At four-forty-two in the morning, Li Zhaoyang bolted upright in bed, as if someone had given him a hard shove from behind. In the darkness, his chest heaved violently, and sweat slid down his spine into the waistband of his trousers, as cold as a snake. Frantically, he groped for his phone. The screen lit up, showing 04:42, and the date—June 25, 2025—so reassuringly real. Trembling, he tapped on the China Merchants Bank app. During the half-second it took for fingerprint recognition, his heart felt like it would shatter his ribs. The balance page popped up:
[Current Balance: ¥0.17]
Eight zeros, not a single one missing, lying quietly on the screen as if they had never left. He froze, his finger repeatedly pulling down to refresh, but the digits remained stubbornly unmoved. So that nightmare about the balance turning into one yuan was just a dream; he hadn't been subjected to court attachments, he hadn't received text messages about "suspected money laundering," and he hadn't sat in a live broadcast eating a lollipop with tears in his eyes. In the darkness, he let out a long sigh, but like a deflated ball, he slumped heavily back against the pillow. Sweat bloomed a dark map across the sheets, as if he had just fought a battle.
He switched on the bedside lamp. In the warm yellow glow, familiar furnishings emerged one by one: the mansion by Dianchi Lake, his father's photograph, Doudou's cat bed, the crystal trophy—all of them genuinely existed, yet felt illusory because of the nightmare he had just had. He pinched his thigh and winced in pain, confirming that he was truly awake. Yet that terror, like the tide receding to expose jagged reefs, still lingered bare against his chest, sharp enough to ache. He thought of the one-yuan figure in his dream, the warning text about "suspected money laundering," the barrage from thirty million netizens in the livestream room—those images were so vivid that even the words "keep up the speed" printed on the plastic lollipop stick were clear as day. Suddenly, he understood that the dream wasn't fabricated out of thin air, but rather a reflection of his fear: he was afraid of losing everything, afraid of being drowned in spittle, afraid of the "role model" turning into a "target," afraid of that new line of fresh ink on the family tree being wiped blank again.
He got out of bed, his bare feet padding across the floorboards as a chill crept up the soles of his feet, like a jolt of electricity recharging him. He walked out to the terrace; the night breeze, carrying the scent of the lake, dried the sweat on his back. The surface of the water was pitch black and glossy like a giant mirror, reflecting the distant city lights and his own pale face. Suddenly, he thought of the day he returned to his village—the firecrackers, the gold bars, the family tree, the elders pressing gold bars against their faces for warmth; he thought of the commendation ceremony—the red carpet, the crystal trophy, handshakes with leaders, cheering students; he thought of Central, Hong Kong—the gray workwear, the USB drive, the server indicator lights, the detained chief financial officer. Those images flashed past frame by frame like a rewound film, yet they felt fragile because of the nightmare, as if a single touch could puncture them. He reached out, but grabbed only a handful of wind that slipped through his fingers, as if telling him: all the glory, all the skepticism, all the applause could evaporate overnight, leaving behind nothing but a one-yuan balance and an empty lollipop stick.
He returned to the bedroom and took the photocopy of the family tree from the drawer. The ink was still bright red, though slightly curled from the sweat of his hands. He smoothed it flat on the desk, gently tracing the characters "Fifteenth Generation Li Zhaoyang" with his finger, like stamping his past self or pressing a fingerprint for his future self. Suddenly, he remembered what his father had said: "A person lives a lifetime, and in the end, it all comes down to paper. The family tree is that piece of paper, and you have to make sure you live up to it." At this moment, that piece of paper felt thin and frail from the nightmare, as if it would tear at the slightest tug. He took a deep breath, picked up a fountain pen, and wrote a short line of small characters on the back of the photocopy—
"Sixteenth generation, starting from a nightmare, but not ending in one."
The handwriting was vigorous and blindingly red, like lighting a lamp in the dark night.
He walked into the study, opened his laptop, and created a new document with a two-word title—*Nightmare*. He typed the first line:
"At four-forty-two in the morning, I dreamed that my eight zeros turned into one yuan, dreamed that I was reviled by the whole world, dreamed that I wept as I ate a lollipop, yet even the sweetness tasted bitter..."
The words flowed like a spring from his fingertips, carrying the scent of sweat, the lake, and the family tree, alongside the smells of gold bars, trophies, and lollipops. He wrote for an hour, the document piling up with dense rows of text, yet he hadn't yet reached the part about "waking up." He stopped, walked over to the terrace, and looked at the lake—the moon was poking its head out from the clouds, excessively round like a searchlight, shining down on him and the lingering fog ahead. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with oxygen, then slowly exhaled, his voice low but firm:
"A nightmare is not an end, but a rehearsal; not a curse, but a reminder. It reminds me—eight zeros are not eternal, trust is; applause is not armor, honesty is; the family tree is not a talisman, a clear conscience is."
