This universe belongs to you.

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Dragged away by the police at his own doorstep, highways closed off to let him through, transport planes and armored vehicles ensuring his safety, an assassination attempt with no warning, and 175 votes in favor of conducting human experiments on him.

From waking at noon to the end of the experiment, every event Wu Qingchen experienced within six hours grew increasingly bizarre.

Yet it wasn’t until the experiment concluded—until he saw with his own eyes the three-millimeter shallow cuts inexplicably appearing on Liu Tao and Li Ziping’s arms, until he heard three thousand delegates in the hall simultaneously exclaim as they rolled up their left sleeves—that Wu Qingchen fully believed the speculations of Ji Mingming in the van and the explanation Li Ziping had given upon entering the venue.

Only then did he truly realize that his life had taken a turn down a path with no precedent.

Letting go of his last shred of doubt, Wu Qingchen felt as if he’d simultaneously released the last ounce of strength in his body. As the clamor in the hall soared to a new height, Wu Qingchen leaned feebly against the only seat at the podium, his expression vacant, eyes dull, aimlessly scanning the chaotic scene.

Was that cluster of five men, dark as charcoal, whispering together in the back left plotting another attempt on his life?

Why did the corpulent woman in front slam the documents on her desk with such force? Were the materials on him still insufficient?

And why, in the middle, did the elderly man glare at him while gnashing his teeth into the phone? Was he demanding that Wu Qingchen be immediately confined in a psychiatric ward?

From left to right, right to left, and left to right again...

For a long, long time, Wu Qingchen’s gaze swept back and forth, but he found not a single smile, not a hint of goodwill. Most delegates deliberately avoided his eyes, and the rest, if they met his gaze at all, did so only to convey their hostility.

Wu Qingchen understood their feelings. If he himself had to suffer the consequences of a stranger’s fall ten thousand kilometers away, he too would dearly wish to curse that stranger’s ancestors.

But understanding did not mean acceptance.

Finding not a trace of kindness among the three thousand delegates from two hundred countries, Wu Qingchen found it hard to imagine just how arduous his future would be.

He sighed deeply, glancing once more around the hall.

The place was a riot of noise. Li Ziping, who had stuck close to the podium, was dialing call after call, while Liu Tao on the other side directed soldiers to push away the bulletproof glass and adjust their positions. For the moment, no one told Wu Qingchen what to do.

He had been tense since getting up at noon, hadn’t eaten or drunk anything, and now, closing his eyes gently, a tide of exhaustion rapidly swept over him.

The roar of three thousand voices faded quickly, the cool air of the grand hall vanished, and inexplicably, Wu Qingchen’s body seemed to disconnect from everything around him—as if he’d been transported into midair, weightless and empty, unable to feel gravity at all.

What’s happening?

Without warning, as this question formed in his mind, vivid, dazzling light suddenly filled the darkness before his eyes.

Great masses of cloud, each emitting every color Wu Qingchen had ever seen, hung in a sky with no visible source of light. The sea of clouds stretched as far as the eye could see, spreading from right before Wu Qingchen out to every horizon.

At the center of this cloud sea—or rather, directly in front of him—five enormous vortices of different colors slowly rotated, twisting nearby clouds and space into strange, shifting forms.

What is this?

The next instant, a massive force pulled him forward, and Wu Qingchen found himself moving uncontrollably toward the edge of the deepest blue vortex. The vortex grew larger and larger in his vision.

The force intensified, his speed increased, and soon he could no longer make out the vortex’s shape—only a swirl of brilliant, shifting colors all around, with a blinding white light at the center.

The white light expanded, pushing aside the surrounding colors, quickly engulfing Wu Qingchen entirely.

And then, it vanished.

No transition, no pain from looking into such brilliance—just like that, in an instant, Wu Qingchen found himself staring at a patch of lush, earthy ground.

What on earth…?

“Siya, wa, toi?” a voice called from behind him.

Whipping his head around, Wu Qingchen saw a man standing there, dressed peculiarly but with a concerned expression, reaching out his right hand.

Only then did Wu Qingchen realize he was sprawled on the ground.

He scrambled up, but hadn’t quite steadied himself before his body froze.

In the distance stretched endless hills; all around was desolate grassland. In front of him grew a small patch of dense crops, at his feet lay a branch that had clearly just been shifted and a small stone recently nudged out of place.

A branch? A stone?

Damn it...

Wasn’t this the dream he’d had at noon?

