"So, I didn't die... am I still alive?" After an endless stretch of darkness, Francisco slowly opened his eyes. His consciousness was torn apart like shattered glass, each shard reflecting pain and confusion. He tried to move but found himself tightly bound to a cold, iron surgical chair, his limbs locked in thick metal rings, unable to struggle. Everything before him was blurred and suffocating, the acrid scent of disinfectant mingling with the stench of blood, nearly making him vomit.
"Where am I..." He attempted to speak, but his mouth was filled with damp cloth, only muffled whimpers escaping.
Around him, a group of surgeons in scrubs moved with cold precision, their motions exact but robotic. The table was cluttered with various sharp instruments—saws, pliers, syringes—and a basin filled with dark red blood. In one corner, military officers in uniform gathered, their eyes fixed on him as if observing a dissected specimen. Further away, Margoloria stood silently, her black lace gown glimmering ominously under the harsh light, a smirk on her lips as if orchestrating it all.
"Start," one officer ordered coldly.
By the operating table, a surgeon without hesitation picked up a saw and approached Francisco. His hand was firmly held down, struggling uselessly. The cold teeth of the saw touched his skin, and an agonizing pain ripped through his nerves. He wanted to scream, curse, beg, but the cloth blocked all sound, leaving only silent despair. The sound of the saw and the "crunch" of bone being cut intertwined into a hellish symphony.
Blood poured out, splattering the table and the surgeon's clothes. They showed no concern, continuing to attach the severed limb to a set of wires, connecting it to a nearby battery.
"Begin charging."
As the button was pressed, the battery emitted a low hum. A fierce current coursed through Francisco's arm, burning every nerve like fire. The contact points began to smoke, and the severed arm began to grow twisted bones at a visible speed. The bones grew wildly like weeds, entangling and curling into a deformed torso. Moments later, muscle and skin rapidly covered it, the regeneration so unnervingly fast.
"Did you see that, everyone?" an officer stood, excited, his voice trembling with passion. "This is our new weapon—'Bone Colony'! With continuous stimulation, stem cells regenerate endlessly, and the bone cells are even stronger than their original form! We've won! This technology will change the course of the war, crushing our enemies—the American imperialists—into dust!"
The surrounding officers erupted into fervent applause. Their eyes burned with greed, as if they already saw countless medals and glory. But in Francisco's eyes, only fear remained.
Time fractured in endless shocks, surgeries, and experiments. Francisco's body was no longer his own, each muscle and bone tormented, reshaped, while the pain cut deep into his soul, leaving deep cracks.
"What did I... what did I do wrong to deserve this?" Francisco asked the cruel world countless times, but the world remained silent.
"Do you want to know the answer?" Suddenly, Francisco heard something, and his consciousness sank into a bottomless illusion.
In the illusion, he saw Margoloria. She sat on a towering black throne, surrounded by an endless abyss. In the abyss, a massive and eerie shadow flickered—an ink-black creature, its tentacles moving slowly, something that didn't belong to this world.
Margoloria smiled softly, her voice like cold venom slowly seeping into his mind. "Look at these beasts around you, who don't see you as human. You must despise them, right? You hate this, don't you? Hate your innate poverty, hate the country that took away your freedom and dignity, turning you into a joke. Hate me for making you endure this pain. You also hate your own powerlessness. Why can't you do anything?"
The creature's tentacles danced behind her, each motion seeming to whisper, tempting him: "Why not destroy this worthless world? Accept me, become one of my vessels, and teach the world an extraordinary philosophy."
"No... I can't... I can't do this..." The kind-hearted Francisco instinctively rejected.
"That's because you still haven't seen the real world," Margoloria said, disappointed.
In an instant, Francisco was back in reality. This time, he saw clearly. He saw the malice of the world. Again, the bloodstained surgical tools, cutting into his innocent body, crushing bones, splattering blood, tearing muscles apart, ruining a good man beyond recognition. Francisco trembled in agony, wanting to scream, but no sound came. His mind was in chaos, anger, hatred, and pain twisting into a black flame, nearly consuming him.
So much pain.
"What did I do wrong... What unforgivable sin did I commit to deserve this inhumane treatment? Why... why is it me?" Francisco screamed inwardly, his eyes bloodshot, struggling to see the faces around him.
"Is it because I'm weak?" "Is it because I'm useless?" "Or is it because the world itself is a senseless slaughter?"
