This story is a reimagined version of something Rebecca read on the Viva! Apocalypse! American forum, filtered through my imagination.

Before she shared this unbelievable tale, she had summoned me to her territory, complaining about a lack of food.

While handing over some supplies, she abruptly asked, “Got a spare spot there?”

I didn’t give her a definitive answer.

It wasn’t a simple question. I’d been considering it for a while, but I still couldn’t decide. As someone who was used to living alone, the idea of adapting to a neighbor so close was daunting. Moreover, as someone who had always pursued individual survival, the notion of switching to collective survival was a significant challenge.

Instead, I gave her some meat and left the matter open for another day.

“Skelton juicy—so juicy.”

For Sue, I handed over some canned peaches I’d received from Woo Min-hee, though Rebecca promptly took half for herself.

As Rebecca ate the peaches, she said to me, “Didn’t I tell you I had an amazing story to share?”

She picked up an old guitar she’d scavenged from somewhere and strummed it like a bard. Her skills were so poor that I told her to stop, and she immediately tossed the guitar aside, whispering to Sue to begin the story.

“Listen carefully, Skelton.”

The stage of the tale was China.

In a place called Hangzhou, there was a beautiful lake known as West Lake.

On a gentle hill overlooking the lake stood the luxurious villas of China’s wealthiest elites. A brilliant inventor made rounds to these villas, spreading a peculiar advertisement.

He declared that war was inevitable, that no other country would accept Chinese refugees, and that even if they did, life would not be satisfying. Instead, he proposed creating a paradise exclusively for them, a place they could escape to.

But the paradise he spoke of wasn’t a heavenly realm guarded by the Jade Emperor or the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. It was a virtual world built with coding, programming, and human labor.

Inspired by classics like Journey to the West, Water Margin, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and works by authors Jin Yong and Gu Long, the inventor created a virtual world spanning a staggering 144 square kilometers. It was steeped in Chinese aesthetics, yet included Japanese, and even American elements—things many Chinese openly despised.

The virtual world had no traditional hanbok, bamboo hats, kimchi, or pickled mustard greens, perhaps making the inventor less patriotic than his peers.

Nevertheless, the virtual world was meticulously crafted, bordering on obsessive. Nearly every interactive element mirrored reality, reacting to player actions based on data and algorithms.

For instance, if a player picked a flower by the roadside, it would disappear, leaving behind a changed object—a germinated seed. After 24 hours, a new flower would bloom, unless someone planted a different flower or destroyed the seed. In that case, no flower would ever grow there again.

Such interactions spanned almost the entire 144 square kilometers of the virtual world.

The possibilities were endless.

Players could farm, fish, train weapons to hunt monsters and level up, or use construction features to build castles and claim lordship. Entire factions could wage large-scale sieges over those castles.

The most significant boast of the virtual world was its landscapes, inspired by both Chinese landmarks and global wonders, sprinkled with the dreams and imaginations of its creator.

The inventor boldly named his creation after the famous dream in The Butterfly Dream—Húdié Zhī Mèng.

However, the inventor’s ultimate goal didn’t lie in the perfect virtual world itself.

The virtual world was just a component.

The true vision was to combine this virtual world with self-sufficient bunkers, perfectly secured against any external threats. People would receive nutrition from survival facilities while leisurely enjoying daily fantasies in the world he had created.

It was like living in an endless midsummer daydream.

Unable to change reality, the inventor sought to create a new one where people could wait out the storms of life.

Of course, his grand plan didn’t succeed immediately.

The paradise he envisioned required an enormous amount of money.

Initially, the inventor targeted the working class, hoping to amass capital through a monthly subscription model, similar to the globally popular Viva! Apocalypse!. His plan was to eventually evacuate people to Butterfly Dream Centers in various provinces of China, where they could dream forever.

But the inventor, Zhang Shaoqing, was no Melon Musk. Though he tried to mimic Musk’s antics on Chinese social media, he lacked Musk’s wealth and accomplishments.

The working class brutally rejected him.

Undeterred, he shifted focus to China’s top 0.1%—the ultra-wealthy elites.

Even this approach faced challenges. The elites, who lived like Qing dynasty royalty, viewed spending millions on a virtual world and living in controlled environments with strangers as akin to self-imposed exile.

