Xu Ankang had been having nightmares for over ten days straight. The content of the dreams was something he no longer dared to recall. The searing pain in his body and the overwhelming despair seemed to seep into his very soul through these dreams. By day, he was listless and lethargic; by night, he was too afraid to fall asleep.

Xu Ankang wasn’t the only one experiencing this.

In the QQ group he was part of, there were many others who suffered similarly. They all described having the same kind of terrifying dreams as Xu Ankang. In these dreams, they became the very animals they had once cruelly tortured, only to then be mercilessly tortured and killed by their dream selves, bit by bit, using the most brutal methods imaginable.

Xu Ankang had once dissected a live kitten. At the time, he felt exhilarated and joyful. But one day, when he succumbed to his exhaustion and drifted off into a hazy slumber, he finally understood the meaning of “reaping what you sow.”

The dreams were so vivid that Xu Ankang began to question whether reality itself was the dream. Upon waking, he felt an indescribable disgust and hatred toward the cruel version of himself in the dream. This loathing consumed him so much that he shattered all the mirrors in his home, and like a pitiful, frightened animal, he curled up in a corner, overwhelmed by his torment.

This phenomenon seemed to defy the bounds of science. Some influential members of the group started seeking external help. A wealthy woman Xu Ankang knew invited a renowned monk to her home in hopes of uncovering the cause of their endless nightmares.

Although the monk was invited, the nightmares didn’t stop. Before long, some people began to experience mental breakdowns. They posted tearful confessions online, detailing the cruel things they had done in the past, desperately seeking forgiveness from others.

As the air of despair spread like wildfire, a post suddenly appeared on a hidden forum Xu Ankang frequented. The post’s title was written in six glaring, blood-red characters: “Do You Know Your Wrongdoing?”

The content of the post was shockingly simple, containing only one sentence: “Hehehe… Do you know your wrongdoing?”

Initially, no one replied to the post. Strangely, however, it didn’t get buried under other posts. On the contrary, it stayed pinned at the top of the homepage, its bright red title demanding attention.

Some users started flooding the post with insults, but curiously, those comments were swiftly deleted by someone.

When Xu Ankang saw the post, his eyes lit up. Without hesitation, he called a friend from his QQ group and asked if they could trace the IP address of the post. The friend immediately agreed. He, too, had been plagued by the nightmares and, after hearing Xu Ankang’s brief explanation, believed the post could be the key to solving their shared nightmare.

However, not long after, Xu Ankang received a trembling phone call from his friend. On the other end of the line, his friend’s voice shook with fear as he stammered:
“An… Ankang, what if the thing tormenting us… isn’t even human?”

Xu Ankang froze at his friend’s words, his pale face filled with disbelief. “What did you find?” he asked, his voice trembling.

His friend rasped, “The IP address of that post… it’s my IP…”

Xu Ankang stood there clutching his phone, stunned. He stared at the blood-red post on the screen, and suddenly, he broke down in tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

Meanwhile, Ji Chenai had been using a method called “The Cruel One’s Awakening” during this period. He applied it to every post he could find that involved animal abuse. The most intriguing discovery was an old post that had floated around on one of the country’s largest forums for years. The post exposed the brutal practice of extracting bear bile from live bears, and at the time, it had sparked widespread outrage among netizens.

Unfortunately, the outrage of ordinary people could do little more than result in symbolic gestures—bowed heads, bare feet, and futile protests. Although the companies using such cruel methods publicly apologized to the masses, their products only sold better. Most consumers believed the bile they used was freshly extracted from live bears, which they associated with superior quality.

Ji Chenai thoroughly enjoyed using his skill, “The Cruel One’s Awakening.” Meanwhile, the post that Xiao Qi had shared was rapidly flooded with confessions from guilty individuals within a short time.

At first, only a small number of people were plagued by these nightmares. However, as Ji Chenai expanded the reach of his skill, the number of affected individuals increased. Observers who initially felt relief that they weren’t involved—or even took schadenfreude in others’ suffering—soon found themselves among the dreamers. Their fear was no less intense than those who had been tormented from the start.

The number of people haunted by these dreams grew steadily. Just as many of them felt they couldn’t endure any longer, a girl suddenly posted on the forum. In her post, she described her own experiences in detail and revealed that she had stopped having nightmares.

According to her account, she was new to the circle and had harmed only a small number of animals. At this moment, however, she felt genuine remorse for her actions. The intensity of her emotions was palpable through her words—she truly regretted what she had done.

The girl’s post seemed to provide a theoretical breakthrough for the situation. Encouraged by her account, people began to explore the matter further. Before long, someone else posted a new thread, claiming they had found a solution.

When Xu Ankang clicked on the post, he discovered the suggested solution was… to endure. The post explained that once a person had relived the experience of every animal they had mistreated in their dreams, the torment would come to an end.

But could it really be that simple? Xu Ankang let out a despairing laugh. The number of animals he had harmed wasn’t just a few—it was at least several hundred, if not over a thousand.