He returned to the bedroom and closed his laptop, as if snapping shut the cover of a nightmare. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the showerhead, the hot water cascading from above to wash away the sweat, the fear, and the heart-stopping chills of the night. He closed his eyes as the roaring water filled his ears, hitting the mute button on the world. Suddenly, he remembered the day of the commendation ceremony when a leader shook his hand and said, "You've shown the youth of the entire city that the ordinary can achieve greatness." Now, he wanted to add a footnote: greatness is not perfection, but rather the courage—after waking from a nightmare—to hand those eight zeros back to the sunlight, to spread the family tree out on the desk once more, and to continue wearing the title of "Role Model" proudly on his chest.
At five in the morning, he climbed back into bed and burrowed under the covers, like sliding into a new story. Outside the window, the moon gradually sank westward, casting a silver sheen across the lake like a thin layer of frost spread over the night. He closed his eyes and listened to his own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—like a distant drumbeat, or the starting gun of a new race. This time, he was no longer afraid of the nightmare, because he knew—a nightmare is not an end, but a starting point; not a fall, but a takeoff; not one yuan, but a rehearsal for eight zeros. And upon those eight zeros, he would grow bones anew, grow wings anew, and grow—the sixteenth generation—anew.
He closed his eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth like a promise made to the night:
"See you tomorrow, sixteenth generation of the Li Clan, waking from a nightmare, but not ending in one."
At five-thirty in the morning, Li Zhaoyang opened his eyes once more. A grayish-blue twilight seeped in through the window, as if someone had quietly shaved away a layer from the backside of the night. He didn't get up immediately, but lay flat on his back, listening to his heartbeat transition from rapid to steady, like a river churned up by a violent storm finally settling back into its riverbed. The eight zeros were still there, the account was safe and sound, yet he knew this nightmare wasn't just a false alarm; it was his subconscious rehearsing the "worst possible scenario" for him—shoving him off a cliff so he could climb back up with his bare hands.
He felt for the phone by his pillow, opened his notes app, and tapped out every single frame of the dream:
-Balance turns to 1 yuan
-Text warning of "suspected money laundering"
-Thirty million barrage comments in the livestream room
-The empty stick of the lollipop inscribed with "keep up the speed"
With every line he typed, his heart constricted, yet it felt as though toxins were being slowly squeezed out of his body. When he finished, he named the document *Nightmare Rehearsal-2025*, set it to private, and locked his phone, as if locking away his fear.
At six sharp, he got up to wash up. Cold water splashed against his face, the chill crawling down his spine, but he deliberately left the hot water off, forcing himself to remember that feeling of "almost being frozen through." After changing his clothes, he walked out to the terrace; a light mist floated over the lake, like a layer of plastic wrap laid over the world. He took a deep breath, the air carrying the fishy scent of waterweeds and mud—completely different from the viscous, metallic smell of the nightmare. This was the real scent, the scent of being alive.
His father was already awake, heating milk in the kitchen. Seeing him, the old man smiled: "How come you're up so early today?"
"Had a dream and woke up scared."
"A nightmare?"
"Yeah, dreamed our family went back to being poor, with only one yuan left in the account."
The old man pushed the milk toward him, his tone calm yet powerful: "Even one yuan can buy steamed buns. As long as you don't starve, you can always make a comeback."
The words poured concrete into his spine, and he instantly stood straighter. Indeed, one yuan wasn't the end of the world; it was a starting point, a spark, not a curse.
At seven, he strapped on his delivery box and wheeled his electric scooter outside. Doudou chased him to the doorway, her tail wrapping around his ankle like a soft safety rope tied by a master. He leaned down to scratch the cat's chin and murmured, "I'm going out to make deliveries, you guard the house, I'll bring you some dried fish when I get back." The cat blinked, its amber pupils reflecting the visor of his helmet as if saying: Go on, don't be afraid.
The first delivery of the early morning went to the oncology department of the municipal hospital—the place where his father was running targeted drug trials. Along the way, he stopped to buy a cup of warm soybean milk and two steamed pork buns, leaving them at the nurses' station with an attached note: "Hard work, don't go hungry." The nurse accepted them, smiled, and gave him a thumbs-up: "Don't let all that online nonsense get to you; our whole department believes in you." Those words were warmer than any official statement, adding a grain of sweetness to his bloodstream.
At nine in the morning, The Programmer sent a voice message: The Economic Investigation Corps had held an internal simulation regarding the "nightmare" scenario, concluding that X Technology was extremely likely to deploy a combination of "pre-litigation preservation plus public opinion encirclement" in a real case, and advised him to prepare evidence backups and psychological contingencies in advance. At the end of the message, the other man unusually softened his tone: "Don't be afraid, the eight zeros are real, and so are we." After listening, Li Zhaoyang saved the voice message, adding an extra safety valve to his heart.