One VIP mocked him by throwing an ashtray at his face.

“Does it hurt? It does, doesn’t it? Your reaction amuses me. The rage and humiliation etched on your face—those emotions only a living human can show. Think about it. What fun is there in lashing out at lifeless dolls?”

Zhang Xiaowei, the inventor, rubbed his bruised eye in shame and fury, eventually coming up with a chilling idea.

He launched a new investment pitch.

This time, he swapped the casual jeans and black T-shirt mimicking Musk for an ostentatiously shiny tuxedo and bow tie. Despite his swollen face, he smiled obsequiously and bowed deeply to the investors.

Though the initial response was lukewarm, Zhang pressed on with an audaciously shameless grin, introducing his “improvements.”

“Investors will receive martial artist accounts within the Butterfly Dream world. These martial artists will start with unparalleled skills and opportunities, far beyond those of ordinary users. What’s the purpose of these skills? To crush, kill, and toy with the freeloaders who access Butterfly Dream for free.”

Zhang adjusted his bow tie and added, “The NPCs will be populated by those freeloaders.”

That day, Zhang achieved the greatest success of his life.

He secured billions in investments on the spot and soon struggled to keep up with the influx of investors.

As Beijing collapsed, the Communist Party splintered into warring factions, each forming their own military bases. Zhang invited his VIPs to gather near West Lake, the very place where his initial pitches had failed.

There, Zhang proudly unveiled his grand luxury bunker.

“When war begins, we will dream an endless dream here.”

Most of the VIPs were satisfied, though some asked if there would be room for their mistresses and lovers. Smiling, Zhang assured them there was plenty of space.

The next step was populating the world with NPCs.

Zhang opened Butterfly Dream experience centers across the country. These facilities were akin to opium dens of the late Qing dynasty—cramped underground spaces crammed with virtual reality equipment. People were packed in like livestock and immersed in the Butterfly Dream world.

For almost nothing, Zhang offered a glimpse of his virtual paradise to the masses, saying, “You will experience a world beyond your imagination. Enter, and this will be your new haven. It’s almost free—but remember, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

What did Zhang mean by “no free lunch”? Most people didn’t care.

Desperate to forget the horrors of their reality, they dove into the Butterfly Dream world like starving people devouring a hot meal.

The world they entered was nothing short of paradise.

With countless features like hunting, building houses, raising animals, weaving textiles, painting, and composing music, Butterfly Dream became a refuge for those losing everything in the bleakest of times.

It rapidly rose to become the most dominant online content in China.

Its popularity was so immense that people frequently fought to the death over access to Butterfly Dream, and pseudo-military gangs seized control of its experience centers.

As the warlord-controlled Gangsheng faction in Shanghai prepared for a conflict with Taiwan, Zhang quietly summoned his VIPs to West Lake.

“It’s time to dream.”

That day, a new class of entities appeared in the Butterfly Dream world—martial artists.

These martial artists possessed transcendental combat abilities, capable of effortlessly killing top-level warriors who had invested hundreds of hours into the game.

They destroyed the homes ordinary users had painstakingly built, slaughtered them, and reduced everything to rubble.

Some martial artists in the world of Hudie Zhi Meng erected grand castles, ruling as lords. One of them, in front of their subordinates, executed a lord by a single blow and displayed their head above the castle gate. Another martial artist appeared in a bustling marketplace, demanding that everyone bow before them. Those who refused were mercilessly slaughtered.

In many ways, these martial artists were no different from monsters.

Yet, in a world devoid of entertainment or solace, ordinary people clung desperately to the grimy, decrepit Butterfly Dream access centers for commoners. Starving and destitute, they tried to change their virtual lives.

The attempts were varied.

Some willingly became slaves, pandering to the martial artists' whims. Others built secluded villages in remote areas to avoid detection. Still, others flaunted their real-world connections and influence, hoping to join the martial artists' ranks belatedly.

There were even groups formed to kill the martial artists.

These groups analyzed every known in-game system and devised strategies. Their conclusion was singular: it was impossible to kill a martial artist unless they left their avatar logged in and unattended for an extended period.

