I Control the World

Sam sat at his desk, fresh blood dripping from his nose onto the pristine white pages of his notebook. The splattered patterns it created held an eerie sort of beauty.

His face flushed with an unhealthy crimson, a telltale sign of his deteriorating condition. His body trembled uncontrollably from the searing pain in his head, yet his lips curled into a twisted smile, as if he had just stumbled upon a fascinating new prey.

Picking up a pen, he began scribbling furiously on the bloodstained pages:

"Seven days! My life expectancy is down to seven days!"

"Woke up from my 368th dream, and once again, my mental strength has increased. Just as I predicted, every time I dream, my mental strength grows. This growth isn't linear—it's not simply +1, +1, +1… but rather an exponential increase by percentage!"

He paused briefly, pressing a trembling hand to his pounding temple, before continuing:

"The exact percentage increase is impossible to quantify due to the lack of a measurable standard for mental strength. However, based on my rough estimation, each dream seems to amplify my mental power by approximately one percent."

Stopping again, he pondered, then added a final note beneath his current observations:

"Fourth Hypothesis Regarding the Dream Phenomenon:

Dreams possess the ability to both restore and enhance mental power. Even if my mental reserves are completely depleted during wakefulness, a single dream is enough to replenish them—and further increase the total by one percent!

(Note: The increase in total mental power is independent of whether or not it is used during wakefulness.)"

Setting down his pen, Sam leaned back and flipped through the pages of earlier hypotheses and observations he had recorded about his dreams.

First Hypothesis: As long as I fall asleep, I will dream. Upon waking, my total mental power will inevitably increase. This phenomenon can be avoided by refraining from sleep entirely.

Second Hypothesis: Activities within the dream that expend energy or cause emotional fluctuations—such as reading, learning, experiencing fear or excitement, indulging in pleasures, or destroying parts of the dream—can effectively consume mental power.

Third Hypothesis: The body is a vessel, and mental power is the water. When mental power exceeds the body's capacity to contain it, severe physical damage occurs. Symptoms include headaches, tinnitus, nosebleeds, weakness in the limbs, and muscle atrophy.

Snap!

Sam shut the notebook with a crisp sound.

He had a clear understanding of his current predicament: to put it simply, he was ill. He had contracted a bizarre illness that caused his mental power to grow without limit. His body, however, could no longer bear the ever-increasing load. If nothing changed, he would die in seven days.

The solution to his illness was straightforward in theory: strengthen his body so that it could handle his immense mental power. The problem, however, lay in execution. In his current frail condition, ordinary methods of physical training were completely ineffective. For someone as debilitated as he was, intense exercise would do more harm than good—likely killing him even faster.

At present, the only way he could survive was by expending large amounts of mental power daily to relieve the strain on his body.

To use a simple analogy, Sam's body was like a bladder, and his mental power was urine. Every day, he existed in a state where his "bladder" was on the verge of bursting. In this condition, even walking was a struggle. Only by "relieving" the pressure could he return to a semblance of normalcy. But once he slept again, the "bladder" would refill—and increase by another one percent.

This explained why Sam had sought out twelve stunning women, spent time reading, and even obliterated entire dream worlds. It was all to "relieve" himself—

to expend his mental power.

Now, after another night's sleep, his mental power was replenished… and even stronger.

The excruciating pain in his head made it feel as though his skull might split open. Sam slumped over his desk, his chest heaving as beads of cold sweat dripped from his forehead.

Meanwhile, a sleek, understated black luxury car pulled up in front of the dilapidated apartment building.

The pedestrians on the street couldn't help but steal glances. In District 13, it was rare to see such an expensive vehicle.

However, when the occupants stepped out, the onlookers quickly averted their gazes, their faces paling with fear.

Two burly men emerged from the car, clad in black suits. Coiled around their necks were tattoos of black vipers. They scanned their surroundings with sharp, predatory eyes, causing the nearby pedestrians to hurriedly look away, not daring to meet their gaze.

The men exuded a menacing aura, one that could only be described as fierce and intimidating.

But it wasn't just their vicious demeanour that struck fear into the hearts of onlookers. It was the black viper tattoos.

Anyone in District 13 knew what those tattoos meant:

The Viper Gang.

The most infamous criminal organisation in the district, known for their ruthlessness and brutality. Anyone marked by the Viper Gang rarely lived to see another day.

Ignoring the fearful glances of the pedestrians, the two gang members opened the car's trunk and pulled out a wheelchair. Without a word, they headed into the crumbling apartment building.

As the two men disappeared into the building, the pedestrians finally dared to breathe a sigh of relief, breaking into hushed whispers.

"Why is the Viper Gang here?"

"Someone must have borrowed money from them and couldn't pay it back!" one person said fearfully. "Did you see that wheelchair? They're probably here to break someone's legs."

"Ah, such foolishness. No matter how desperate things get, borrowing from the Viper Gang is a death sentence!"

"Maybe they had no other choice. In times like these, when life's this harsh... sigh."

"Let's get out of here. Trouble with the Viper Gang isn't something we should stick around to see. Who knows, we might end up covered in someone else's blood."

The crowd scattered like startled birds, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the scene.

Moments later, the door to Sam's apartment swung open, and the two men in black suits strode inside, pushing the wheelchair ahead of them.

Their sharp gazes swept the room, taking in every detail before locking onto Sam's bedroom. The door was ajar. Sharing a glance, they nodded silently and marched towards it.

Sam, whose headache had subsided slightly, heard the commotion. He turned his head and saw the two imposing men standing like grim sentinels at his door.

"Boss!" they exclaimed fervently, their faces alight with zeal.

Sam frowned slightly. "How many times have I told you? Drop the gang lingo. Use proper titles."

The two men immediately froze, panic flashing across their faces. Hastily, they corrected themselves.

"Yes, Chief!"

Sam nodded in satisfaction. He picked up the amber-tinted glasses from his desk and slipped them onto his face. The glasses obscured his deep, piercing eyes, leaving them faintly visible, adding an extra layer of mystery to his aristocratic, almost vampiric appearance.

The enigmatic figure then prepared to stand, but as soon as he rose halfway, a wave of dizziness struck him, causing him to fall heavily back into his chair.

The two men in black suits stood motionless, like statues, silently awaiting instructions.

Without any change in his expression, Sam said calmly, "Help me up."

Obeying the command, the two men hurriedly stepped forward, carefully assisting Sam into the wheelchair.

A few moments later, Sam, now seated in the wheelchair, was carried down to the car by the two suited men.