In one of the mountains of a country in South Africa, torn apart by conflict and civil war, a sharp rocky peak rose like a knife stabbed into the body of the earth. Cold winds howled violently, crashing against the barren rocks and carrying with them the stench of gunpowder and blood.
Atop this peak—on a narrow space fit only for death—a group of armed mercenaries had gathered. Their rifles were aimed downward, their military boots digging into the hard soil as they stood with a steadiness born of countless massacres.
Before them, right at the edge of the mountain, stood a group of civilians—men and women—bound with coarse ropes. Their bodies were emaciated, their clothes torn, their faces marked by prolonged hunger and accumulated fear. None of them had the strength to scream… only ragged breaths and a fatal wait.
At the center of the mercenaries sat their commander on a metal chair brought especially to this place, as if the mountain were a stage and he the star of the show. He slowly took out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled the smoke as though savoring the moment. Then, with a careless gesture of his hand, he ordered one of his soldiers:
"Pronounce the sentence on the criminals."
The soldier stepped forward with steady strides and read in a voice as cold as stone:
"In the name of the provisional military authority, and for treason, attempting to ignite war, and leaking state secrets… you are sentenced to death by firing squad."
The silence shattered.
One of the civilians shouted—his voice hoarse yet filled with suppressed rage:
"Who are you to sentence us to death?! You are murderous mercenaries! You killed my son! My mother died of hunger because of the siege! All of this is because of you! And when we tried to flee the village, you captured us… and now you accuse us of treason?!"
His legs gave way, and he fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands as he burst into tears.
One of the mercenaries did not hesitate. He raised his weapon, pulled the trigger, and bullets pierced the man's body several times. His corpse collapsed, motionless, as the echo of gunfire mixed with the terrified screams of the civilians.
Then, as if it were a prearranged signal, other mercenaries stepped forward, raised their weapons, and began firing at anyone who dared to scream. It took only seconds… before silence fell once more.
An elderly man, his back bent, his face full of wrinkles, barely able to stand.
And a boy of thirteen years, standing still, head lowered, eyes staring at the ground without any expression.
The commander noticed something different.
The boy's skin was not purely sub-Saharan African, but closer to the complexion of North African peoples. The commander stared at him with curiosity and said mockingly:
"Strange… such calm. Not screaming in a situation like this means one of two things: either you've suffered so much that death has become trivial… or you're insane."
He laughed loudly, stood up from his chair, and snatched a pistol from a nearby mercenary. He walked toward the old man and, without a single word, fired. Then he grabbed the body and threw it off the mountain, where it vanished into the vast abyss.
He then turned to the boy and smiled:
"And you… why don't you show any reaction? Usually kids your age scream, beg, cry… especially when death is this close."
He stepped closer, looked into the boy's eyes, and his expression changed:
"You don't look like you're from this village… in fact, you're not even from this country, are you?"
The boy remained silent.
The commander placed the pistol against his head:
"Tell me… what is your last wish before I pull the trigger?"
The boy raised his head for the first time, smiled calmly, and said:
"What is your name?"
The commander froze for a second, then laughed:
"That's your wish? How strange you are… My name is Mamadou. Now, choose a real wish."
The boy smiled again:
"What is the difference between those at the top and those at the bottom? Why do those above us always condemn us to humiliation?"
Mamadou's smile widened:
He lowered his weapon, took a long drag from his cigarette, then said:
"I'll answer you… but in my own way."
He shouted:
"Untie him!"
Then he asked the boy:
"What's your name?"
"Hakim."
Mamadou laughed:
"Take him down the mountain. Transfer him to the camp… I won't just answer you—I'll teach you the answer."
In the same high mountains where executions were once carried out on rocky edges, the scene this time extended into the very heart of the mountain itself. In the middle of a vast rocky plain surrounded by towering heights, the ground had split open into a gigantic pit, as if the mountain had been forced apart. Flames surged endlessly from within—dense, savage fire—spewing suffocating black smoke that coiled into the sky and covered it in darkness, making it seem as though night had fallen before its time.
