Time flowed with a pathological sense of suffocation.
The globe seemed to have fallen into a state of "post-traumatic shock". Billions of people were waiting, as if in a pitch-black execution chamber, for the blade they knew was coming but could never predict when it would drop.
Until dawn.
Just as the city's first rays of morning light attempted to dilute the blood-color of the night before, and as people tried to hypnotize themselves with cheap excuses like "global mass hallucination"—every screen lit up simultaneously, like a premeditated self-combustion.
Red text on a black background, like a branding iron fresh from the furnaces of hell, seared itself stroke by stroke into the retinas of all humanity:
[Fate Exchange: Live Broadcast of the Abusers]
[Fate Exchange · Second Batch of Names Now Active]
[Countdown to Broadcast Start: 02:00:00]
A wave of suppressed wailing erupted from the crowds. Some closed their eyes in despair, only to discover with horror that the words appeared directly on the inner surface of their darkened eyelids.
The globe fell into a brief, eerie silence. Then, the icy text shifted.
A segment titled "Forest Guardians" appeared above the shrunken countdown, centered with a white triangle—a play button for a frozen epic of cruelty.
Comments sprouted like mushrooms, vying for space:
—[What is this... again??]
—[A movie to... kill time? Or is there a meaning?]
—[Pangolins? Forest Guardians? Haha, it... it should be healing, right?? Please tell me this is definitely a healing story...]
The footage began to play automatically. No intro, no narration—only the rawest, crudest record of death.
—
Clip 1: Deep in a midnight forest, poachers roughly dug through meters of soil, dragging a creature curled into a ball into the moonlight. It was thrown alive into a cauldron of rolling, boiling water.
Amidst the rising steam, its screams were silent to the ear, but one could see it twitching frantically in the scalding water until its hard scales loosened. Then, rusted iron tweezers were used to peel them away, skin and flesh included.
Clip 2: Thick smoke billowed from a hollow tree; the only sound in the woods was the crackle of burning timber. The pangolins crawled out in despair through fire and suffocation, only to be met by icy leg-hold traps.
To satisfy clients' morbid demand for "freshness," their scales were pried off while they were fully conscious.
Clip 3: A high-impact scene. A massive mother pangolin was pierced by a spear. She curled up tightly under a brutal beating, refusing to let go no matter how many ribs snapped.
In frustration, a poacher aimed a high-temperature blowtorch at her throat.
Amidst the stench of charred flesh, she was forced open—only to reveal she was protecting a tiny, pink, newborn baby who hadn't even opened its eyes.
—
The video ended. The screens returned to darkness.
Countless people felt their stomachs churn. Some wept into their hands, while others stared at their own fingernails, feeling a chill they had never known—as if the protective shell covering their own bodies could be torn away at any moment.
Meanwhile, a farcical "exodus" began in every corner of the world. The businessmen and middlemen with blood on their hands went mad the moment they saw the list activate.
They sped through torrential rain, hid in deep mountains, or screamed incoherently into phones from the back of luxury cars:
"Damn it! Didn't I order them to delete all the videos? Why are they still there?! Why? F***ing hell!!!"
Little did they know that under Her divine power, nothing remained hidden.
"Release them! Release all the stock in the warehouse! Not a single one stays!"
But the loop of karma was already locked tight. The industrial chain was too long, and the greed too heavy. By the time they tried to beg for mercy beneath the divine executioner's blade, it was already too late.
The fugitives knelt in the mud, kowtowing until they bled, begging the Goddess for forgiveness.
"My forgiveness is a weight ye cannot bear. That which ye truly owe is the debt of blood to those tens of thousands of living souls."
In that moment, an ethereal and chilling voice rang in the hearts of everyone, like a drop from the highest clouds and a rise from the deepest hell:
"In these pleas for mercy, I witness only the tremors of suffering, yet not a shred of repentance for thy sins. What ye fear hath never been the wrongdoing, but the pain."
The countdown hit zero.
