Courtyard Houses: Longevity Since the War of Resistance

The space is still the same space.

The stench of blood was overwhelming. Lying on the ground were those who had just been pulled back by the god of time. Their eyes were glazed over, and although they were unharmed, their souls seemed to have been shattered several times over.

Some people looked at their intact hands and trembled, while others lay on the ground retching; the air was filled with their heavy breathing.

I stood in the middle, watching them. We've run out of tools; it's time for experiments. These guys love experiments, right? Well, I'll just double down on them, one by one.

The first method was burning at the stake.

I walked to the wall, where several blowtorches hung. The Japanese used them to sterilize their equipment. I took one down, turned on the valve, and lit it with a match. With a "poof," a thin, bluish-white flame shot out, hissing loudly. The flame was very concentrated and extremely hot.

Carrying the blowtorch, he walked up to the first target.

Ishii Shiro.

He sat on the ground, leaning against the wall, his military uniform wrinkled, his glasses askew. I recognized him. No, I should say, people of later generations should recognize him. The head of the digital corps.

Those iron cages, those operating tables, those organ specimens preserved in formalin—many of them were created under his supervision and on his orders. After the war, he traded the research data with the Americans, escaped trial, and lived to a ripe old age—he got off easy.

Now, he doesn't have that opportunity.

Seeing me approach and the blowtorch in my hand, Shiro Ishii made a gurgling sound in his throat and tried to shrink back, but there was a wall behind him. His face was completely bloodless, and his lips were trembling.

I didn't say anything. I crouched down, grabbed his arm with my left hand, and pressed him to the ground. He struggled, but his strength was pitifully weak.

I turned down the flame of the blowtorch a little, not to reduce the temperature, but to make it more stable. Then I aimed the blue-white, hissing tip at the fingertips of his right hand.

It should be about two centimeters away from the skin.

"ah!!!"

Shiro Ishii's scream suddenly exploded, even sharper than when he was hit by the axe.

The flames didn't directly touch his skin, but the extremely hot air was enough. I saw the skin on his fingertips instantly turn red! Blister! Turn black! Curl!

The oil was forced out, sizzling and releasing a small plume of smoke with a burnt smell. The process was slow, and I could clearly see every inch of skin carbonizing little by little under the intense heat.

His whole body was tense like a bow, his other hand frantically scratching the ground, his legs kicking wildly. Tears and snot streamed down his face, and he made muffled noises, it was hard to tell if he was begging for mercy or cursing.

I didn't stop.

Holding the blowtorch, he slowly moved it along his fingers towards his palm. Where the flame passed, it left a charred trail of torn flesh. The fat beneath the skin melted and flowed out, igniting upon contact with the fire and producing an even louder sizzling sound.

Then came his palms, where the skin was thicker, but the burning was slower and the pain lasted longer. I watched as huge blisters swelled up on his palms under the flames, bursting to reveal the dermis and muscle tissue underneath. Then the muscles began to change color, contract, and char.

Shiro Ishii's cries had become incoherent, turning into intermittent, bellows-like gasps. His eyes were wide open, staring intently at his hand, which was slowly burning, as if he couldn't comprehend what was happening to him.

After burning one hand, switch to the other. Repeat the same steps, starting with the fingertips.

Next are the feet.

I helped him lie flat and pulled off his shoes and socks. I aimed the blowtorch at his toes. Toes are more sensitive than fingers, and the burning pain seemed more intense. He arched his body in pain, his head tilting back desperately, the veins in his neck bulging as if they were about to burst.

After burning his limbs, it wasn't over yet. The torch flames moved towards his torso. Avoiding vital organs, they burned his sides, shoulders, and the fleshy parts of his back. His skin contracted violently under the intense heat, deforming the muscles beneath. The stench of burning grew stronger, a mixture of blood and excrement filling the air.

Shiro Ishii's screams had long since faded, turning into dying groans. His consciousness began to blur, and his body would occasionally twitch. Large areas of his skin were charred and carbonized, exposing the underlying bone in places, which was also blackened by smoke.

I turned off the blowtorch.

He lay there, barely breathing, on the verge of death.

The god of time reversed time. His charred skin returned to its original color, carbonized tissue regenerated, severed blood vessels were mended, and his weak heartbeat regained its strength. A few seconds later, Shiro Ishii lay on the ground unharmed, except that the fear in his eyes was much deeper; there wasn't a single wound on his body.

He touched himself blankly, then suddenly curled up, letting out a whimper like a wounded wild animal. The memory of being roasted alive was still vividly etched into his mind.

I didn't look at him again and walked to the next one.

Kitano Masaji, also a doctor, participated in and led numerous live experiments, particularly those concerning frostbite and bacteriological warfare. He tried to hide behind an overturned table, curling up into a ball.

I dragged him out; this time, I didn't need the blowtorch.

In the next room were containers of high-temperature liquids they used for experiments. I found one; it contained some kind of oily substance that was scalding hot, almost boiling. I didn't know what it was originally used for, but it came at a convenient time.

I picked up the container. Kitano Seiji looked at the steaming liquid with its surface slightly swirling, and was so terrified that he scrambled backward on all fours.

I grabbed his hair and shoved his head down. Not all the way in, that would kill him too quickly. I brought his face close to the surface of the scalding liquid.

The heat hit him first. His face instantly turned red. Then I gently pressed his right cheek against the surface of the liquid.

A soft hissing sound.

