Two days have passed since the "Diary of Dreams" campaign officially launched, and I have to admit, the power of cold, hard cash never ceases to amaze me.

  I am currently lounging high atop Kaito’s wardrobe. It is a strategic vantage point that serves a dual purpose: observing the room and ensuring my tail does not get squashed by the kid while he is glued to his video games. I flick through the engagement metrics on Japanese social media. The keywords #DreamscapeChallenge, #500MillionYen, and #LucidDream are absolutely dominating the trending topics on every platform.

  Everyone is asleep. The entire nation has turned in. For the first time in history, laziness is not merely socially acceptable but is being celebrated like a national sport. Companies peddling pillows, essential oils, and sleep supplements must be singing praises to Dreamscape every day as their sales charts go vertical.

  Below me, Kaito lies prone on the bed, eyes glued to his phone screen, giggling with pure delight.

  "Itsuki-sama, look at this," the boy holds out his phone. The Line group chat for Class 1-B is scrolling like a waterfall. "My friends are buzzing about how to 'min-max' their sleep. One guy swears by drinking piping hot milk with honey, another is downloading Alpha wave tracks, and Takechi is even planning to buy literal anesthesia to force a deep coma."

  I glance down, my tail twitching with a hint of disdain. "Tsk, ah, youth. Too much energy, zero direction."

  Kaito chuckles, knowing full well that all those desperate efforts are futile.

  Watching the smug expression plastered on his face, I feel a sudden pang of unease. Complacency is the shortest path to disaster, especially for someone as green behind the ears as Kaito.

  I land softly on the mattress and use my tail to deliver a sharp swat to the back of his neck.

  "Don't get too high on excitement and slip up, kid," I narrow my eyes, letting a dangerous glint show. "Department 1031 is betting the house on this plan to entrap Gakai. If anything goes sideways, my head is the first one on the chopping block."

  Kaito shudders, his smile vanishing instantly. He scrambles to sit up straight, nodding vigorously like a bobblehead on a dashboard. "Yes, yes... I know! I promise to keep my trap shut. I'll take the secret to the grave!"

  "Promises are good," I sigh, though my gut tells me otherwise.

  Kids at this awkward age have hormones running wild and a severe deficit of brain cells. It only takes a little provocation, or a sudden urge to impress a crush, for state secrets to come pouring out like cheap wine.

  I bring my muzzle inches from Kaito's face, articulating every single word.

  "Listen closely. I have told you before, but a reminder won't hurt. If anyone in your class, or anyone at all, asks if you are participating in this event..."

  "...Then I just say NO," Kaito continues, reciting the script perfectly. "Or I just say I tried wearing it but felt absolutely nothing. The success rate is practically zero, it is mostly a marketing scam, and I probably won't win a single Yen."

  "Correct," I nod, rubbing the boy's head with satisfaction. "You have to sell the performance. Your safety, and my rice bowl, depends on your acting skills."

  Kaito rolls around on the bed for a moment, then suddenly pauses, looking up at me with his large, round eyes as I sit scrolling through my phone.

  "Itsuki-sama," the boy speaks up, his voice full of curiosity. "So... are you going to stay holed up in this shoebox for the entire duration of the event? Where are Xiao Lang and Nanao? Why don't I see them coming over anymore?"

  I look up, my ears swiveling slightly. "Yeah, I'm stuck here with you. Those two have been deployed to spread out our forces in other key zones."

  "But I don't understand," Kaito sits up fully, his confusion evident. "Why must you personally watch over me? You are the captain, you have a thousand things to do, and you have meetings with the big bosses..."

  "Right now, I have no business other than planning to grab Gakai by the throat," I say bluntly, my tail tapping rhythmically against the leg of the chair. "So rest assured, I have a separate playbook for everyone. You just eat well and sleep tight."

  Kaito stares at me, his eyes shimmering with emotion. The boy is realizing that for the past few days, I have not eaten a single bite, nor closed my eyes for a second, silently holding my vigil.

  "You... you are too good to me," he whispers. "Aren't you tired? Do deities really not need to rest?"

  "Gods only eat to taste the earthly delights, just for the flavor," I wave my hand, maintaining the cool facade. "And sleep is just a luxury to relax the mind. Skipping it won't kill anyone. I'm just a bit stressed, but physically, I'm in peak condition."

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  Talking the talk is easy. In reality, without enough sleep, the energy flows within a deity's body become chaotic, leading to extreme stress. But whatever, maintaining the "invincible boss" image is more important. Why tell the kid and make him worry?

  Just as I am about to launch into a monologue about the "magnificence" of the divine physique, my phone vibrates violently in the pocket.

  Ding! Ding!

  An urgent notification from the internal channel of the Diplomatic Team.

  I open the device. The sender is Lanxia, a young and energetic flower spirit. She is still green when it comes to combat, but her ability to gather word on the street is unmatched.

  [Lanxia]: "Boss! We have a situation! The first victim among the participants of the 'Diary of Dreams' event has appeared. A 20-year-old male, found dead in Ueno Park."

  The fur on the back of my neck stands on end. "Cause?"

