Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

Her hands were festering and deformed, the skin between her fingers was rotting and stuck together like a duck's webbed feet. But a duck's webbed feet are smooth; hers were rotten, oozing pus, and smelling putrid.

The nail fell off, exposing the nail bed, which was covered with a white, soft, cotton-like substance – that was mold.

She used her teeth to bite the mold, and the bits of mold that came off melted in her mouth, tasting like dirt.

Her body emitted a mixed odor—rotten, fishy, ​​sour, and bitter.

It was the smell of rotting flesh, festering wounds, dried scabs, and putrid bodily fluids mixed together. It wasn't a single, uniform stench; it was a complex, multifaceted, and layered stench.

Once you've smelled it, you'll never forget it for the rest of your life.

But she can't smell it herself, not because her nose is broken, but because she's gotten used to it, just like someone living next to a garbage dump can't smell the garbage.

Eve lay face down on the basement floor, her face pressed against the dirt.

There was no bed, no mattress, no pillow.

She doesn't need those things because it doesn't matter whether she sleeps or not.

When she was tired, she would lie down. When she woke up, she would open her eyes and stare into the darkness. There were sounds in the darkness, the sounds of her own body.

My heart pounded; my breath hissed; blood flowed through my veins like a distant stream; pus gushed from my wounds like bubbles in a swamp.

She listened to these sounds for many years, becoming intimately familiar with the rhythm, tone, and variations of each sound. She could even discern from which wound the pus was seeping from, where it flowed, and what it was being absorbed by.

Taboo knowledge also seeped into her mind.

It didn't seep in slowly; it suddenly burrowed in, like a red-hot iron rod stabbing into the top of her head, all the way to the bottom, into the depths of her soul.

She lay on the ground, her body jolting violently as if she had been electrocuted.

On her festering skin, the half-dried scabs cracked open, breaking into countless tiny fragments that fell from her body like snowflakes or dust blown away by the wind.

A single, cloudy tear suddenly flowed from the socket of her blind left eye.

It wasn't her crying; the tears just flowed from her eyes.

The tear streamed down her cheek, across her festering skin, over her blackened scabs, over her everted lips, and dripped onto the ground where it was absorbed by the soil.

Then she laughed.

Not a smile, but a bitter smile, a miserable smile.

It was the kind of maniacal laughter that burst forth from the depths of the soul, a laughter that had been suppressed for countless years and had finally found an outlet.

Laughter squeezed out of her festering throat, hoarse, shrill, and piercing, like an owl hooting in the night, like a broken bellows being suddenly pulled.

She laughed so hard her whole body trembled, her festering skin shaking with each laugh, and pus was squeezed out of her wounds, splattering everywhere.

He laughed until he couldn't breathe, and tears—if you could call them tears— welled up from his blind eye socket, mixing with pus and flowing into his mouth, salty, fishy, ​​bitter, and sweet.

Sweet? She tasted sweetness.

That wasn't the taste of tears, it was the taste of hope.

"Liberation... has finally arrived!"

She lay on the floor and laughed for a long time, laughing until her vocal cords tore, until her throat bled, until her hoarse laughter echoed throughout the entire basement.

Then she stopped, not because she was finished laughing, but because she had thought of what she should do.

She knew how to die.

She didn't die on her own; she was eaten by demons from hell. Once they ate her, she died—truly died.

Her flesh and blood were a sacrifice, her festering wounds a miracle, her pain a test, and the reward for passing the test was death.

She started climbing towards the door.

Her legs were still there, but the skin below the knees had rotted away, and the muscles had also rotted away, leaving only two white bones.

She used those two bones to support herself on the ground, like using two crutches, and limped forward.

The broken end of the bone was sharp. It was inserted into the soil, pulled out, and then inserted again. There were pebbles in the soil, and the pebbles got stuck in the bone, causing her to convulse in pain.

She doesn't care.

She crawled to the door and used her festering, deformed, lumps of flesh that had grown together to push the door open.

The bolt was made of iron, rusted, and stuck very tightly.

She tried to push him away a few times but couldn't, so she banged her head against him—once, twice, three times.

The door opened.

The sunlight shone on her, on her festering, pus-filled, and blackened body.

