The heavy rain continued to pour.
But the people of that day understood clearly: this rain was no longer a mere venting of divine fury. It was a silent, prolonged overwriting of information.
The emerald-green collar markings glowed simultaneously on the necks of thousands of marked individuals across the Blue Planet, like a sacred yet cold brand.
The light did not shine continuously; instead, it pulsed with a rhythmic, chilling frequency. With every pulse, an invisible force seeped into their brains, forcibly "loading" those alien messages.
There were no sounds, no images—only a torrent of pure intent, ruthlessly washing away their original cognitions.
In a luxury apartment within a bustling metropolis, a once suit-clad financial tycoon sat slumped on his expensive leather sofa like a marionette.
His eyes were wide and hollow, reflecting the crystal chandelier above, yet his gaze was entirely void of focus. His fingers twitched unconsciously, as if clawing at something invisible.
"...Thou shalt not... intentionally harm..."
"...Thou shalt not... toy with or abuse..."
"...Thou shalt not... strip away the right to survive..."
These words were no longer concepts to be "understood"; they became direct "sensations".
In an instant, his mind was flooded with images: the agony of being flayed, the searing pain of being burned, the crack of bones being crushed underfoot...
Fragmented shards of intent echoed in his mind like rusted gears forced to turn. This intent did not manifest as text but as more direct, primal "Rules", etched into the depths of his soul like programming code.
He felt a violent headache, as if his brain were about to burst from the influx of foreign data.
He wanted to resist, to expel these forced "instincts", but his body refused to obey. He couldn't even coalesce a single thought of rebellion.
The business acumen he once took such pride in was now a chaotic mess. Every "Rule" was accompanied by an "Experience."
"AAAGH—!"
The tycoon suddenly rolled off the sofa, clutching his head and twitching frantically like a fish thrown onto dry land.
His knowledge of profit maximization, risk hedging, and market manipulation appeared pathetic and laughable before these new "instincts".
For the first time, a sense of "guilt" toward a cat he had once kicked out of boredom surfaced in his subconscious, followed by a "terror" toward the forest he had leveled to expand a factory.
These emotions were so foreign, yet so real, that they chilled him to the bone.
He finally understood—this was not a "prohibition". This was—making sure you would never dare again.
On a yacht drifting at sea, an old man who made his living operating chemical plants underwent the same eerie "loading".
Two lines of clear tears flowed from his cloudy eyes—not out of sadness, but as a physiological reaction to this soulful remodeling.
His life had been "smooth", and he was well-acquainted with the ugliness of human nature and the waste of resources.
Now, a powerful intent to "protect" rose within his heart—to protect the lives he once deemed "insignificant", to protect the existences that died silently in the corners, and to protect the very ocean he had personally polluted.
"...Symbiosis..."
"...Balance..."
"...Awe..."
These terms were no longer hollow concepts written in human textbooks. They took on an unquestionable stance, becoming his new code of conduct—an irresistible instinct.
The old man slowly raised his hand, pausing in mid-air.
He suddenly remembered—thirty years ago, he had dumped a ship's worth of untreated chemical waste into these very waters. Back then, he viewed it only as a "successful cost-saving operation".
But now—
"URGH—!"
He doubled over, retching violently. His stomach was empty, yet he felt as if he had swallowed the entire stretch of polluted seawater. Bitter, fishy, and rotten. These "feelings" that did not belong to him were now maddeningly real.
The collar tightened slightly. A cold, clear "Rule" surfaced in the depths of his consciousness:
[Past Behavior: Recorded]
[Causality Assessment: In Progress]
[Repayment Method: Pending Execution]
The old man slumped to the floor, trembling all over. He watched the schools of fish swimming by and the seagulls soaring in the sky. For the first time, his eyes were filled with an emotion that transcended survival instinct—something called "mercy".
He suddenly realized that his world no longer needed "laws". Because his own soul had become the most precise instrument of judgment.
Brand, the young programmer, sat paralyzed on his cluttered apartment floor. The final judgment echoed in his mind like a curse.
He remembered his hesitation clearly when faced with the question: "Are they wrong?"
That moment of stalling—knowing the right answer but fearing the admission of human guilt, or his own personal "guilt"—had made it undeniably clear: He was a "Waverer".
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, the tycoon who had instinctively chosen green out of a habit of opportunism was letting out a shriek that sounded inhuman.
His body was like a wax statue tossed into a furnace, beginning to twist, melt, and reshape. Bone-shattering cracks echoed as something seemed to writhe beneath his skin.
In mere seconds, the once-arrogant billionaire transformed into an unspeakable monstrosity—a grotesque entity caught between human and arthropod—slumping onto his luxury office carpet and emitting meaningless hisses.
This was the fate of the "Disqualified": total alienation, losing the very form of a human.
Whether they were high-ranking officials, business moguls, academic giants, or tech elites, anyone with that green collar was undergoing this silent "baptism".
Their logic, values, and primal instincts were being forcibly rewritten.
Similar scenes played out across the BluePlanet.
Wealthy socialites and celebrities, who once obsessed over furs, were now shredding million-dollar coats while weeping in repentance.