Around the pit stood the mercenaries in an irregular circle. Their faces were lit by the orange glow of the flames, their laughter loud, their voices echoing off the mountains as they shouted in exhilaration:
"Death to the traitor!"
At the forefront stood Mamadou, firm as a rock, his arm outstretched toward the pit like the leader of a demonic ritual, his soldiers lined up behind him in silence tinged with excitement.
One of them broke the silence, bowing slightly:
"He has awakened, sir!"
Mamadou turned slowly.
Behind him, on the hard ground, Hakim lay face down, his body discarded carelessly. One of his arms was completely gone, and the other was grotesquely mangled. His breathing began to return, his body twitching erratically as he gradually regained consciousness.
He opened his eyes with difficulty, his voice coming out broken:
"Wh– what happened to me? Wasn't I on the way to the camp? How… how did I end up here?"
He tried to get up, then noticed the emptiness at his right shoulder. He froze for a moment… then screamed in genuine terror:
"My arm! My arm! What happened to my arm?!"
He began looking around frantically, then his eyes fell on his left arm—burned skin, exposed bones. Something inside him shattered. His screaming intensified, and he burst into tears, the crying of a child who had lost everything at once.
Mamadou stepped forward calmly, his voice cold:
"Finally… you're awake. Now it's time to pay."
One of the mercenaries approached and whispered:
"It seems he lost his memory because of the drug. Should we wait until he remembers, or—"
He didn't finish.
Mamadou turned violently, grabbed an iron chain lying near the pit, and advanced toward him with eyes full of rage:
"Kneel."
The man trembled and collapsed to his knees, crying:
"Please… mercy! I'm one of you! I didn't mean any disrespect, I was just suggesting—"
But mercy did not exist on this mountain.
Two mercenaries seized him, dragged him swiftly, and threw him into the pit. His screams rose from within the flames—long, torn apart—before abruptly fading… and silence fell.
Mamadou turned back to Hakim.
He stepped forward with several mercenaries, and they began wrapping Hakim's body in heavy iron chains, layer upon layer, until he could no longer move or even scream except with great difficulty.
One of the mercenaries said in a nearly mocking tone:
"The man thrown into the fire lost consciousness from the pain… but Hakim won't have that luck. The drug he took prevents him from passing out. With these chains… he'll suffer until the very last second."
They approached the edge.
In a single moment, Hakim was thrown into the fire.
His screams rose as he burned alive, his body convulsing, his voice fading amid the mercenaries' laughter.
He screamed and cried, his voice filled with despair and complete collapse:
"All I wanted was to live! Just a second chance! Oh God! Give me another chance! I swear I'll take revenge on humanity! I'll control everyone! Kings… presidents… clergy… the wealthy! I'll destroy them all! I want power! Just… another chance!"
He kept repeating it, his voice growing weaker and weaker, until his body turned to ash, drifting away with the smoke.
Transition to the Imperial Palace
We move to beneath the imperial palace.
In an isolated stone corridor, before a massive door resembling an old storage gate beneath the palace, stood the personal guard of the second emperor's wife. The wife paced back and forth, her ornate clothes luxurious, yet her hands trembled.
"Are you certain we'll succeed? If the child dies during birth… I'll be condemned immediately. He must be born alive."
The guard replied confidently:
"I brought the best doctors and priests. Rest assured—and stop moving so your clothes don't get dirty."
Before he could finish, the sound of a newborn baby crying split the space.
The wife rushed inside, the guard following her. A room equipped with advanced medical tools, doctors surrounding the crying infant.
One of the female doctors said anxiously:
"His crying… it's strange. It's as if he's screaming words."
But the wife snatched the child and laughed:
"The child of an illicit affair… this is the strongest weapon in the state."
She hurried out.
"Madam! The child is a newborn!"
But the guard followed her, muttering:
"I've never heard a baby cry like that before…"
The Child's Consciousness
Inside his mind, the child was screaming in English:
"My God… a second chance… I will take revenge on humanity…"
A transparent window appeared before him:
Warning: System malfunction…
But the screaming did not stop.