She stopped hiding.

She used to be afraid of light, afraid of seeing people, and afraid of being seen by others.

Now she's not afraid anymore; this isn't a curse, it's a miracle.

It was the mark that indicated she was chosen.

She wanted to show this mark to everyone and tell them: Look, I've been chosen.

You too can be chosen, as long as you offer your flesh and blood, as long as you turn yourselves into sacrifices like I have, then death will come.

She climbed out of the basement and onto the street.

The streets were deserted, not because there were no people, but because everyone was busy cutting off their own flesh and piling it on the altar.

But she didn't know that she was the only one who knew this secret.

She wanted to tell others, to spread the word, to let everyone know.

She climbed to the first intersection and stopped. There was no one around, only wind, gray fog, and dry, cracked earth.

After waiting for a while and no one came, she continued climbing.

She climbed for an unknown amount of time, maybe half a day, maybe a whole day.

The bones were ground down, and the broken ends were rounded, like two worn-down pieces of chalk.

She left two deep white marks where she climbed, and the marks contained bone meal, which was blown away by the wind and mixed into the gray fog.

Finally, she saw someone.

The person was leaning against the wall, head down, as if dozing off.

His left arm was broken, the cut wrapped with tattered strips of cloth, the cloth stained with dark red scabs. His eyes were closed, his breathing was very light, and his chest barely rose and fell.

Eve crawled up to him and stopped, nudging his legs with her head.

The man opened his eyes and looked down at her.

His eyes were cloudy and empty, like two dry wells. When he saw Eve, he didn't flinch, feel disgusted, or afraid.

Because he's rotten too, just not as bad as her. In this world, being rotten isn't an accident, it's the norm.

Eve looked up and stared at him with her still-intact right eye.

Her right eye was bloodshot, and the surface of her eyeball was covered with a layer of pale yellow, sticky secretion, but the pupil beneath the secretion was bright.

It's not reflected light, it's light that shines from within. It's the light of fervor, the light of devotion, the light that only shines in the eyes of someone who has found faith and is willing to give everything for it.

She spoke. Her voice was hoarse and intermittent, like an old, broken radio, but every word was clear.

“This is not a curse, it is a test.” She paused, a mouthful of phlegm rising in her throat, which she swallowed, and continued.

“We sacrifice our festering flesh to open the gates of hell. The demons will take our souls and let us rest forever. I’ve tried it. I’m cutting. Look.” She raised her festering, deformed hands, showing him the few fingers stuck together.

The spaces between his fingers were filled with dried scabs and bits of flesh.

“This is my sacrifice. When I offer myself up, the demon will come. When the demon comes, I will die. I will really die. My soul will be scattered, and I will have nothing left. I will no longer feel pain, itch, or smell. I will have nothing left.”

That person stared at her for a long time.

His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't.

Then he stood up and walked towards his residence.

Eve didn't know if he was going to get a knife, hide, or go somewhere else.

She didn't chase after them, but continued crawling forward.

She's not in a hurry.

If one person doesn't believe, find the next one; if the next one doesn't believe, find the one after that. Someone will eventually believe. This world doesn't lack desperate people; what it lacks is direction.

She climbed to another intersection.

There were three people there: one sprawled on the ground, one leaning against the wall, and one squatting in the corner.

The one lying on the ground was covered in sores that his skin looked like it had been scalded with boiling water and scrubbed with an iron brush, with red and white streaks everywhere.

The one leaning against the wall had half a face missing. It wasn't cut off; it was rotten, revealing the cheekbone and upper jawbone underneath.

The one crouching in the corner has no eyes; its two empty eye sockets stare at the ground, seemingly looking at something.

Eve paused, scanning them with her eerily bright right eye, and then she began to speak, her voice louder and more resolute than before.

“A miracle! The festering sores on my body are not a curse, but a miracle! It is a mark of God choosing me! Look at me!” She opened her arms, letting the three men see her festering, pus-filled, and blackened body.

The three men looked at her without speaking or showing any expression.

Eve continued, “God abandoned this world because we weren’t devout enough; we failed the tests. Skin ulcers are a test, limb mutilation is a test, being bedridden is a test, and immortality is the greatest test. Once you pass the tests, the gates of hell will open. The demons will come, they will devour our flesh and blood, they will consume our souls. Then we will be free! Truly dead! No more pain, nothing left!”

