Strange Dream

Gilan felt himself being dragged back into the cold cell.

Perhaps due to the blood loss, he felt a deep chill in his body and couldn't help but curl into a ball.

The iron door slammed shut with a clang.

From outside came the vicious curses and harsh, mocking laughter of the scarred officer.

Gilan lay powerlessly on the floor, his left leg bleeding incessantly from the gunshot wound—the result of his attempt to assault an officer and escape.

Is this hard-won new life coming to an end already? I refuse to accept this!

His slender fingers tensed, digging into the floorboards, his gaze cold beneath his messy blonde hair.

I refuse...

He vaguely remembered that he had been live-streaming from home as a gaming streamer when, due to a clumsy movement while pouring water and his own disability, he had accidentally fallen, spilled the water, and died from electrocution.

When he woke up, he had inexplicably appeared in a dim, cramped interrogation room, wearing shackles, strapped to a wooden chair, his body covered in wounds from violent interrogation.

Two brown-haired officers had sentenced him to death on the spot for "bootlegging."

The execution by firing squad was scheduled for the very next morning.

Gilan's mind had gone blank at the time; he guessed that what had happened to him was likely the so-called "transmigration," but he never expected to face a firing squad the moment he arrived.

According to the fragmented memories of the original "Gilan Iros," he only knew that he seemed to be a member of the local "Oak Gang," responsible for peddling moonshine brewed by the gang. However, the laws of this strange country were incredibly harsh, especially the so-called "Prohibition Act," which was draconian to the point of absurdity.

A mere two bottles of whiskey were enough to bypass a court trial and send Gilan straight to the firing squad!

Curled up in the cell, Gilan struggled to lift his hand and placed it on his agonizingly painful left leg.

His gaze lowered, glancing slowly toward it.

The fabric of his trousers was cheap linen, the brown dye washed out, with several patches visible.

But what those trousers encased were the legs he had dreamed of his entire past life!

As someone who had lost his legs in childhood, he had spent countless nights wishing to be whole, but that had only been an unrealistic dream.

Now, heaven had given him a chance at a new life, allowing him to experience the wonder of having legs... but following it was the bolt from the blue that was his execution.

Like a beautiful dream, it was time to wake up.

I don't want it to end like this! Even if it is a dream, I don't want to wake up!

A fierce, intense desire for life erupted in Gilan's eyes.

I want to live, to live well, to experience a wonderful life with a healthy body... I really... I want to so badly...

As this conviction took hold, his consciousness gradually blurred.

In the final moment before slipping into a deep sleep, he seemed to see, amidst the darkness, a beam of iridescent light descending from the sky. The light converged into a mass, seemingly twisting into a few crooked characters—

"Apocalypse Dream"

*

*

*

Gilan had a strange dream.

In the dream, he was sitting on a moving train, the scenery outside the window lush, though the sky was gloomy.

What was eerie was that, aside from the eleven other passengers in the same carriage whose faces were obscured and who wore varied clothing, there was no one else.

The train slowly entered a forest, but soon came to a halt halfway through, as if it had broken down.

Gilan was forced off the train and walked into the mist-filled forest.

He stepped on the soft soil, watching the psychedelic scene around him.

Is this a dream?

Gilan was full of doubt, yet some mysterious intuition drove him deeper into the forest.

But after taking only a hundred steps, he suddenly felt his foot strike a hard object.

Snap!

Gilan's left foot was instantly clamped tight by two curved iron hoops filled with sharp, jagged teeth!

A bear trap!

He looked down, his heart trembling with fear.

But the expected pain did not come, and Gilan remembered that everything before him was merely a dream.

Thoughts by day, dreams by night. Perhaps this corresponds to my left leg being shot in reality?

He shook his head in self-mockery.

Looking ahead, Gilan discovered that within his 120-degree field of vision, the knee-high weeds were covered in shiny black outlines... they were all set bear traps!

There were dozens, if not hundreds of them.

"Hello—"

At this moment, a strange cry that could not be distinguished as male or female echoed from all directions.

Even though Gilan knew he was in a dream, he could not suppress the unease in his heart.

He did not respond to the cry, but instead followed his intuition, forcing his left leg—trapped in a bear trap—to lift as he limped forward.

His injured left leg left a trail of blood, while the rustling sounds behind him grew closer and closer.

"Is anyone there—"

The strange cry seemed to be right at his heels.

Gilan turned his head by reflex, only to witness a scene that horrified him—

One gray beast after another was in hot pursuit, their fur rippling as they ran and leaped, yet what caught his eye was that their necks were completely empty; they were headless monsters!

The jagged stumps of the monsters' necks split open into fleshy fissures that ran down their chests and abdomens, revealing rows of dense, hideous fangs!

From those pitch-black cavities, a human voice emerged:

"Hello—is anyone there—"

Dozens of monsters spoke in unison, creating a scene that was utterly bizarre and terrifying.

Gilan felt a sudden chill run down his spine.

These monsters seemed to be luring humans closer to hunt them down!

Gilan instinctively turned and fled, dragging his severely injured left leg as he sprinted deep into the forest.

He did not know if he had shaken off the headless monsters, but after running wildly for several minutes, he vaguely saw a wall made of wooden stakes in the distance, with a gate in the center.

The gate stood wide open, and an old-fashioned double-barreled shotgun rested against the doorframe.