[ID: B-000001 - B-000165]
[Subject Collective Dossier: No. 000 - No. 164 "Bone Market Walker" Syndicate]
[Occupation: Transnational Poaching Group, Tier-1 Agents, Live-Body Butchers]
[Collective Sin: Systematic Slaughter, Scaling, Incineration]
[Primary Victims: Pangolins]
[Action Record: Live Scaling, High-Temperature Processing, Profit-Making]
[Judgment: Deprivation of Human Rights. Execution Scene — Loading.]
[Countdown to Broadcast Start: 00:00:00]
The quiet morning was torn asunder once again.
The countdown on global display screens hit zero.
The familiar sentences appeared once more, flashing like slogans.
[First Group of Executors — Confirmed]
[Execution Duration: 4 Days]
[What you have given shall be personally endured by you.]
[What you have ignored shall be reenacted upon you.]
[The pain you deemed insignificant —]
[Shall become your entire world.]
This time, the image was not a sterile laboratory, but an underground warehouse reeking of rot and foul air.
The lighting was dim; the bulbs flickered with the "ziss-ziss" of an unstable electrical current. As the camera pulled back, billions of viewers gasped in unison.
Rows upon rows of snake-skin bags filled the space, each one writhing violently, emitting the "sha-sha" sound of hard objects grinding against one another.
A heavy, sluggish sound of breathing echoed in the minds of the audience, sounding like a broken bellows.
The perspective was extremely low, moving almost flush with the dirt. Through their screens, the world saw a pair of forepaws covered in thick, dull scales.
With every movement, the chest cavity scraped against the coarse sand and stone. These were the current bodies of the "Bone Market Walker" syndicate members.
In the distance, the harsh beam of a flashlight pierced the darkness. Then came the thud of heavy combat boots on mud and the cold clink of clashing metal leg-hold traps.
The footsteps drew closer. In those scale-rimmed eyes, the human figures were no longer kin—they were mountain-sized, indescribable Grim Reapers.
Billions of eyes widened in terror. No one dared to look away. They knew that these men were about to experience the ultimate agony: the flaying of a pangolin's armor before death.
The perspective suddenly shifted inside one of the snake-skin bags. Darkness. Pressure. Suffocation.
Su Qiang, the "Boss", snapped his eyes open. He felt his entire body encased in a thick, rigid shell. He tried to stretch his limbs, only to find himself locked in an agonizingly twisted, curled position.
"...Help! I'm Su Qiang! Ah Biao! Lao Hei! Where are you?!"
"It" screamed frantically.
But all that echoed in the damp, cold air were dozens of overlapping, muffled, desperate gasps.
This was the pangolin's only defense mechanism—curling into an impenetrable ball. Once, "Su Qiang" had loathed this pose because it made his job of scaling harder; now, "he" discovered with despair that he could not stop this instinct.
"Su Qiang" heard a voice from outside the bag—it belonged to his most capable henchman, nicknamed "Mad Dog".
"Mad Dog! It's ME! I'm the boss! Let me out!" Su Qiang thrashed against the bag.
But in the eyes of the "New Mad Dog", that snake-skin bag was just moving a bit more "lively" than the others. Following the terrifying script of memory, the "New Mad Dog" spoke, his words dripping with blood:
"This one is big. The scales are thick; definitely top-grade. Throw 'it' in the pot first. Once the water boils, it'll be easier to pluck the scales. Remember?"
"Mad Dog, what are you doing?! I am Su Qiang!! Do you hear me?! Let me go, Mad Dog..."
Su Qiang was hysterical, raving like a demon.
Unfortunately, the only ones who could understand him were the others in the room, watching him with eyes like vengeful ghosts.
Suddenly, "Su Qiang" felt himself being hoisted up, bag and all. Through a slit in the fabric, "he" saw the massive iron cauldron in the center of the warehouse, billowing with scalding white steam.
The sound of boiling water was, to his ears, the roar of Hell itself.
Around him, dozens of snake-skin bags began to shake violently. These were his accomplices—including the original "Mad Dog"—yet none could utter a word.
Once, they had shared the loot and discussed which animal's meat was the sweetest over drinks; now, they were lined up, waiting to be consumed by the very fires they had lit with their own hands.
Beyond the screens, everyone watched every second of the execution. It was more detailed and complete than the earlier "movie".
The sounds of vomiting and weeping broke out everywhere, but people could not shift their gaze or change the channel—though this time, there was an exception.