In the virtual world, a martial artist had 2,500 health points, while the maximum damage an ordinary user could inflict was a mere 1 point.

No matter what method was used, the damage wouldn’t exceed 1.

This meant a user would need to land 2,500 consecutive hits without taking a single blow to kill a martial artist.

One user calculated that to kill a martial artist in a one-on-one fight, you’d have to attack continuously for 3 hours and 12 minutes, without missing or getting hit once.

And even then, if the martial artist’s user returned to their seat, they could revive their avatar at will.

In essence, killing them was impossible.

Once the futility of killing martial artists within the game system was established, players turned to other means: hacking or real-world attacks.

But the location of the Butterfly Dream VIP bunkers was a closely guarded secret. Before anyone could attempt a hack, nuclear missiles from the U.S. and its allies obliterated China’s major cities.

The surviving ordinary users were abandoned in monster-dominated zones or fell prey to raiders and warlords in the hellish aftermath.

They cursed the martial artists with their dying breaths.

Ironically, the collapse of the martial artists only began after the common users were gone.

Deprived of their "toys," the martial artists roamed the vast world created by the inventor, searching for new distractions.

Their uneasy alliance lasted about a year.

But eventually, the limited content ran dry.

The martial artists realized that nothing entertained them as much as people did. They began to fight among themselves.

It didn’t take long for the fighting to spill over into the real world.

Bang! Tat-tat-tat!

The bunker turned into a battlefield.

A VIP with hired guards secured a strong position, but a former soldier among the VIPs rallied survivors and counterattacked, quickly overturning the balance.

As blood was shed in retaliation after retaliation, the inventor, as if guided by fate, stepped outside the bunker.

The world had turned entirely gray.

A massive monster, its form otherworldly yet hauntingly familiar, glanced at him before striding away into the ashen wasteland.

The inventor retreated into the "Administrator’s Shelter," a fortified space within the bunker he had designed for himself.

Inside, he logged onto the Viva! Apocalypse! English forum—using banned communication equipment secretly sanctioned by the government. He had often accessed the American forums before the war, using the English he had learned in his youth to interact with American users.

xiao837: "Could this world be someone’s dream?"

He began posting repetitive, unilateral messages on the forum, like a bird singing alone in the mountains.

The American users found his Chinese username peculiar but paid little attention. The English forum was as full of eccentric and mentally unstable users as the Korean one.

How much time passed after that is unclear.

Feeling his death approach in the empty bunker, the inventor logged into the virtual world one last time to witness the fantasy he had created.

What he saw was beyond belief.

The martial artists lay dead, their bodies scattered across the ground.

The culprit was an ordinary user.

The user held a simple wooden club and was repeatedly striking the frozen avatars of martial artists.

1! 1! 1! 1!

Only 1 damage per hit.

As the inventor approached, the ordinary user spoke through voice chat.

"Are you the last one? You piece of shit."

It was undeniably the voice of a living human.

The voice of a regular user, reduced to a plaything by the VIPs.

It was a voice filled with unquenchable rage.

That immeasurable fury had driven them to spend 3 hours and 12 minutes repeatedly striking each martial artist avatar until they died.

When the inventor tried to say something, the ordinary user vanished before his eyes.

The inventor realized the user had simply clicked <Log Out>, leaving the virtual world.

But the dying inventor interpreted what he saw differently.

To him, it wasn’t an ordinary user but a monster.

He logged back onto the Viva! Apocalypse! English forum and wrote a solemn account of his experience.

At the end, he left a brief reflection of his final impression:

xiao837: "...And so, our dream was devoured by monsters."

For some reason, he uploaded a picture of his face.

The man in the photo was shrouded in heavy shadows, the low resolution and poor quality making it difficult to discern details. But his lower face, where it was visible, had skin that was ash-gray and hardened like the bark of an ancient tree.

“What do you think, Skelton?”

Sue showed me the photo of the face, which was clearly no longer human, and asked.

“Looks like a monster.”

“Right?”

In Incheon, the first refugee fleet blew its horns and set sail for Jeju Island.

According to reports, the Jeju government welcomed them warmly and grandly.

For some reason, the news felt like a distant dream from another world.