These questions were like blunt knives, slowly cutting into Francisco's heart. He remembered kneeling in the mud in the rain, begging the cold faces behind the gun; he remembered in the dim room, covering his daughter's burning forehead with trembling hands; he remembered Isabella's childish voice calling, "Daddy," and yet he could do nothing.
"Maybe they were right."
He remembered someone once coldly saying to him: "Your life, to me, is no different from my cow."
"A cow? Am I a cow?"
Francisco trembled, his head lowering deeper, his bloodstained fingers clutching the edge of the iron chair. "A cow? Yes, isn't my life like that? Pulling carts, plowing fields, enduring the sting of blades, dying on the slaughtering table, and no one will even remember a single cry."
He suddenly let out a short laugh, hoarse and broken, almost inhuman.
"Just give up. We'll sink into the world's filth." "This world was made this way." "No matter what you do, you can't change it." "We're like leaves withered in a storm, our final fate is to be scattered with the wind." "I can't do anything..." "Become like them, animals..."
"Become an animal."
On the verge of losing control, suddenly, in the depths of Francisco's mind, Isabella's smiling face appeared. It was the only light, shining like the afternoon sun.
It was a clear afternoon, with soft sunlight spilling onto the front of Francisco's run-down farmhouse. The soil in the yard was barren, but a few stubborn tufts of grass grew, swaying gently in the breeze. The distant sky was a clear blue, with a few fluffy clouds lazily drifting by, casting shadows across the land.
Isabella knelt beside her father, wearing a slightly worn white dress, its hem stained with dirt, yet it couldn't conceal her liveliness and innocence. In her hand, she tightly gripped a brightly colored crayon, focused on drawing on a rough piece of paper. Her small face was flushed from the sun and excitement, beads of sweat reflecting light on her forehead.
Francisco sat beside her, his rough hand gently holding a corner of the paper, afraid the wind would blow it away. With his other hand, he held a crayon, trying to draw a crooked tree—the old tree in front of their home. He drew clumsily, the trunk bent, branches tangled in messy lines.
"Daddy, your tree looks so strange!" Isabella lifted her head, her big eyes sparkling with laughter, pointing at the paper.
"Really? But this is the best tree I've ever seen," Francisco replied, pretending to be serious, stroking his chin as if deep in thought. He raised his big hand and ruffled Isabella's hair, "Then you draw a better one."
"Watch me!" Isabella proudly raised her head, grabbing a green crayon and beginning to draw the tree of her dreams. Her method was childish, but full of innocent imagination. Her tree was tall and straight, its branches adorned with pink "fruits," and a few exaggerated birds flitted around it.
"Look, this is a beautiful tree!" she proudly clapped her hands and eagerly handed the drawing to Francisco. "What do you think, Daddy?"
Francisco lowered his head to examine it, a warm smile spreading across his face. He nodded, pretending to be impressed: "Hmm... it's definitely much better than mine! Isabella, you're a little artist."
Hearing her father's praise, the little girl's face lit up, like honey. She jumped up, grabbing his hand, "Then you draw the birds! Draw the birds that fly the highest!"
Francisco laughed, picking up a crayon: "Alright, I'll draw the birds, but mine won't fly too high because they're all lazy!"
The father and daughter continued drawing in the sunlight. The crayon marks on the paper were a messy yet vibrant mix of red, green, yellow, and blue. The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of fresh grass from the distant fields, mixed with the smell of earth. Isabella's laughter rang out like silver bells, chasing away all the shadows of life.
In that moment, Francisco's heart was filled with peace. He gazed at his child, who had sketched a colorful world with her innocent hands, as if all the suffering had melted away. She was his sunshine, his only guide in the dark. He wanted to protect that smile forever, to draw together, to laugh together, and live simple, fulfilling days on this small patch of land.
"Daddy,where do you think the birds in the painting will fly to?" Isabella asked, looking up with innocent curiosity in her eyes.
"They will fly to find a warmer place, perhaps a better home," Francisco replied softly, his gaze gentle.
"Can we also find a better home?" she blinked, looking at him with hope.
Francisco's heart quivered, but he hid his emotions. He lowered his head and kissed her forehead, speaking in the warmest voice, "Of course, we will."
They painted for a long time, until the sun began to set and the evening light stretched their shadows long. The paper beneath them was filled with colorful dreams, while Francisco's heart was filled with hopes for his daughter's future.
