The "narrator" was dressed in a white tuxedo and wore a half-mask made of white, black, and dark gold feathers, so exquisite and thin that it seemed to grow out of his face. It was also inlaid with gems of various sizes, which glittered. The whole thing seemed to have a touch of every color scheme. The designer probably just wanted to make himself look more expensive.

He walked toward Sergio with an elegant demeanor, his eyes cold and mocking, like a visitor to an exhibition banquet, the other party able to clearly smell the heavy, bloody stench of a slaughterhouse.

The rack rose again, binding Sergio's hands tightly, and intelligently tightened several more times to ensure he remained trapped in place.

He walked up behind the victim, grabbed his collar, and yanked him back sharply.

On that hand was a ring symbolizing power—the gemstone carved on it was dark red and translucent, with black, red and gray stripes twisted into swirling patterns, like a gaping pupil on rotting entrails—the edge was even specially inlaid with sharp teeth, and with a light downward slash, it could cut through clothes with great speed, indicating a veteran.

"What, you want to sleep with me? Please, a real man would never be afraid of this kind of physical pain."

Sergio burst out laughing, thinking it was some new method, and started to mock him.

Stanford didn't speak, only staring at his bound wrists. In that instant, he clearly recalled everything that had happened. Those desperate cries for help, the agonizing torture, and a sharp light shone in his heart—a light devoid of warmth amidst layers of blood and ashes, sharp as a blade.

He took a step back, sized him up for a long time, and Sergio waited while spouting trash talk.

Then he knew what that bastard was up to.

Lingchi (death by a thousand cuts)

I've seen the characteristics of the East Xia Eoubs branch in the documents a few times before, and the only word the adjudication department uses to describe it is "awesome".

The blade was pitch black, reflecting no light, and seemed to have mouths that opened and closed constantly. Only the tip was blood red, emitting a buzzing sound that made one's insides itch and was extremely deadly, like countless hungry insects waiting to devour their prey.

"All I can say is, I know you all too well. Even in death, you're still a moron. Because of your weakness and incompetence... you chose to endure humiliation while you were alive, fuck you... Now, becoming a vengeful ghost to take revenge on me must be very satisfying, hahaha!"

"I still remember what your wife looked like before she died. She was lying on the ground like a prostitute, spitting blood, and desperately begging me to let her go."

"What were you doing at that time? Were you discussing whether you were on the list of those who would advance?"

"That's rubbish, brother-in-law."

"But I... had a blast."

When the first cut came down, Sergio immediately shut his mouth, his mind going completely blank.

It was a soul-crushing pain, completely beyond his expectations, that instantly rendered his consciousness impossible to reassemble.

His already weak body seemed to have its self-preservation mechanism activated. His muscles tensed up suddenly, and a whimper escaped his throat. He was so fragile that it didn't seem like his own body; he looked like a stray dog ​​begging for mercy.

He heard Stanford laugh and say, "Mr. C01's lament is truly a masterpiece—"

The second cut came off.

Sergio jerked his head up and slammed his forehead against the iron frame, trying to move forward even a little bit to avoid the maddening torture. But the iron clasps held him firmly in place, and he could only remain motionless.

The lights from the dome shone on him relentlessly, making him appear like a key exhibit in a jewelry store, highlighting his unique features.

Then came the third cut.

He couldn't help but cry out. His fingers spread open and then clenched tightly. He was the most ruthless operative in Eoubs' European branch, an expert at ensuring 100% mission completion rate, capable of killing anyone who dared to provoke him. But now he was bound tightly to the rack, unable to attack, and could only endure the torture.

Finally, he couldn't remember how many times he was stabbed, and it seemed that he lost consciousness for a short while. When Sergio regained consciousness, he found that the stabbing had stopped, and someone was pulling his hair tightly, suddenly forcing him to tilt his head back.

His face, streaked with tears, was exposed under the light, making him look utterly disheveled.

He finally broke down in tears.

Stanford looked on with great satisfaction.

“I’ve always felt that you’re well-suited to this kind of hardship,” he said.

The man grabbed his hair as if he were pulling on the fur of some animal, his eyes filled with admiration and pleasure.

“According to what you said earlier, there’s a violent streak in you; you’re essentially an unwanted wild beast, impossible to domesticate. But there’s nothing punishment can’t teach you.” He continued, “You don’t need to tell me how much pain you’re in; I won’t listen. I’ll keep cutting your flesh with the knife. Chris begged you for mercy, but you ignored her. You’ll scream, you’ll lose control of your bladder, but I will never stop—”

He took a deep breath, as if trying to inhale all the blood and the smell of despair that clung to Sergio.

This was a thoroughly satisfying revenge feast.

"Just when you're thanking God that death is finally coming, the arena will heal you immediately and tie you up again. I have thousands of knives to choose from. Your bones are tough, but I think I'll be done with the twenty-seventh one."

Sergio cried for a few seconds, then laughed hysterically. He stared at the rack, his eyes burning with malice and hatred amidst his extreme dishevelment.

As the knife pressed against him again, he moved his wrist up two inches at a very small angle, but with instantaneous force, shaking the rack like a beast hiding in the grass suddenly striking. One by one, the countless spikes on it pierced the other's body.

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