The moment that voice came from the monster's mouth—
the world froze.
An A-rank horror… actually spoke.
"Human… interesting…"
The voice was low, rasping, wrong—like metal grinding against bone.
It came from the Giant Thousand-Hand Centipede.
In an instant, viewers from every country flooded into Ocean Pouch Nation's livestream, desperate to confirm they weren't hallucinating.
"What the hell?! It really talked?!"
"Divine Domain: Forbidden Zone beasts can speak now?! Are you kidding me?"
"Didn't we say these creatures have low intelligence? Then what is this?"
"In myths, monsters that live long enough learn speech… and even take human form. This is the Divine Domain: Forbidden Zone—an A-rank speaking doesn't feel impossible…"
"Still—this is horrifying. A centipede talking like a person is nightmare given form."
The centipede, of course, didn't see the chat.
It was far more interested in the two trembling humans trapped in front of it.
Then it spoke again, halting and uneven, as if forcing the words out one by one:
"Human… from… where? How… come?"
The two competitors—half sobbing, half gasping—answered immediately, clinging to the only thing that still looked like "hope."
"W-We're from Ocean Pouch Nation! We—We came from Ocean Pouch Nation!"
They didn't understand what was happening… but the fact that it could talk felt like a lifeline.
A beast that only ate on instinct meant certain death.
A creature with intelligence—one that could communicate—meant there might be a sliver of mercy.
A chance.
A way out.
After they answered, silence stretched.
The Giant Thousand-Hand Centipede seemed to process the information, tasting the meaning like a strange new flavor.
Pinned and unable to move, the two competitors swallowed hard.
Then one of them forced the question out through trembling teeth:
"We… we answered you. Now… can you let us go?"
The centipede's antennae twitched.
It replied, almost amused:
"Go? You… want go?"
The two men nodded violently, desperate.
"Yes! Yes—go! We want to go!"
A sound crawled out of the creature's throat.
A laugh—wet, slow, patient.
"Heh… heh… heh…"
Even through a screen, it made people feel sick.
And the two men, trapped in front of it, went pale with dread.
They understood it now.
This wasn't kindness.
This was play.
The centipede spoke again:
"Want go… can. But before… play game."
"A… game?" one competitor stammered.
The creature's body tightened, coiling in on itself like a cage snapping shut.
Ka-da… Ka-da… Ka-da…
Its countless legs clicked in a chorus of crawling blades as it wrapped them in, sealing them inside a living prison.
Then it said, almost cheerfully:
"I give time. You count… how many claws I have. Count right… I let you leave. How?"
The two men stared in horror.
Count them?
There were so many the eye couldn't track them—an endless ripple of limbs, too fast, too crowded, too wrong.
It wasn't a game.
It was an impossible task dressed up as mercy.
But the promise of escape—however thin—was still a rope in a drowning man's hands.
They nodded.
They agreed.
Then the centipede added, soft and delighted:
"Game… needs punishment. Count slow… or count wrong… you take punishment, okay?"
Punishment.
The word hit like ice water.
Before they could ask what it meant, the centipede announced the start.
And the two competitors—terrified past reason—began to count.
"One… two… three… four…"
A blur.
A sharp motion.
A scream.
"AHHH—!!"
One limb flicked out with casual precision, and a finger was gone.
"You count… too slow."
The man's howl tore through the forest.
The centipede ignored it completely, voice calm—almost pleased.
"Again. Heh… heh…"
Shaking, crying, choking on panic, they restarted—obedience hammered into them by fear.
"One… two… three… four…"
This time they tried to go faster.
Much faster.
They knew now: speed was the only thing separating them from the next cut.
But pain, terror, and frantic counting made mistakes inevitable.
"…five-six—no—five—six—seven…"
Another blur.
Another strike.
Two screams overlapped, raw and helpless.
The centipede's voice dipped into something almost tender.
"Heh… heh… you counted wrong?"
From then on, it became routine.
Too slow—punishment.
A missed number—punishment.
A stutter—punishment.
The two competitors grew weaker. Their eyes went glassy. Their voices turned mechanical as they counted like dolls with broken strings.
The centipede's saliva kept them from bleeding out.
Not mercy.
A leash—so they stayed awake long enough to understand what was happening to them.
Eventually, the centipede grew bored.
It released a sigh—almost disappointed.
"Ah… no fun. Nothing left to cut…"
At that moment, the two competitors, half-delirious, finally managed to finish the count.
They didn't even register its tone.
"Done! We finished! Let us go—please! Let us go!"
Silence.
Then the centipede answered, warmly:
"Congratulations. You finished. Then… go."
Wild hope jolted through them—
and shattered a second later.
They couldn't "go."
They were ruined bodies held upright by nothing but the monster's saliva and the monster's patience.
They couldn't stand.
They couldn't crawl.
They couldn't even die.
The hope they'd grabbed turned to ash in a single breath.
And what came next wasn't pleading.
It was a sound like something inside a person snapping for good.
"AAAAAAAHHHH!!"
Both of them screamed until their throats tore and their voices broke.
The Giant Thousand-Hand Centipede shivered with delight.
"Ke-ke-ke… YES. This. I like this."
It leaned closer, voice bright with sick excitement:
"You win! You can go! Go! Hurry! Go now!"
The men didn't even hear it anymore.
They were gone—minds shattered, screams empty.
One by one, viewers fled the stream.
But what they saw stayed behind their eyes like a curse.
For Ocean Pouch Nation's viewers, only despair remained.
"I can't… I can't watch this anymore."
"That's not a beast. That's a devil."
"It never intended to let them go. It just wanted to torture them."
"If I ever had the power… I'd make it pay."
"But can humans really defeat something like that?"
In that moment, the world finally understood what the "forbidden forest" truly meant.
It wasn't a resource zone.
It was a slaughterhouse.
And the butcher… was intelligent.
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