Ji Chenai also saw the post. He was skeptical about what exactly determined when the punishment would end. Sensing Ji Chenai’s doubts, Xiao Qi candidly explained, “Originally, the standard for ending the punishment was different, but I made a small adjustment.”

Ji Chenai raised an eyebrow. “What adjustment?”

Xiao Qi replied, “They need to earn 100 points of positive energy for it to end.”

Ji Chenai was speechless. He knew that earning just 100 points of energy was equivalent to changing someone’s fate—a task of significant difficulty. Xiao Qi, noticing Ji Chenai’s reaction, elaborated:

“Actually, if they genuinely repent and truly believe what they did was wrong, they’ll earn those 100 points easily.”

Ji Chenai didn’t bother to delve into the intricacies of what “true repentance” meant. With his new skill, even if he didn’t go out to collect trash or post online, he still earned over fifty points daily. At this rate, with a little more effort, he estimated it would take just one or two months to reach Level 1.

However, judging by the exponential increase in the positive energy required for each level, Xiao Qi’s earlier remark—that Ji Chenai would need to save the world to reach Level 5—didn’t seem like a joke after all.

A week after Ji Chenai returned home, he received a text message from Zhou Yaoyun. In the message, Zhou Yaoyun sounded pitiful and aggrieved:

“Brother, I really miss you. You never contact me. People here keep bullying me.”

Ji Chenai was immediately concerned. “What’s going on? Who’s bullying you?”

Zhou Yaoyun replied, “Someone really, really bad.” Along with the message, he attached a photo of his arm, covered in bruises.

Seeing the image made Ji Chenai wince. He wanted to ask more about Zhou Yaoyun’s family situation, but instead, he settled for telling a few jokes to cheer him up. He added, “If it gets too bad, just come back home, okay?”

Zhou Yaoyun replied, “How can I do that? If I can’t even endure this little bit of hardship, how will I ever protect you?”

Ji Chenai sighed. He wanted to tell Zhou Yaoyun that he didn’t need protection, but in the end, he said nothing.

Before ending the conversation, Zhou Yaoyun said, “I can’t make calls conveniently here, Brother. I’ll email you from now on—make sure to check, okay?”

Ji Chenai agreed.

The weather on Ji Chenai’s side was even hotter than at Zhou Yaoyun’s school. Though autumn had arrived, the “autumn tiger” was living up to its reputation.

While Ji Chenai was eager to walk on his own again, he wasn’t about to risk his life for it. During the hottest days, he stayed indoors, enjoying popsicles and watching TV.

In just over a month, Ji Chenai had earned nearly two thousand positive energy points. If this pace continued, according to Xiao Qi, he would be walking with a cane by next month.

The anti-animal-abuse incident Ji Chenai stirred up had caused a massive uproar. Not only was it the talk of the core group involved, but even outsiders had begun to notice traces of it.

Within this scandal, the abusive hobbyist community suffered a near-catastrophic blow. Ji Chenai even saw posts from people claiming they couldn’t take it anymore and were contemplating suicide.

For people like that, Ji Chenai felt no sympathy. Xiao Qi had made it clear: as long as these individuals genuinely repented and realized their actions were wrong, they would be freed from the nightmares. Yet, the ones teetering on the edge of despair clearly hadn’t recognized their wrongdoing.

If they refused to see their fault, then let them suffer until the end.

Ji Chenai tossed the half-eaten popsicle into the trash, yawned, and opened the thread Xiao Qi had sent him.

By now, the thread had been pinned by the forum moderator. Countless people were trying to uncover the mastermind behind it, but no matter how advanced the technology they used to trace the IP address, the result was always the same—it pointed back to their own.

This anomaly had practically turned the thread into something of a legend.

In just a month, it had amassed nearly 5,000 pages of replies, with more pouring in by the minute. At first, some dismissed it as a trick by the moderator, scoffing at the idea and treating it as a hoax. But as time went on, the tone of the responses shifted. By the later pages, nearly all the comments were filled with confessions and pleas for forgiveness.

Ji Chenai scrolled through the thread briefly and noticed some people had written tens of thousands of words in their remorse.

Xiao Qi glanced at the posts and clicked his tongue in amazement. “It’s funny, isn’t it? Something so simple, yet they’ve made it unbelievably complicated.”

After all, as Xiao Qi had said, all it took to end the nightmares was genuine repentance and acknowledgment of their wrongdoing. But these people seemed almost stubbornly unwilling to change.

Ji Chenai replied lazily, “Probably because they think the human heart is unfathomable—no one can truly know what they’re thinking.”

So instead of genuinely reflecting on their mistakes, they’d rather put on a show of repentance to convince others they’ve changed.

Unfortunately for them, this world now had a system called Xiao Qi—one that not only understood the human heart but could dissect its complexities with unnerving clarity.

As a result, those who tried to deceive themselves and others were exposed, laid bare under the light for all to see.

Xiao Qi: “You humans really are peculiar creatures.”

=^_^=