At ten, having finished his fifteenth delivery, he sat down to rest at a riders' station. His phone pushed a Weibo notification—a certain prominent blogger who had previously jumped on the bandwagon to curse him had publicly forwarded the economic investigation notice and issued an apology: "Before authoritative conclusions came out, I shouldn't have led the narrative, I'm sorry @Li Zhaoyang." Immediately following that, more bloggers deleted their posts, and the topic #ApologizeToLiZhaoyang quickly climbed the trends. Public opinion was like a tide—it came fast and receded fast, but left behind a beach full of seashells—and inside every single shell echoed a single sentence: the truth will eventually surface.
At twelve noon, he returned to the villa, where Lin Sheng was already waiting for him in the living room. Two lunches were laid out on the table: one was a delivery worker's standard fifteen-yuan rice bowl with meat and gravy, and the other was Wagyu pasta prepared by the mansion's chef. She smiled and explained: "You need to taste both lifestyles so you won't get confused when you're dreaming." He ate the rice bowl first, then switched to the pasta, the salty and sweet flavors intertwining in his mouth like a miniature journey through life. Lin Sheng pushed an A4 sheet of paper across the table to him—it was the script for tonight's "keep up the speed" anti-fraud livestream, titled: *From Nightmare to Truth—A Delivery Worker's One Yuan and Eight Zeros*. She blinked: "Tonight, we're going to tell thirty million people about our nightmare so that nightmares won't dare come back."
At three in the afternoon, the two of them headed to the Kunming Anti-Fraud Center to rehearse for the livestream. The studio was in shades of blue and white, with a huge shield-shaped backdrop reading "National Anti-Fraud, You and I Together." An economic investigation police officer handed him a custom vest—"City Youth Role Model" was embroidered on the left chest, "Anti-Fraud Propaganda Knight" on the right, and a short line of small text on the back: Keep up the speed, but keep the warmth. He put it on and stood before the mirror, feeling momentarily dazed—the person in the mirror was no longer the haggard young man pushing a bike with a flat tire on a stormy night, nor the dizzy koi fish struck by the hit of eight zeros, but a "model" capable of treating a nightmare as a textbook and fear as fuel. He nodded at his reflection, completing a silent handoff.
At eight in the evening, the livestream began on schedule. In front of the camera, he first took out a one-yuan lollipop, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. The sweetness burst on the tip of his tongue like fireworks lighting up the night. Then, he held up that A4 sheet of paper—*Nightmare Rehearsal-2025*—and read out loud to thirty million viewers, word for word, that string of "one yuan" from his dream, the text message warning of "suspected money laundering," and the carnival of thirty million barrage comments in the livestream room. Yet at the very end, he also read out the economic investigation notice, the official clearance, and that line of fresh ink on the "Fifteenth Generation of the Li Clan" family tree. His voice wasn't loud, but it built a dam against the flood—truth on the inside, rumors on the outside.
When the livestream ended, the viewer count surpassed forty million, total barrage comments exceeded two hundred million, and among the top twenty Weibo trending topics, terms related to him occupied ten spots—#BrotherChaoyangEatsCandyOnLivestream#, #OneYuanAndEightZeros#, #NightmareRehearsal#, #FifteenthGenerationOfTheLiClan#... like lighting ten lanterns in the dark night. The Programmer sent him a screenshot of the backend data, grinning from ear to ear: "That single lollipop of yours is worth four hundred million in traffic, more effective than any PR." Looking at the screenshot, Li Zhaoyang only wanted to sleep—he was utterly exhausted. From the nightmare to the livestream, from one yuan to eight zeros, it felt like riding a roller coaster where his heart was flung high into the air and then dropped heavily back into his chest, yet he felt unexpectedly grounded.
At one in the morning, he returned to the villa. His father was already asleep, and Doudou was squatting in the entryway waiting for him, her tail wrapping around his ankle like a soft rope tied around a returning traveler. He squatted down, picked up the cat, walked into the living room, and placed the A4 sheet of paper into the drawer—inside the drawer lay the photocopy of the family tree, the photo of the "City Youth Role Model" certificate, and the empty stick of the lollipop. Like a row of medals and a row of scars, they reminded him that the road behind had been hard, and the road ahead was long. He closed the drawer, snapping the cover shut on the past, then climbed into bed and burrowed under the covers like sliding into a new story. Outside the window, the moon slowly sank westward, casting a silver sheen across the lake like a thin layer of frost spread over the night. He closed his eyes and listened to his own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—like a distant drumbeat, or the starting gun of a new race.
This time, he was no longer afraid of the nightmare, because he knew—a nightmare is not an end, but a starting point; not a fall, but a takeoff; not one yuan, but a rehearsal for eight zeros. And upon those eight zeros, he would grow bones anew, grow wings anew, and grow—the sixteenth generation—anew. He closed his eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth like a promise made to the night:
"See you tomorrow, sixteenth generation of the Li Clan, waking from a nightmare, but not ending in one."