The person who was paralyzed on the ground moved.

He raised his head and looked at Eve with his cloudy eyes.

His lips moved slightly, uttering a weak sound: "Really...can I die?"

Eve looked at him with a firm gaze and a resolute tone, leaving him no room for doubt.

"real!"

“I’m doing it, look at my fingers.” She held up her festering, deformed hands, showing him the fingers that were stuck together, without nails, and covered in mold.

“I offered them to the devil; they are already sacrifices. The devil will take me after he takes the sacrifices. If you offer yourself up, the devil will take you. There are no exceptions, as long as you are devout enough and as long as you offer enough.”

The person lying on the ground remained silent for a long time.

Then he reached out and used his fingernails to pick at the rotten flesh on his arm.

Pieces of rotten flesh fell off, landing on the ground, on his legs, and in front of Eve.

He picked at it slowly and forcefully, his fingernails filled with bits of flesh and pus. He had no knife, only his fingernails, but even fingernails were tools.

Eve looked at him and smiled.

His smile was unpleasant; his lips were everted, his gums were exposed, his teeth were black, and there was pus hanging from the corner of his mouth.

But it was a genuine laugh.

She knew that she had gained another believer.

She continued crawling forward.

She climbed street after street, stopping at each place to look at the living dead huddled in corners, lying on the hard ground, or hanging from tree branches with her eerily bright eyes.

She spoke, and spoke on and on, saying it was a miracle, not a curse; that by sacrificing one's own flesh and blood, the gates of hell would open; that demons would come, devour them, and kill them completely.

Her voice was hoarse, but powerful.

Her body was festering, but it glowed—not real light, but the light that desperate people saw in her.

They saw no hope, but they saw Eve. Eve was not hope; Eve was direction. She pointed to hell, to death, to the end.

That's enough!

More and more people followed her and climbed.

When their legs couldn't walk, they crawled on their arms; when their arms couldn't work, they rubbed their chins; when their chins were worn raw, they licked them with their tongues.

They followed behind her like a dark red river flowing out of the alley, out of the ruins, out of the cracks in the ground.

They carried knives, pottery jars, and even their own bodies, and followed her to the abandoned altar outside the city.

Eve climbed down to the foot of the altar.

Old Mo was already there, lying on top of that pile of flesh and blood.

He wasn't dead; he was still breathing, and his chest was rising and falling.

He saw Eve but didn't greet her, and Eve saw him but didn't greet him either.

They didn't need to greet each other because they knew what each other was there for.

Eve climbed onto the altar, her festering, deformed hands wedging themselves against the edge of the stone slab. With a forceful pull, the webbing tore open, and pus gushed out, splattering onto the stone.

She doesn't care.

I climbed up, knelt on the stone slab, raised my hands, and looked up at the gray sky.

Her hands were trembling, not from pain, but from excitement.

She had waited thirteen years for this moment. She wasn't waiting to die; she was waiting for the chance to die. Now, the chance had come.

"Flesh and blood as the guide, obsession as the bridge!" Her voice, hoarse yet resonant, was squeezed from her festering throat. It echoed beneath the gray sky, rolled across the cracked earth, and weaved through twisted, withered branches. "The gates of hell, open for us!"

Those who had followed her up behind her also began to roar.

A chaotic, intermittent roar, like the howls of wild beasts.

Some people are shouting 'liberation,' some are shouting 'death,' some are shouting 'demon,' and some can't utter any words at all, just opening their mouths and making indistinct, broken sounds squeezed out from the depths of their souls.

Numerous voices mingled together, converging into an invisible torrent that crashed against the gray-white sky.

The cracks on the sky have become finer, like spider webs.

They neither expand nor shrink, but simply cover the sky densely, like a crumpled old newspaper.

Eve knelt on the stone slab, maintaining that posture, her hands raised high, looking up at the sky.

She remained still, silent, and silent.

They just knelt, waited, and prayed.

She wasn't praying to God, she was praying to death. She had waited thirteen years; a few more days wouldn't matter. (End of Chapter)