January 1, 1995, nine in the morning.
A new year, a new atmosphere.
The deepest gates of Plateau Prison opened with a clang.
Gilbert was roughly dragged out by two fully ard Jail Guards.
He could barely stand, relying entirely on the Jail Guards dragging him forward by the arms. Three days of inhumane torture, coupled with the agony of fear, had left him completely broken. His cheeks were sunken, eye sockets darkened, lips cracked and peeling, with traces of blood. His hair and beard were matted into clumps, covered in previous filth, emitting a pungent sour and decaying sll.
His pants were conspicuously soaked, the darker color still dripping with turbid liquid—a complete loss of control due to overwhelming fear.
His face was ashen, devoid of any vitality. Only his eyes moved slightly due to extre terror, empty and alarming, with no trace of his forr ferocity or scheming.
"Damn it! Move faster!"
The Jail Guard cursed impatiently.
Through the corridor, the deafening sound from outside faintly reached them.
The gates leading to the central square slowly opened.
"Gilbert!!!!!!"
"Drug trafficker! You son of a bitch drug trafficker!!"
There were only a few hundred people on site, but the roaring sea-like curses almost overturned the entire prison square.
Who wouldn't want to see this "traditional craftsmanship" up close?
The curious ones were still nurous.
If selling tickets didn't seem bad, so might actually pay to watch.
Gilbert's body abruptly stiffened, then as if all bones were removed, he completely collapsed. Were it not for the Jail Guards holding him tightly, he would have been like a puddle of mud, sprawling on the ground. The wet mark on his crotch rapidly expanded...
What kind of legendary drug lord was this? He was rely a mangy dog, utterly defeated, scared witless and awaiting slaughter.
In the center of the square, a special platform had been set up.
There were no traditional stakes or blades, replaced by a precision platform gleaming with tallic sheen, connected to several complex devices filled with pipes, small nozzles, probes, and laser emitters.
Several technicians dressed in white protective suits and goggles were making final adjustnts, moving professionally like they were conducting a high-end surgery.
Major Rodrigo stood beside the platform, speaking into a microphone. His voice, amplified, resounded across the venue, overshadowing the uproar:
"Citizens! Today is the day of Justice! This blood-soaked Devil, Gilbert! He will receive the harshest punishnt here. To ensure precision, prolonged effect, and profound warning, we utilize the most advanced technological thods!"
"Every action will be precisely controlled by computer—strength, depth, position—all strictly set. This will be an unprecedented, modern execution, lasting long enough for this devil to pay the most painful price for his heinous cris!"
A cybernetic execution, indeed?
As soon as he finished speaking, the crowd erupted with more fervent cheers and applause!
Many sported excited twisted smiles, standing on tiptoe, craning their necks, eager to see the "high-tech" cutting begin.
"Good! Just like this!"
"Let him die slowly!"
Gilbert was dragged onto the platform, towards the complex device.
When his gaze fell upon those instrunts, he finally reacted:
"No——!!!"
He erupted with the last vestiges of survival instinct, desperately struggling!
But the futile struggle lasted less than two seconds.
Two technicians swiftly approached, deftly capturing his arms and legs.
Several thick restraints instantly snapped out with clicks, securely fastening him to the platform.
His wrists, ankles, waist, neck were all tightly locked with cold tal clamps, rendering him immobile.
His head was forcibly aligned, facing the Sky, confronted by countless pairs of fervent, hateful eyes and the blinding light of the caras. He opened his mouth in vain, only able to emit an air-leaking "wheezing" sound. Tears, snot, drool sared across his distorted face.
"I don't want to die, I don't want to die!!"
Major Rodrigo glanced expressionlessly at the completely broken "cargo" on the platform, confirming the restraints were secure.
He raised his wrist, checked the ti, then announced coldly into the microphone:
"Comnce execution!"
Brrr——!
The precise instrunts on the platform simultaneously lit their indicators, issuing a low whirring sound. A tiny red laser point, chillingly precise, silently fell on Gilbert's exposed, convulsing chest skin.
Instantly ignited the frenzy across the square.
Like those dieval fire tortures, spectators watching the "witch" burn, the "violence" within humanity was provoked.
However, as the first wisp of white smoke accompanied by an almost inaudible "sizzle" rose from the laser point.
"Ahhhhhh!!!!"
Gilbert wailed miserably, heart-rendingly.
The atmosphere subtly shifted, that howl akin to a dying beast's lant, filled with pure, unimaginable agony.
The faces of the several n in the front row who had been shouting excitedly suddenly froze.
Their eyes widened as they watched the neat slice of flesh cut from Gilbert. One bent over suddenly, retching violently, while the person beside him hurriedly patted his back, his own complexion turning ashen.
The TV broadcast faithfully captured all of this.
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