Zhou Qiming first realized that his "clarity" itself was flawed in a completely insignificant judgment.
That morning, he saw a temporary announcement on the subway: "Slight delay ahead; transfer recommended."
The announcement was calm and emotionless, like one of those everyday occurrences.
The crowd began to shift; some stood up, some frowned, and some continued scrolling through their phones.
Zhou Qiming didn't move.
Not out of stubbornness, nor out of hesitation.
But a nearly unprocessed thought had already been confirmed in his mind—this line wouldn't actually be delayed.
This judgment wasn't deduced.
It arose too naturally, like recalling something that had already happened.
A few minutes later, the train resumed operation.
The announcement explained it was a signal false alarm.
Those around him breathed a sigh of relief; some complained about wasting time, some sat back down.
Zhou Qiming stood there, feeling no sense of accomplishment.
He only confirmed one thing: This "prematurely established" judgment no longer required a dream as a trigger.
It began to generate itself in reality.
His work that morning went exceptionally smoothly.
So smoothly that he was almost invisible.
He wasn't involved in any key decisions, wasn't copied, and wasn't consulted.
But many things, before they even unfolded, had already been shaped in his mind.
Not the details.
The conclusions.
He began to deliberately avoid these conclusions.
When a judgment arose, he would immediately suppress it with reason—insufficient information, unverifiable, merely a coincidence.
But the problem was, these judgments didn't become invalid because of his denial.
They simply no longer needed his confirmation.
During lunch break, he ate with colleagues.
Someone casually mentioned a project that was about to be adjusted, speaking vaguely and ambiguously.
Zhou Qiming didn't interrupt.
But he already knew that this project would be withdrawn within two weeks, the reason being resource reallocation.
This was a judgment made without any warning.
At that moment, he could even foresee the tone of that notification email.
He suddenly realized a dangerous shift—in the dream, he was "allowed to know in advance";
now, he was "assumed to know."
At three in the afternoon, his supervisor passed by his workstation.
Without stopping, he simply said casually,
"Nothing much going on lately?"
It was an utterly ordinary greeting.
But the instant those words left his lips, Zhou Qiming knew—
something would happen within the next three days, and he would be asked to "take a look."
Not because of his ability.
Not because of his position.
But because he was the one "who wouldn't misjudge the direction."
This role change was neither appointed nor confirmed.
It was like a correction within the collective unconscious.
After get off work, he didn't go home immediately.
Standing downstairs at the company building, he suddenly had a belated understanding:
Previously, he thought his "exit" had failed because the structure remembered him.
Now he understood—the structure didn't remember him; it treated him as an "error correction."
As long as he existed, the deviation would be preemptively offset.
And this was precisely the most dangerous position.
That night, he didn't enter any dreams.
He simply lay there, staring at the ceiling.
His consciousness was unusually clear.
So clear that for the first time, a thought almost shouldn't have arisen—
What would happen to the world if I started deliberately making wrong judgments?
The moment this thought arose, he immediately sat up.
Not out of fear, but because he realized—
The problem now wasn't whether the dream still existed.
It was that when a conscious individual has been used by the world as a calibration tool,
does he still have the right to remain "inactive"?
The first occurrence of the "opposite being true" was very quiet.
So quiet that he almost missed it.
It was a small matter.
A proposal that should have been rejected was brought up again at the meeting.
The reasons were insufficient, and the data wasn't impressive.
At any normal juncture, this proposal would have been shelved. Zhou Qiming didn't participate in the discussion; he simply sat and listened.
By the third sentence the other person uttered, he already knew the outcome—the proposal wouldn't pass.
It wasn't a judgment.
It was confirmation.
Like knowing a cup will fall if you let go.
But things didn't go that way.
The discussion continued for a while; no one particularly insisted, nor did anyone vehemently object.
Then, the leader nodded and said:
"Then let's give it a try."
The meeting ended.
There was no applause, no emotional fluctuation.
It was as if this decision was always meant to happen.
Zhou Qiming remained seated, not immediately standing up.
He wasn't surprised.
What truly concerned him was something else—his judgment was wrong, and reality hadn't paid any price for it.
In the past, whenever his judgment deviated from reality,
the structure would somehow pull him back.
Either the dream intervened, or reality provided feedback.
But this time, nothing happened.
The plan was implemented, and everything seemed reasonable.
Not a success, but it worked.
In the following days, he began to notice similar situations.
Not deliberately seeking them out, but rather, they began to appear frequently.
An adjustment he was certain would fail, barely worked;
An opinion he thought would be rejected was implemented.
And neither immediately collapsed.
This was a very dangerous state.
Because it meant—reality no longer relied on his judgment to remain stable.
One afternoon, he finally realized where the problem lay.
It wasn't that his judgment had failed.
It was that the world had begun to allow multiple "correct paths" to coexist.
And he was just one of them.
That night, the dream recurred.
But this time, he didn't see the familiar space.
He stood in an almost empty space, without boundaries or direction.
The person stood in the distance, indistinct.
"You noticed," the other person said.
"I was wrong," Zhou Qiming replied.
"You've made mistakes before," the person said, "but before, the world needed you to be right."
"Not anymore?" Zhou Qiming asked.
The other person was silent for a moment.
"Now, what the world needs is—not to be dominated by a single calibration."
These words, like a block of ice, slowly sank into Zhou Qiming's consciousness.
"Then what am I now?" he asked.
"You are still a reference," the other person said, "but no longer the only one."
"Then can I truly stop?" Zhou Qiming pressed.
The other person looked at him, meeting his eyes directly for the first time.
"When you are the only one, stopping means collapse."
"When you are no longer the only one—"
He stopped.
"What does that mean?" Zhou Qiming pressed.
"It means you have to take responsibility for your judgments."
Space began to dissipate.
Before disappearing, the other person left behind an almost cold statement— When the world no longer needs you to be right,
your reason for continuing to judge,
no longer comes from structure.
Zhou Qiming woke up.
It was just dawn.
He sat on the edge of the bed, motionless for a long time.
He finally understood that the real question wasn't—whether he could influence the world.
but rather—when influence is no longer needed,—should he continue to make judgments?