The day after the Nightmare God opened its eye, human governments declared a "state of emergency."But "emergency" meant different things in different departments:
Foreign Ministry: held press conferences, swearing "the situation is under control."
Finance Ministry: rushed budgets—to repair pavement damaged by mass kneeling.
Defense Ministry: ordered tanks to fire at the sky. The shells exploded midair like fireworks, giving citizens a bizarre holiday vibe.
Education Ministry: demanded schools teach "core values during nightmare crises."
Thus TV broadcast this scene: in a school hall, children waved flags shouting, "Don't fear nightmares, obey your teachers!"Seconds later, the ceiling cracked, dropping a phantom beast with three tongues. Screams filled the hall, but the intercom calmly declared: "This is a vivid patriotic lesson."
—That was how chaos began.
Streets swarmed with "temporary defense squads," wielding brooms, fire extinguishers, and megaphones to shout: "Disperse nightmares!"Others marched with statues of Buddha, chanting: "If we sleep till morning, all will be well."
And the police?Buried in absurd reports. Yesterday: "My neighbor turned into a black dog and sang on the roof." Today: "There's a suited eyeball squatting in my fridge demanding voting rights."The station finally hung a sign: "Nightmare cases—please consult Bureau. Ordinary brawls, still accepted."
The Bureau, of course, was silent. More chaotic than anyone.So blame games spread through government:
Economic collapse? Blame nightmares.
Mass insomnia? Blame nightmares.
A minister's wife eloped? Still nightmares.
Chaos peaked at an "international emergency summit."World leaders appeared onscreen, solemn—but backgrounds betrayed them: some in bunkers, some in churches, one in a kitchen with soup boiling behind him.
The U.S. President slammed the table: "We must unite against this monster!"The U.K. Prime Minister agreed: "A new alliance!"The French President snorted: "Alliance my ass. My people made the Eiffel Tower an altar. Who'll clean up? You?"
Mid-argument, the feed glitched. Snow, then a massive eye filled every screen.
The eye blinked. A voice rumbled: "Keep arguing. I enjoy watching."Viewership spiked to hundreds of millions. Comments scrolled: "LOL is this reality TV?"
—Humanity was done for.
Ethan and Carl, hiding in a derelict government building, watched the "global circus" on projector.
Carl laughed: "Look at them—turning their last meeting into variety show. Next time they'll insert ads: 'At world's end, drink Happy Cola!'"
Ethan didn't laugh. He felt nightmare energy spreading, amplifying fear and absurdity, making them part of reality itself. Government was merely the first institution to collapse. Soon, all society would follow.
"Humanity's gone mad," Ethan whispered.
Carl nodded. "Yeah. Honestly… madness fits this show. It's the sane ones who look out of place."
Gunfire echoed outside. In the plaza, one faction declared a "New Order Committee." Within minutes, another faction—the "Guardians of True Dream"—slaughtered them. Citizens clapped like audience at a play.
Ethan recalled the Bureau Chief's warning: "Don't interfere. You can't handle it."The irony: now it wasn't about handling anything. The world itself was breaking apart.
The Nightmare God had awakened. Governments had collapsed.What remained was nothing but an absurd countdown.