Then came Kitano Masaji's heart-wrenching scream. His face jerked back, but I held him down. The scalding liquid clung to his skin, quickly drawing away heat and scalding his skin raw. I held him down, letting the scalding liquid linger on his cheek for a few seconds before letting go.

He rolled to the ground, his hands trying to cover his face but too afraid to touch it, only able to flail wildly in the air. A large patch of his right cheek was mangled, red and white, steaming, with huge blisters around the edges. The skin in the center was completely gone, revealing the bright red flesh underneath, and even a glimpse of his white cheekbone. One eye was also affected, swollen shut.

I picked up a metal spoon and scooped a spoonful of scalding liquid from the container. Then I walked over to him, aimed at his bare arm, and poured it over him.

A red, steaming mark immediately appeared on his arm. His skin first turned white, then quickly red! It blistered! It burst!

Kitano Masaji was writhing on the ground in pain, screaming one after another.

Spoon after spoon, and spoon after spoon. Scalding liquid was poured onto his chest, abdomen, and thighs. Each pour caused the skin to tear and the flesh to split open. He looked as if he had been boiled; his body was covered in burns, some so deep that the bone was visible.

Finally, he stopped moving, lying in his own oozing tissue fluid and blood, with only his chest rising and falling slightly.

The god of time restored it once again.

Kitano Masaji opened his eyes. His face was unharmed, and his body was uninjured. But he scrambled to his feet, and the first thing he did was frantically touch his face and arms with his hands, then let out a long, broken wail. The painful memory of the burn was more agonizing than the actual burn itself.

Next up was Sumire Ota, a key figure in the digital unit responsible for bacterial production. He was hiding behind a cabinet, and when I dragged him out, his crotch was already soaked.

This time I used their flamethrower, which is military equipment that was originally intended for disinfection or battlefield use, but has now become a torture device.

I checked, and the fuel tank was full. I picked it up and aimed it at Sumi Ota.

He knelt on the ground, kowtowing repeatedly, muttering in Japanese, probably begging for mercy.

I didn't listen. I pulled the trigger.

boom!

A thick, orange-red pillar of fire shot out, instantly engulfing Sumire Ota. It wasn't the precise high temperature of a blowtorch, but a violent, all-encompassing blaze.

He turned into a human torch, suddenly stood up in the flames, spread his arms, let out an inhuman scream, and then began to run and thrash wildly, but the flames clung firmly to his body, burning ever brighter.

I saw his hair burn off instantly, his skin crackling in the flames, and the firelight illuminating his face, which was contorted and deformed by extreme pain.

He ran about a dozen steps before collapsing heavily. The flames were still burning, slowly turning his curled-up body into a lump of charcoal, and the air was filled with the pungent stench of burnt meat.

After the flames died down, only a shrunken, blackened, smoky wreck remained on the ground.

The god of time caused the charcoal to expand again and regain its human form.

Skin grew back, and his features returned to normal. Ota Sumi reappeared, sitting up blankly, staring at his intact hands, then suddenly clutching his head, burying his face in his knees, his whole body trembling like leaves in an autumn wind. Every second of the burning sensation was clearly etched into his nerves.

And so, I went to look for them one by one.

They used red-hot branding irons to imprint marks on the chests and faces of the researchers and military doctors, watching as the skin and flesh stuck together with the iron, and when they peeled it off, a piece of skin came off with it.

They pressed their hands and feet onto the red-hot iron plate after it was electrified, listening to the terrible sizzling sound of flesh coming into contact with hot metal, and smelling the unique stench of burning protein.

Using a high-temperature steam gun, spray specific areas of their bodies at close range, watching their skin get scalded, blistered, and peeled off.

They used their own stockpiled, highly corrosive chemicals, heated slightly, to pour over the victims, combining chemical burns with the damage from the high temperatures.

Use the simplest method: tie them up, pile firewood underneath, and slowly light it. Watch the flames lick from your feet, slowly spreading upwards, and listen to their screams, their howls, and then silence within the fire.

After completing one, use the God of Time to pull it back, then switch to a different method of fiery torture, or move on to the next target.

The space was sealed off, and no sound could escape; only the screams and wails echoed within. Time lost its meaning, leaving only round after round of burning and resurrection. The walls were blackened by smoke, and the ground was covered with burn marks, ash, and charred remnants.

I did it very patiently. I made sure everyone experienced a variety of different forms of fiery torture, ensuring the pain was long enough and the memory was vivid enough.

Shiro Ishii was burned at least twenty-five times. Slowly roasted with a blowtorch, doused with boiling oil, engulfed by a flamethrower, branded with a hot iron, and finally slowly burned in a bonfire. Each death was different, and the pain varied. Later, whenever he saw me pick up anything related to fire, he would lose control of his bladder and bowels, collapse on the ground like a lump of mud, his eyes completely glazed over, and he could only unconsciously repeat a few syllables.

The others were similar.

Kitano Seiji, Ota Sumi, and all the officers, doctors, and technicians, whether you knew their names or not, had their wills completely burned to ashes in one fiery inferno after another. Now, lying on the ground are just a pile of shells that can still breathe and retain all the horrific memories.

I put down the last tool I had used, a red-hot iron spade. I looked at the dozens of people in front of me, their eyes glazed over, their bodies twitching occasionally.

The chapter about fire has been turned over.

But it's far from over.

There are too many blood debts to repay; one method is not enough.

I looked up, my gaze sweeping across the hall filled with the stench of burning and blood. In the next room, there were still many "good things" they had left behind.

What should we use for the next round?

I wiped my hands and began to slowly select.