that game—clearer than before. Before?  

Mi Xiaoliu was still dead asleep, unfazed even by a note stuck to her back. The rest of the class was either gaming or discussing the game—the one she and Mi Xiaoliu had binged yesterday.  

Yiwen instinctively opened the game on her phone, then immediately closed it, nauseated.  

It felt like playing a roguelike a thousand times—still fun, but with an underlying disgust. Her addiction had dulled overnight.  

She’d never thought she’d fall into gaming addiction. Even MOBAs hadn’t riled her up this much.  

And I skipped work yesterday for this. Most jobs would let that slide with an excuse, but police work…  

Her phone showed no reprimand from Officer Chen. The work group chat was flooded with game talk—but not about gameplay.  

Officer Chen: @everyone Avoid “The Best Game Ever.” If already installed, delete immediately and notify others.  

The message was retracted the moment it was sent.  

Then, the group was disbanded.  

Yiwen: “??”  

Things were getting weird, but the game’s shady nature was obvious.  

Without hesitation, she uninstalled it.  

“Stop playing. Delete it,” she urged the tiger girl in front of her, who was glued to her screen.  

“Ugh, I just downloaded it!” tiger girl swatted her away.  

Unthinkable normally—tiger girl usually leapt at Yiwen’s attention.  

Then, as if realizing, tiger girl looked up. “Yiwen, let’s play together…”  

Yiwen refused with a wave. Scanning the room, she saw only three states: asleep, gaming, or discussing the game.  

Jim didn’t count—he was engrossed in Tetris on his Durian 14. Ignorance is bliss.  

This game was dangerous…  

But forcing deletions might backfire, marking her as an outcast.  

She shook Mi Xiaoliu awake—no grumpiness, as always.  

“Phone,” Yiwen demanded.  

Mi Xiaoliu obediently handed it over.  

Yiwen deleted the game and returned it.  

Weird. Too weird…  

————————  

“I didn’t disband the group.”  

Officer Chen’s first words upon her arrival.  

She hadn’t walked home with Mi Xiaoliu or hitched a ride with Barrett. Abandoning someone for another hurt—she knew that too well.  

It took forever to reach the station.  

“Since two days ago, this game’s appeared in every app store. Can’t force removal. We’ve shut down store access and downloads, but it auto-installs.”  

“First-time players fall into obsessive addiction. By day two, it lessens, but they report dreaming of the game. Their brainwaves change.”  

The full-dive VR of fiction—achieved through dreams.  

But the initial addiction had already caused mass absenteeism. Hospitals and police were hit hardest—patients untreated, crimes unchecked.  

Worse, players suffered poor sleep, sapping daytime focus. Imagine a surgeon pre-op…  

This crisis spanned the entire internet.  

“That database hacker’s work?” Yiwen asked.  

Only he could wreak such havoc online, exposing… exposing what?  

The answer danced just out of reach—something about dreams.  

“Unconfirmed, but likely.”  

“What’s in it for him?” Yiwen frowned.  

She’d even spent 10 mira on it. A cash grab?  

He’d pissed off the planet. Night Eagle (Hawk) would hunt him, gaming execs would pay for his limbs, and Easter might take interest…  

No fear at all?  

And how did he control people through screens?  

Yiwen tried recalling the game’s visuals, but the more she did, the stronger the itch to play grew.  

“Profit? If it’s him, judging by his online persona—pure vanity,” Officer Chen said. “Every trace of him is just troll behavior. He cannot tolerate criticism.”  

He attacked detractors on sight, demanded universal agreement, and rigged his boring videos to trend.  

If out-argued, he doxxed or hacked them. His best meltdown? Facing someone unfazed by doxxing.  

“Until further notice, avoid the game. Higher-ups are acting.” The reassurance rang hollow.  

————————  

At Home. 

Mi Xiaoliu sat on the couch, playing the game again.  

Yiwen snatched her phone and swatted her bottom. “I told you not to play!”  

Post-nap, the addiction should’ve waned.  

“Toby said to play.” Mi Xiaoliu pointed at Toby, hunched over his laptop.  

He’d finally deleted gigabytes of homework to install the game. Sympathizing with Mi Xiaoliu’s tragic home life, he’d invited her to join.  

But the damn thing was huge, and their Wi-Fi sucked. It still hadn’t finished downloading.  

“Who do you listen to—him or me?” Yiwen confiscated the laptop mid-protest and killed the download.  

Toby bristled—until Yiwen’s dainty, sandbag-crushing fist reminded him: Be the bigger man.  

When Raven returned, Yiwen—uncharacteristically proactive—asked for her phone. Suspicious, Raven complied.  

Sure enough, the game had auto-installed. Raven hadn’t even noticed.  

Yiwen checked her own phone.  

The black game icon had reappeared.  

“This the game you played yesterday?” Raven frowned.  

The “game dream” incident was spreading—everywhere.