  [Lanxia]: "I checked the scene. The culprit is an underground hitman, just neutralized and captured by the security team 15 minutes ago."

  [Lanxia]: "The killer's bank account just received a fat wire transfer from an anonymous foreign account moments before the hit. The transaction data is encrypted, but the IP trail leads to a ghost server."

  Just as predicted. Gakai is not bothering to use divine power or hideous Anomalies.

  He simply needs to hire heavy-hitters from the human underworld to randomly slaughter participants. Very quickly, if not intervened in time, this event will turn into a PR nightmare soaked in blood.

  "Hmph... Playing dirty, but quite smart," I mutter, my fingers tapping a rapid rhythm on the screen.

  Seeing my expression darken, Kaito asks worriedly, "Is something wrong, Itsuki-sama?"

  "It's nothing, kid," I turn to him, flashing a friendly, reassuring grin.

  I quickly type a reply to Lanxia.

  ItsukiK: "Signal the entire Diplomatic Relation Team and Security Team. Prepare the script. It is time to play the bad guys."

  Kaito's steady snoring resonates like a soothing background track, signaling that the boy has fallen deep into a sweet dream.

  I tiptoe out to the balcony, sliding the glass door shut to ensure absolute soundproofing, then open the Solak application. A high-security online meeting room has already been established.

  "Lights, camera, action!" I mutter, pressing the join button.

  The hologram screen flares up, projecting a dark, damp room illuminated by a single yellow filament bulb swaying from the ceiling. In the center of the frame, the unlucky hitman, the mercenary who took money to ruin our event, is tied to a rusty iron chair. The tape over his mouth has just been ripped off, revealing a bruised face and eyes dilated with terror.

  Surrounding him are three men in sharp black suits, but they are wearing grotesque, jeering clown masks. These are the finest Sensitives from my unit.

  "Start," I tap my claw on the screen, giving the green light.

  The clown standing in the middle steps forward, grabs the hitman's hair, and yanks it violently backward.

  "The Boss gave you a simple task," the clown hisses, his tone dripping with disappointment. "Kill a few people, cause a little chaos. And look at the mess you've made."

  He pulls a stack of photos from his pocket and throws them right into the hitman's face. The pictures flutter to the floor, capturing the hitman whispering with a uniformed police officer at a sidewalk cafe.

  Naturally, they are forged. The product of the Diplomatic Team after 15 minutes of editing with divine photoshop magic.

  "You are a spy planted by the National Guard, aren't you?" The clown roars. "You dare to double-dip? You dare to stab The Boss in the back?!"

  The hitman's eyes bulge, sweating buckets. He shakes his head frantically, his mouth gaping like a stranded fish, unable to form words. "N... No... I... I swear... I don't know who that cop is..."

  WHACK!

  A thunderous slap sends the hitman's face whipping to the side, fresh blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  "Shut up! The evidence is staring you in the face, and you still deny it!" The clown prepares to deliver another blow, but another clown standing nearby raises a hand to stop him.

  "Enough. Let The Boss speak to him."

  The two clowns respectfully step back, reverently placing a pitch-black laptop onto the small table in front of the victim. The laptop screen displays only a violently oscillating red sound wave.

  On this side of the balcony, I clear my throat, adjusting the voice encryption software on the phone.

  "Listen here, little rat," I speak into the microphone.

  The voice emitting from the laptop on the other side is deep, distorted, static-filled, and cold as the grave.

  "What did you confess to the government dogs?"

  "I didn't confess anything!" The hitman screams, tears and snot smearing his face. "I swear to God! I only accepted money via the dark web! I don't even know who you people are! I am not a spy!"

  "Liar."

  I drop a single, cold word. Immediately, the clown next to him swings his arm, burying a fist deep into the hitman's gut. He doubles over, wheezing violently, his face turning beet red.

  "I despise dishonest people the most," my distorted voice continues to flay his mind. "I gave you a chance to make money, but you chose to sell me out. Do you think I don't know you made a secret deal for a reduced sentence?"

  "It's not true! I really don't know anything!"

  Every time he opens his mouth to plead innocence, another punch rains down.

  After about five minutes of "warm-up," the hitman is limp as a wet rag, his will to resist completely pulverized.

  "It seems..." I say slowly, dragging out each syllable, "...he still doesn't understand the gravity of the situation. He needs a little 'motivation' to jog his memory."

  I give the order: "Send the Doctor in."

  The iron door of the torture chamber opens with a bone-chilling creak. A man wearing a pristine white lab coat and gold-rimmed glasses steps in. In his hand is a tray of gleaming surgical instruments, but the most prominent item is a pair of rusty dental forceps.

  The "Doctor" says not a word. He calmly steps forward, using his thumb to press hard on the hitman's jaw joint, forcing his mouth open.

  "Mmph... mmph...!!!" The hitman struggles frantically, but the ropes hold him tight.

  "Shhh..." The doctor puts a finger to his lips, signaling silence.

  The "Doctor" gently inserts the forceps into the victim's bloody mouth, clamping tight onto a molar. He doesn't pull, just twists his wrist. Slowly. Deliberately.