Blue Star.
Recently, a rumor had been running rampant across the internet.
More and more people were taking to gazing at the night sky, posting on social media claiming to be moon-watching.
“The Moon is a massive, luminous celestial body that emits a soft, silver-white glow. It hangs in the night sky, brighter than any star and closer to Blue Star than any known celestial object.”
“This is the Moon. It has existed since ancient times, an eternal presence in the night sky.”
Many people left comments under these posts: “The moonlight is so beautiful tonight. Let’s go look at the moon together.”
However, even more netizens were bewildered by this, or even treated it with utter contempt.
“There is no celestial body named ‘the Moon’ anywhere near Blue Star. What kind of madness has gripped you all?”
“I specifically asked an AI and checked astronomy textbooks. There is no Moon. It’s not in the star charts, and it’s not in the observation records of any observatory.”
“The original poster has clearly lost their mind. I suggest they be committed immediately.”
“Does everyone remember that internet farce from years ago? That fictionalized 14th member of that emo boy band, or Big Stomach Liang, the ‘King’ who was supposedly suppressed by corporate interests...?”
They felt this was just another internet craze, a manufactured Mandela Effect.
Conspiracy theorists went even further, believing it was a social experiment conducted by malicious actors. They claimed the participants were either paid shills or clout-chasers, joined by a massive crowd of netizens who just wanted to join the meme and watch the chaos unfold.
The debate fermented across all major platforms, escalating from sporadic verbal spats into large-scale ideological wars.
Those who could see the Moon remained adamant that ‘the Moon exists,’ posting photos and videos they had taken with their phones.
Yet, the comment sections for these photos and videos were equally contentious.
“Am I blind? This is clearly just a pitch-black night sky. There’s nothing there.”
“You are indeed blind if you can’t see a Moon that big.”
Both sides launched into a new round of arguments.
The Dream Disaster Research Group took notice of this phenomenon.
While organizing data on patients with Nightmare Sickness, they discovered that every single person who claimed to see the Moon was, without exception, suffering from the disease.
Every individual capable of accurately describing the Moon’s characteristics was a registered patient in their files.
This discovery cast a heavy pall over the research group.
It seemed the nightmares were more than just dreams; they were actively altering the patients' perception of reality.
The patients were seeing things that shouldn't exist and believing things they shouldn't believe.
Zhou Ping, a researcher at the center, was currently sitting in the research group's meeting room with a thick stack of patient files spread out before him.
He had been working continuously for a long time. He had downed cup after cup of coffee, his hair was falling out in clumps, and his stomach was screaming in protest, but he didn't stop.
He was the youngest researcher in the group, having graduated with his doctorate less than two years ago. His hair was still thick, and his eyes still held a spark of hope.
He wasn't afraid of exhaustion; he was afraid of a lack of progress.
The research group had already screened hundreds of possible transmission routes for Nightmare Sickness, including air, water, food, physical contact, insects...
Everything had been ruled out. None of those things were related to the nightmares.
Patient numbers were rising, potential solutions were dwindling, and time was slipping away. Zhou Ping didn't know what else could be done, but he knew he had to do something.
After much deliberation, he decided to immerse himself in the situation.
Once the idea appeared, it became impossible to suppress.
He immediately found the group leader and voiced his plan.
He would screen the common behaviors of patients before they fell ill, then replicate them exactly, turning himself into a test subject.
This was the most direct method, but also the most dangerous. If he succeeded, they would find the transmission route; if he failed, he would simply be one more patient.
The group leader was shocked by Zhou Ping's words.
The leader was also at his wit's end, his eyes bloodshot, his lips cracked, and his chin covered in several days' worth of stubble.
The investigation into Nightmare Sickness had yielded nothing. Now that he heard Zhou Ping was willing to volunteer himself, how could he possibly refuse?
He granted Zhou Ping high-level authorization to execute the plan.
The other colleagues in the research group also heard of Zhou Ping's brave decision. Some opened their mouths to speak but ultimately remained silent.
Outside the window, the sun shone brightly, casting the shadows of trees onto the opposite wall.
No one tried to dissuade him because they couldn't think of a better way.
Everyone knew that someone had to make this dangerous attempt.
The spread of Nightmare Sickness was still accelerating. Over a hundred million people worldwide had already been infected, and they still hadn't found an accurate transmission route.