"I can't kill... I can't do this..." In the illusion, Francisco knelt, whispering, crying uncontrollably.
"Why? Why haven't you killed them after all they've done to you?"
The wrinkles on Francisco's face deepened, like cuts carved by a knife. Tears slid down his pale cheeks, mingling with his unkempt beard. His eyes were bloodshot, and his gaze was unfocused, lost. Tears poured down, falling onto his cracked lips, the corners twitching. Choking on his words, Francisco stammered, "Because my daughter... she doesn't want me to be a bad man... if I kill... I'll never be worthy... to be her father again..."
"You are so weak..." Margoloria's smile slowly disappeared, replaced by a cold indifference. "You still don't understand. If you treat the world with kindness, the world won't return that kindness. You'll realize this. The world is just that cruel."
Looking at Francisco, who had no reaction no matter how much he was tortured, the officer showed great displeasure. "Why has the bone stimulant stopped? This won't do, for the war and the Republic's victory!" The officer injected adrenaline into Francisco's neck, but he showed no response.
"We need to give him a bigger shock, make him feel like there's no way out," the officer said coldly.
A crude pencil drawing was tossed in front of Francisco. It depicted a little girl with her father, a strong tree in the background, a blue sky, and flying birds. The drawing was crooked but full of childish innocence.
"This was drawn by your daughter," the officer sneered, crushing the drawing underfoot. "Such a pointless thing."
Suddenly, the iron door was violently pushed open, the clash of metal against the floor echoing in the still air. A small, pale, and fragile barefoot figure entered, her toes covered in dirt and scars. Francisco looked up in shock, his eyes shifting from empty to terrified, as though a trapped animal had been forced awake. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"Isabella..." He rasped, his voice barely audible, like it came from another world. His eyes locked onto her small figure, and his mind flooded with countless beautiful memories: her smiling face in the sunlight, chasing butterflies on the grass, holding crayons and saying, "Daddy, did I draw it well?"
But now, there was no smile on her face, only fear and confusion. When she saw her father, her once bright eyes filled with tears, and her little hand trembled as she pointed to his tortured face. "Daddy... is it you? What happened to you?"
Tears flowed uncontrollably from Francisco. He struggled desperately to free himself from the restraints, but the metal chains dug into his flesh, blood sliding down the iron rings. His arm, stripped to the bone, stretched out in vain, trying to touch his daughter's tender face.
"Don't come near... Isabella, run! Run away!" Francisco screamed hoarsely, using every ounce of strength he had. But his mouth was stuffed, and he could only make helpless whimpers.
Isabella cried out, rushing toward him with open arms. "Daddy! You're hurt! I'll take you home!"
"Bang—"
The gunshot pierced the air, like a sharp blade stabbing into Francisco's chest. His pupils dilated, his gaze fixed on the small figure. Isabella stumbled, her body falling forward with the momentum, the bullet tearing through her small chest, staining her little dress red with blood, the splattering blood resembling a brilliant rose.
"Ah..." Francisco's sobs tore through the room. He watched her weak body collapse onto the cold ground, her little arm reaching out to him but never touching.
"Daddy... I'm sorry..." Her voice was weak, like a fallen leaf, filled with endless regret and apology.
Francisco struggled, the chains cutting deep into his muscles, leaving bloody gashes, but he could no longer feel the pain. All he could hear was the frantic buzzing in his ears, while his mind was deathly silent.
He had laughed with Isabella under the warm sun countless times, painting colorful fairytales. He had lifted her onto his shoulders to look at the distant fields. He had promised her that no matter what happened, he would protect her, that she would never be afraid of anything again.
But now, everything was gone.
"From the start, you were just deceiving yourself."
"Take the power I gave you. Teach this world a lesson it will never forget."
"Have you not yet understood the extraordinary lesson this world has taught you?"
"Ahhhhhhh!" Twisted bones erupted from Francisco's body, and he began to fully transform.
A man died under others' torture, and a demon was born from the world's malice.
Countless sharp bone spikes grew wildly from Francisco's body, piercing through the surrounding personnel and officers. He became a monster devoid of humanity, slaughtering and screaming, turning the entire room into a sea of blood.
Margoloria stood quietly, watching everything unfold, her face still wearing a sneer, elegant and proud, as if admiring a completed masterpiece. "Well done, Francisco," she said, walking slowly toward him, her steps light, the hem of her skirt stained dark red by the blood on the floor. "Welcome to the real world."