Hunting enthusiasts hurled their prized rifles into furnaces, nearly blowing themselves up as ammunition detonated.
Scientists who had conducted inhumane experiments personally incinerated their data and swore to reform.
In the Bald Eagle Nation, a top developer was on his knees in a mangrove swamp he had illegally filled. His fingers clawed into the foul-smelling mud; the glow of his collar forced him to dig out an old sewage pipe by hand before sunset. His hands, accustomed to golf clubs, were now a bloody mess.
This was not voluntary atonement; it was the sheer coercive power of the Collar.
It acted like a restrictive curse—the moment their actions or thoughts violated the "Loaded Rules", they were hit with agonizing physiological pain: splitting headaches, violent nausea, muscle spasms, or even hallucinations of the creatures they had harmed coming to claim their lives.
Yet, not everyone surrendered. In hidden corners, some marked individuals tried to resist.
They slammed their heads against walls or overdosed on psychiatric drugs, trying to use pain and chemicals to interfere with the divine order implanted in their brains.
As night fell, rain pooled in the streets.
The "Gentle Ones" who had earned the right to walk—like Xu Wanzhen and her parents—found the world appearing with unprecedented clarity.
They needed no collars; they possessed an "Aura" that transcended species.
As Xu Wanzhen walked her calico cat through a park, stray dogs emerged from the bushes, quietly following behind her.
This was not the subservience of domestication, but a peerless, soulful tacit understanding.
In contrast, the imprisoned and marked were forced into the role of "Guardians". Their first "Loading Command" was: Repair.
Repair the filled wetlands, clean the polluted beaches, and dismantle the underground workshops built for sick desires.
When the glow of the "Loading" finally settled on the necks of hundreds of millions, the Blue Planet fell into the most eerie silence in history.
Cities stood, and power hummed, but the underlying logic of human society was effectively dead.
The marked individuals, ignoring their own discomfort, rose in unison, driven by a single-minded urge to complete their loaded tasks.
This chain of events immediately caught the attention of global surveillance departments. National leaders listened to reports in a state of helplessness.
The destinations of the marked were scattered everywhere, and national manpower was spread dangerously thin.
The police of Bald Eagle Nation tried to arrest or stop marked citizens from destroying weapons, but they could not budge them.
Meanwhile, the National Security Bureau of Blue Peacock Nation watched in horror as their former superiors knelt in mud to dig out trash.
In the Royal Bengal Tiger Country, environmental officials stood stunned as the most difficult polluters began self-funding the dismantling of their own factories and cleaning rivers. They called it a miracle.
The same thing was happening all over the world.
In the luxury hotel within Green Pheasant Country, Zhizhi stood before the floor-to-ceiling window.
He touched the human skin that filled him with loathing; it felt too thick, too dull, and he could still smell the lingering "scent of blood" from the body's original owner.
Looking at his hands, he occasionally felt a surge of terror.
He now possessed the very "weapons" once used to abuse him; he felt as though he could see the blood of his former self staining his palms.
He frantically tore open his clothes, searching for the heart-shaped patch on his belly, only to find smooth, featureless human skin.
He was lost and confused, even hesitating whether to continue his journey "home".
He knew clearly that without this human shell, he would have withered away long ago when his true body's lifespan reached its limit.
Suddenly, a voice poured into his mind. It wasn't the Beast God, but a presence that felt intimately familiar and kind deep within his soul.
"Zhizhi, it's me, Qinghong. Can you recognize me? Heehee," the woman's voice teased playfully.
Zhizhi was dazed. He felt he should know her, yet he couldn't grasp a specific outline. He asked hesitantly, "I feel... I should know you?"
Fortunately, the owner of the voice didn't intend to make it difficult. "In the laboratory, we were in the same cage. I was the pure white female mouse, just like you."
"It's you! You're okay too? Did the Great BeastGod save you as well?"
Zhizhi was so overjoyed that his voice spiked in volume, nearly dizzying the "person" on the other side—after all, this was a soul-to-soul transmission.
"Could you... keep it down? My head is spinning."
In a place Zhizhi could not see, Qinghong steadied herself. A wave of divine power brushed over her, restoring her clarity. She bowed deeply toward the deity before her with overflowing devotion. "Thank you, my Great Beast God."
Zhizhi stammered, "I... I'm sorry." Then, realizing something, he nearly shouted again, "Are you with the Great Beast God right now?!"
"...You only just realized?" she muttered, stopping herself before calling him "stupid" to save his feelings.
Before he could speak again, her voice turned serious. "Listen, we can talk more later. I just need to tell you what my Great Beast God said: 'Next time will be your last chance'."
The tone became heavy. She sighed as if there were things she couldn't say. "...You... sigh, take care of yourself. Fighting."
The transmission cut off. Zhizhi fell into a deep silence, unable to pull himself away from the weight of those words. The moon hung high, and darkness returned.
Compared to when everything was unknown, the world's reaction hadn't improved—humanity remained as skittish as birds frightened by the mere twang of a bowstring.
After all, knowing what is coming is one thing; facing it with composure is quite another.