Every day of delay meant countless more people falling into that bottomless nightmare.
Zhou Ping handed off his original duties to other colleagues, gave a few brief instructions, and walked out.
The members of the research group watched his back, their faces filled with admiration.
The researcher responsible for data aggregation whispered, “Xiao Zhou is truly remarkable. Young people really do have the courage to take action.”
The others nodded in agreement.
Zhou Ping pulled the detailed files of the most recent batch of patients from the archives and ordered a summary of their common behaviors before falling ill.
In the time that followed, Zhou Ping replicated the common behavioral trajectories of those patients one by one.
Aside from eating and drinking, most patients spent their time surfing the internet on their phones every day.
Zhou Ping also began browsing the web. He found a streamer named Ever-Crying Vine and clicked on one of his stream replays.
On the screen was a long-haired man sitting behind an office desk, cradling a silver-grey snow leopard cub in his arms.
The man spoke very little, occasionally looking up at the camera with a cold gaze.
Zhou Ping stared at that face for a few seconds and felt a slight sense of discomfort. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, but he felt that such a face shouldn't appear on a screen.
This long-haired man was an NPC from the currently explosive virtual reality game, 《Deep Red Continent》.
Zhou Ping didn't play games and usually didn't pay much attention to related information, but even he knew how popular 《Deep Red Continent》 was.
He had to admit that the long-haired NPC's appearance was indeed striking, far exceeding any standard character model. Perhaps a celebrity's face had been scanned into the game.
Zhou Ping didn't skip any steps. He strictly repeated everything the patients had done before falling ill.
The colleagues in the research group watched Zhou Ping walk toward the unknown. Some were moved to tears, knowing what he was doing—he was sacrificing himself for data, using his own body to find an answer.
After replicating all the common behaviors of the patients, Zhou Ping went to sleep with a heart full of trepidation.
That very night, Zhou Ping had the dream.
Darkness, a void, suffocation, and a luminous celestial body drawing closer and closer.
He died and came back to life repeatedly in the dream, eventually waking up screaming.
When he woke, he was drenched in cold sweat, and his pillow was soaked.
Zhou Ping took a long moment to recover, panting heavily as he stared at the fluorescent light on the ceiling. The flickering light illuminated the statistical charts and data on the wall.
Briefly wiping the sweat from his forehead, he immediately scrambled out of bed, sat at his computer, and began recording his experiences.
From the time of onset to the symptoms, the content of the dream, and his physical reactions upon waking—he didn't miss a single detail.
The research group instantly erupted in a frenzy.
Zhou Ping's infection with Nightmare Sickness meant their direction was correct; the transmission route truly existed within the common behaviors of those patients.
Now, all they needed to do was identify the single correct factor from those behaviors.
The task of screening item by item was massive, but now that the direction was clear, the rest was just a matter of time and patience.
“First, rule out physiological activities like eating, drinking, and using the bathroom. Such behaviors cannot be the trigger for Nightmare Sickness,” the group leader said.
Even if they were the triggers, they would be helpless to stop them, so it was better to rule them out immediately.
Next, using a process of elimination to test each item, the research group finally locked onto the primary suspect: the internet.
They categorized and organized the patients' web browsing histories. Every video, photo, and webpage the patients had viewed was cross-referenced across multiple dimensions, including publication time, view count, content theme, and visual elements.
They ruled out smutty videos, and then systematically eliminated brainwashing motivational fluff, comedy skits, and clickbait pseudoscience. In the end, only one commonality remained.
That stunningly handsome game NPC!!!
Every single patient had viewed a video or photo of that long-haired NPC before falling ill.
Some had seen him in a live stream, some in short video clips, and some in screenshots.
“We have currently identified the most likely trigger for Nightmare Sickness. All that remains is verification,” Zhou Ping said with a solemn expression.
The research group quickly conducted a test. They selected one hundred healthy criminals who had never experienced the nightmares to act as volunteers and had them watch videos of Ever-Crying Vine.
As a result, within twelve hours, every single one of them developed symptoms of Nightmare Sickness.
The results of the verification sent the entire research group into a stunned silence.
Nightmare Sickness could be transmitted through photos or videos. This conclusion was simply too terrifying!
How could a picture or a video cause people to have the exact same nightmare?
It wasn't scientific!
It practically defied the laws of physics and medical common sense. The entire knowledge system they had built through their scientific careers was collapsing.