A dream? Was he dreaming? How could this be? Wasn’t he just in the hall?

Strangely, when people realize they are dreaming, they usually wake up at once. But not only did Wu Qingchen realize it, he even blinked hard several times, yet the scene before him did not change at all.

What is happening?

Unconsciously, Wu Qingchen took a deep breath—the fresh scent of earth and vegetation filled his nostrils. Looking up, the layered white clouds did nothing to blunt the sun’s glare; a breeze swept past, rustling branches and leaves, cool air caressing his arms and face.

It all felt so real, with no hint of fabrication.

“Kangmiechi, juga, wa?”

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The man who had just helped Wu Qingchen up watched his blinking, breathing, and air-fondling with a puzzled look, repeating another string of syllables Wu Qingchen could not understand.

“What?” Wu Qingchen frowned.

“Que oyi?” The man’s confusion grew.

“What oyi?” Wu Qingchen tilted his head, trying to catch the words.

“Chues, los, que oyi…” The man’s lips moved rapidly, a torrent of unfamiliar sounds pouring into Wu Qingchen’s ears.

…Not a single word made sense.

What is going on? Was he really this exhausted? Was he dead asleep? Why wouldn’t he wake up?

Abandoning any attempt at communication, Wu Qingchen glanced around, unsure how to wake himself from this dream. Then his gaze fell on himself—more precisely, on his abdomen.

In this dream, his clothes were similar to the stranger’s: a coarse, patched robe reminiscent of ancient attire from Country Z, but more fitted; the trousers hung long like a skirt, nearly touching the ground, exposing only his wooden-shod feet.

He saw, in the center of his patched robe, a grayish mark right over his stomach.

Almost frantically, Wu Qingchen pulled aside his outer robe, lifted his inner garment, and stared at his belly.

His stomach was scrawny, and a fresh red mark was clearly visible.

Trembling, he rolled up his sleeve and looked at his left arm.

On his dark, rough arm was a fresh, three-millimeter-long cut.

Good heavens.

No words could describe what Wu Qingchen felt at that moment.

Fortunately, it seemed his actions answered the stranger’s questions. The man glanced at the branch and stone, nodded as if understanding, said a few more words in his odd language, patted Wu Qingchen on the shoulder, picked up his strange tool, and returned to his work among the plants—a kind of labor Wu Qingchen had never seen before.

What should I do?

The stranger resumed his work, while Wu Qingchen stood there, speechless and terrified.

What am I supposed to do?

Remembering that his body was now linked to seven billion people worldwide, and that even his actions in a dream were not exempt, Wu Qingchen’s mind spun into chaos—he had no idea what to do next.

Sit? He worried the uneven ground might injure his skin.

Walk? What if the rough vegetation cut him?

Even just standing, he feared a sudden gust of wind—or simply collapsing from exhaustion—might cause harm.

He did not know how long he lingered in this state. Suddenly, he felt a faint tremor in the world around him.

An earthquake? Seriously?

A second tremor followed quickly. This time, Wu Qingchen saw it clearly—no earthquake could shake the clouds in the sky.

The entire world was trembling: clouds, hills, trees, crops, the stranger, the tools—everything vibrated, rhythmically and frequently.

“Mr. Wu… Mr. Wu… Wake up, Mr. Wu, wake up… Mr. Wu, Wu Qingchen!”

Suddenly, voices reached his ear—soft at first, like a distant dream, then urgent, then thunderous and explosive.

The scene before his eyes shattered into countless fragments, all flying toward where he stood.

Wu Qingchen squeezed his eyes shut.

“Mr. Wu, wake up!”

This time, the voice was unmistakable: Li Ziping.

Wu Qingchen slowly opened his eyes. Above him were pentagram-shaped lights, afar were rows of red seats on the second and third levels, and before him a desk cluttered with documents and a voting device.

He was back in the hall.

Wu Qingchen inhaled greedily—yes, the slightly chilly scent of central air conditioning. He was in the hall.

“Mr. Wu, are you alright? Professor Gu, Professor Gu, come quickly!”

“I—I’m fine.” Wu Qingchen turned his head, only then realizing that Li Ziping’s hands were gripping his shoulders tightly—so that was why the dream world had shaken just now.

Li Ziping ignored Wu Qingchen’s response, quickly stepping aside and all but shoving Professor Gu Feng in front of him.

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“Look up! Open your mouth!”

The elderly Professor Gu Feng was in no mood to mind Li Ziping’s brusqueness. He quickly took Wu Qingchen’s left wrist, urgently checked his pupils and tongue.

