In a secluded alley, inside a cheap rental room, a pitch-black, emaciated humanoid slowly crawled down from the ceiling. Its bald head turned slightly, then it climbed onto a chair.
“Is the Dream ready?”
Bart, seated nearby, faced his computer screen displaying the management interface of the newly released game *Dreamless*. He glanced at the creature beside him.
“Just run an ad, and we’ll gather enough souls. His Lordship should be pleased with this offering,” the black humanoid chuckled chillingly.
Bart looked at the figure—no, no longer human—and felt a trace of fear.
This creature had once been a man named Morton. After being altered by “His Lordship” through unnatural means, he became this grotesque, neither-human-nor-ghost form.
Yet to Morton, it was worth it. He paid a steep price for his supernatural ability: the power to drag gamers’ souls into an alternate dimension and trap them. He called it *the Dream*.
Morton had no combat strength, but this ability was terrifying. Once pulled into the Dream, ordinary people could never escape.
Not everyone could possess a supernatural ability. To civilians, such powers were coveted treasures; to criminals, even more so.
Bart, an ordinary programmer and Morton’s collaborator, built the game masking the ability’s space—managing it, luring players in. Soul collection? That was Morton’s job.
A foul stench rose from the creature. Bart frowned slightly, instinctively leaning away.
“Time’s up. Those lambs should be launching the game soon. Go finish it quickly,” Bart said.
“Hehe… Let them live a little longer. I’ll be back in a flash.” The humanoid grinned sinisterly, revealing blackened, broken teeth.
With that, he scuttled up the desk like a gecko, dissolved into black smoke, and melted into the screen.
…
Dusk settled. Hallelujah, who’d been lazily sunbathing, perked his ears and twitched his nose. His sensitive nose caught a foul odor. He lifted his head and peered inside.
Lu Feng’s laptop sat in the shop’s rear—the usual customer seating area—so he could monitor the store while gaming. He now slept peacefully on the sofa.
The laptop on the coffee table glowed, showing the horror game interface. Suddenly, the screen flickered, then clouded with black mist.
A bony, pitch-black arm emerged from the screen, followed by half a smooth bald head and two round, rolling eyes.
Morton moved cautiously. Some players might be supernatural ability users—he couldn’t fight them. His strength was weaker than an average man’s; a bold youth could beat him senseless.
*Hehe… another ordinary fool. Followed the instructions perfectly. Totally relaxed. Zero vigilance.*
To Morton, such carelessness was a godsend.
After watching Lu Feng through the interface and confirming safety, Morton let out a soft, eerie chuckle and crawled out.
His other hand emerged. Half his body now rested on the coffee table—moments from dragging the curious gamer’s soul into the Dream.
Then he saw it: a vibrant green plant on the medicine cabinet. Tender leaves, graceful branches swaying gently in the breeze like a dancing maiden.
*So beautiful…*
Morton’s gaze locked onto the emerald hue, motionless. He didn’t notice the dragon head hanging from the wall, nostrils puffing hot breath, nor the magical girl figurine on the shelf behind, eyes glowing crimson.
No—it wasn’t that he didn’t see them. His entire mind was consumed by the plant. Only that green filled his vision.
*Nourish it… with my blood… my flesh…*
But as he reached for his chest, he froze.
*My flesh is too foul… my blood too stinky… It won’t like it… What to do?*
He paused. Then—*Ah. There’s another.*
*His flesh… his blood… absolutely fresh… delicious. Perfect offering.*
Slowly, he withdrew through the game interface.
The figurine’s red glow dimmed. The dragon head retracted into the wall.
Hallelujah peeked out from behind the counter, sighing in relief. Even now, just seeing those two sent chills down his spine.
…
Bart sipped beer while monitoring the game backend. Only when Morton was gone did he dare drink; the stench alone made him nauseous.
“Hm? Why’d soul collection stop?”
Just then, a pitch-black head burst from the screen—startling him.
“Why are you back? Souls aren’t collected yet! I’ve got work. Don’t waste my time!” Bart snapped, nearly dropping his beer.
The foul odor returned. Bart gagged, stomach churning.
“Ah… absolutely fresh flesh… delicious blood… I’ll offer them to you…” A green glint flickered in Morton’s eyes.
“Organs… brain… perfect fertilizer… excellent fertilizer…”
“You… what’s wrong with you?” Bart recoiled at Morton’s hollow stare.
Morton lunged—pinning Bart’s abdomen, tearing savagely with jagged teeth.
Bart, weak and helpless, screamed, pounding Morton’s back. But Morton felt no pain, no fear—only frenzy.
Screams echoed. The coppery stench of blood filled the room…