The oldest professor in the group remained silent for a long time before finally speaking: “Since a miraculous game like 《Deep Red Continent》 has already been created, what is there left for us to disbelieve?”
No one in the meeting room refuted him, because the professor was right.
A virtual reality game that was at least a century ahead of current technology had appeared out of thin air, and no one could explain its principles.
Compared to that, the idea of Nightmare Sickness spreading via video didn't seem so hard to accept.
“But then again, after all this searching, Nightmare Sickness is ultimately related to 《Deep Red Continent》.”
“There must be some yet-to-be-understood connection between that strange NPC, Nightmare Sickness, and the patients' claims of seeing the Moon.”
“The research group doesn't have the time to investigate that connection. What we need to do right now is block the transmission!”
After the research group reported their findings, the officials of Blue Star were also shocked by the report's conclusion.
But everyone knew the research group wouldn't joke about such a thing.
Orders were rapidly issued one after another.
The Blue Star authorities were helpless against a clearly abnormal game like 《Deep Red Continent》, but if they wanted to ban the spread of a specific video or image, it was quite easy.
The order was handed down from the highest levels, and the massive computational resources of the Cyber Information Management Office were poured into the inspection and suppression efforts.
Keywords were added to filtering systems, related videos were deleted from servers, and images were purged from databases.
The detection system didn't let even suggestive phrases slide; even using initials or acronyms would trigger the automatic post-deletion mechanism.
Netizens felt a palpable change. One second they were scrolling through videos of a long-haired handsome guy on a short-form video platform, and the next, the video was gone.
Someone would post about the beauty of the Moon in the night sky, and the post wouldn't survive ten seconds.
Someone would mention Nightmare Sickness in a comment section, and the comment would be deleted instantly, while the account was silenced.
The speed of the crackdown was staggering. Within fifteen minutes, all related videos, images, and text had vanished from the Blue Star internet.
No citizen could see Yue Shi's face on the internet again, nor could they bring up topics related to the Moon.
They would rather suppress it wrongly than let it pass. Every moment earlier they banned it was a moment earlier they contained the spread of Nightmare Sickness.
...
In a certain city, Ever-Crying Vine had just logged off the game and habitually opened a short-form video platform, wanting to check his backend data.
A notification box popped up immediately on the screen.
【This account has been permanently banned for violating community guidelines!】
Ever-Crying Vine's expression turned ugly. His account had hundreds of thousands of followers and millions of daily views. The stream donations and traffic revenue alone were enough to give him a very comfortable life.
He hadn't made enough money yet, and his traffic and followers were still skyrocketing. How could his account just be gone?
Could someone have reported him out of jealousy?
Ever-Crying Vine immediately filed an appeal.
The system sent an automated reply: “Appeal received. We will process it within seven working days.”
He couldn't wait seven working days! Think of how much money he would lose in those seven days!
There wasn't just one short-form video platform. If this one didn't work, he would just post on another.
Ever-Crying Vine tried to post his edited videos on another platform, but the moment he hit publish, a window popped up.
【You are suspected of posting illegal content. This is your first warning.】
Ever-Crying Vine was startled. “What the hell? How am I breaking the law?”
His boss's divine beauty contained no sensitive words, had nothing to do with politics or smut—how could it be illegal content?
So, he tried posting it again using an alt account.
The system window appeared again. Another warning.
Ever-Crying Vine was truly reduced to tears this time. “Heavens, who exactly is targeting me?”
No one could answer him.
Two minutes later, there was a sharp, urgent knocking on his door.
Ever-Crying Vine stood up and pulled the door open.
Many police officers were standing outside, their expressions grim.
One of the officers said coldly, “You are suspected of endangering national public security. You are officially under arrest.”
Ever-Crying Vine's brain buzzed. “You're joking, right?”
The police didn't give him a chance to argue. Handcuffs snapped around his wrists, the cold sensation seeping through his skin and into his bones.
Ever-Crying Vine was taken away by the police.
It stood to reason; he was the first person to spread the nightmare-inducing videos on a large scale. How could the authorities possibly let him off easily?
Neighbors downstairs poked their heads out to watch, whispering to one another before closing their doors.
The police car sped away. Ever-Crying Vine sat in the back seat, still unable to figure it out—how exactly had he endangered national public security?
Since when did he have that kind of power?
Rate on N.U.