After half a minute, Professor Gu let out a long breath. “His heart rate is a bit fast—likely emotional. Otherwise, all is well. There’s nothing wrong at the moment.”

“Good, good,” Li Ziping almost sighed with relief. His fists clenched tight. “Mr. Wu, the meeting is over. Let’s go.”

The meeting is over?

Wu Qingchen looked around the hall, his eyes twitching involuntarily. The place was a mess—documents, phones, voting devices, pens, papers, glasses scattered over tables, chairs, and the floor.

Half the soldiers stationed around the bulletproof glass now stood at the edge of the podium, while several delegates clutched their heads or stomachs, writhing in pain on the floor.

“What happened…?”

“It’s nothing, just an accident…” Li Ziping glanced in the direction Wu Qingchen pointed, then turned back to direct soldiers to push the bulletproof glass further aside. “You fell asleep, and something happened—some delegates acted a bit… excessively.”

“There was… was there…” Wu Qingchen suddenly remembered the celestial phenomena Ji Mingming had shown him in the van, but couldn’t quite find the words.

“Yes…” Li Ziping nodded, understanding. “Much the same as at noon.”

Much the same as at noon…

Wu Qingchen immediately realized that his dream had, once again, been broadcast to the entire world’s sky.

That surely explained why the hall was in such disarray.

He could imagine the panic and confusion of the world’s leaders as the phenomenon appeared again, their frantic orders to wake him, the delegates’ chaotic, desperate attempts to rouse him.

At that, another question struck him: “Minister Li, was I sleeping that deeply? Why did it take so many minutes to wake me?”

“Alright, Mr. Wu, let’s go.” The soldiers had already moved aside the left panel of bulletproof glass, retracted the drills from the other six panels, and begun pushing them away. Li Ziping motioned for Wu Qingchen to follow, a complicated look in his eyes. “You weren’t asleep for several minutes. Counting from the moment you closed your eyes, it was only about ten seconds.”

Following Li Ziping and Liu Tao to the side door of the hall, Wu Qingchen turned for one last look at the grand chamber. Two American delegates were supporting each other up the steps to the podium; one pressed a swollen forehead, slowly helping the other to his feet.

“Mr. Johnson, you’re wrong,” the delegate said. “Now is the true 2012.”

Johnson managed a bitter, helpless smile.

“The whole world is dreaming with him. This is the world’s greatest nightmare.”

----

Washington, D.C., The Pentagon.

“He’s awake? …Are you sure? …What’s the situation? …He’s left the hall? Damn it, you only know he’s left the hall! Why are you still there? …Alright, fine, you’re on the road… Good, Mr. Thor, you’re the best agent… Keep following him… Soldiers spotted you? Damn! Get away from them! …Too late? FUCK! …Hello? Hello? FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

The middle-aged officer slammed the receiver down in frustration, but no one paid him any heed.

At this moment in the three-hundred-square-meter operations room of the Pentagon, for the hundred or so officials inside, slamming a phone was actually quite restrained.

Less restrained scenes were everywhere:

Smack!

A thick, ten-page document struck a young staff officer squarely on the nose.

“Get back to your seat! If you really don’t know what to do, go home and cling to your mother! Don’t waste my time with this garbage!”

The officer snatched up the scattered pages and hurried out of the glass-walled office.

Not every young man was so astute.

“Compulsory measures, always compulsory measures! God, is that all they teach at West Point now? Look out the window! Three minutes ago, the skies were filled with that damned man from Country Z’s dream! What method do you have for compulsion?”

“But we have to control—”

“Control? With what? With this ridiculous list of compulsory measures? Mr. Cole, please tell me—what on earth can control what that bastard from Country Z dreams? Or has your father invented a rope to tie up his thoughts while he sleeps?”

“Sir, I wasn’t suggesting controlling the dream—I was proposing that sedatives or truth serum might keep Wu Qingchen from dreaming—”

“My God, Mr. Cole, why not just put on a white coat and work in a hospital? I swear you’d make a fine doctor—after all, you’ve just devised a method where high doses of sedatives—no, truth serum—administered daily ensures no dreams at all, with zero side effects! But why don’t you try it on yourself first?”

“Sir, it’s only a suggestion!”

“No, it’s not a suggestion! It’s trash the President will throw in my face! Now take your trash and get out of my office!”

Smack!

A thick, ten-page document struck a young staff officer squarely on the nose.