Gilan used every ounce of his strength to run toward the gate, but just as he was about to cross the threshold, he suddenly felt his arm gripped tightly by a powerful hand!

He turned his head to look.

It was a pale, smiling face with twisted features and covered in lividity!

A bloated, naked, bearded man stood behind him, wearing a crazed grin.

"Hel—lo—"

The man made a strange sound in his throat, raised a blood-stained hatchet, and swung it down toward Gilan—

"Hah!"

Gilan jolted awake.

As he opened his eyes, the moldy corner of the cell came into view, and the surroundings were deathly silent.

He remembered then that he was being held in a prison cell, and that everything just now had been a dream.

However, Gilan's body soon stiffened.

Because he realized with horror that his arm was being gripped tightly by another hand.

Just like in the dream.

"Get off!!"

In his terror, Gilan tried to shake the hand away.

But the next second, a baton slammed heavily into his back.

Thud!

Gilan let out a pained cry. He looked up to see the vicious-looking, scarred guard holding his arm with one hand and a baton in the other.

"It's time for the execution, you damn mad dog bastard!"

The scarred guard sneered and violently yanked Gilan up from the floor.

Before Gilan could speak, another guard shoved a burlap hood over his head.

His vision was instantly plunged into darkness.

A sour, putrid stench wafted from the hood and drilled into his nostrils, making him feel like he was suffocating.

Then, Gilan felt himself being hoisted by the two guards and dragged down a long corridor. In the silent environment, there was only the echo of footsteps and his own muffled gasps.

Gilan did not know where the guards were taking him, but he was certain of one thing...

He was about to die!

He wanted to struggle and fight back, but the sharp pain from the gunshot wound in his left leg and the weakness caused by blood loss left him in despair.

Before long, he realized he had been brought into a room, where he was then forcibly strapped to a chair.

Are they going to execute me by shooting me in the back of the head?

The thought couldn't help but surface, and an intense fear surged into his heart like a black tide.

Whoosh—

The foul-smelling burlap hood was ripped off.

Gilan's vision returned, but he was blinded by a hazy, dim light that made it impossible to keep his eyes open.

After a long while.

He finally realized that he had been brought into a secret chamber.

The source of the dim, yellowish light was a gas lamp on the wall directly ahead, which had blackened the wall and ceiling with soot.

Besides himself, there were eleven other chairs in the room, occupied by prisoners wearing burlap hoods. These people were dressed in the striped shirts or smocks common among the lower classes, all of them bound to the wooden chairs, struggling, begging for mercy, and screaming incessantly.

"The number is complete. Begin." Standing before the prisoners were several police officers and a few strange individuals clad in bulky protective suits. The one who spoke was a middle-aged police inspector leading the group.

"Yes, sir."

The officers and epidemic prevention personnel responded, beginning to divide the work among themselves.

The prisoners' hoods were removed one by one by the officers; those who resisted were met with a few baton strikes, resulting in continuous wailing.

Gilan noticed then that two of the prevention personnel worked together to carry an old-fashioned projector, placing it on a wooden platform at the front.

What are they doing?

His heart hammered against his ribs; the unknown and the threat of death kept his nerves taut.

The lead inspector adjusted his peaked cap and raised a hand to signal.

Seeing this, one of the prevention personnel immediately inserted a Silver Cube into a hidden compartment at the base of the projector, then carefully took a circular disc from a companion.

The disc was wrapped in layer upon layer of leather; as it was slowly opened, it revealed a reel of incomplete black film.

Gilan's pupils constricted.

He recalled the scene when he had resisted earlier; it was one of these prevention personnel who had taken a strange piece of film and pressed it against his forehead for some kind of test, which had given him the chance to launch a surprise attack.

The scarred-faced officer in charge of guarding him had fired his weapon in a stress reaction, hitting his left leg, and had intended to execute him on the spot, but because the prevention worker had said, "This guy is qualified," the scarred man had sullenly holstered his gun, allowing Gilan to escape death.

Gilan did not know the true purpose of that test, nor did he understand the meaning of being "qualified."

But he felt it was all connected to what he was seeing now.

Could that film pressed against my forehead have been cut from this very reel?

He couldn't help but speculate.

The prevention personnel quickly mounted the strange film onto the old projector and flipped a switch on the side.

Click.

The projector emitted a crisp sound, followed by a burst of static noise.

The spools began to rotate.

A beam of light projected from the lamp housing, hitting the screen on the wall.

"Execute."

Standing against the light, the inspector's face was obscured, his cold voice echoing through the chamber.

The twelve prisoners, including Gilan, were suddenly grabbed by the officers, their heads forced into position to face the screen.

Even if a prisoner refused to comply and tried to close their eyes, they were quickly taught a bloody lesson.

The officers used small iron hooks to catch their eyelids, pulling them upward with force; if they resisted, they were immediately met with a brutal beating from police batons.

Not a firing squad? What are they trying to do?!

The intense sense of the unknown filled Gilan with terror, but he did not make any meaningless struggles, allowing the officer behind him to pull his head toward the screen ahead.

Soon, he froze.

The film projected by the old machine, after a brief period of grainy, flickering blackness, slowly began to show a concrete scene.

Although the image quality was blurry and the colors were low-saturation, Gilan felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity.

It was an old-fashioned train, slowly chugging into a forest...

Long time no see, dreamers. Please take care of the new book. Praise be to you all.