A Smoldering End
"Fuck!! Why did you save me?! I want to die! I wanted to die!!!"
The woman lunges at Hayan like a lunatic, her eyes rolling back in her head. Despite her broken, battered body, she possesses an uncanny, desperate strength, her grip tightening like iron as she claws at Hayan's hair.
"Kyaaaah?! I saved you! I saved your life, so why are you doing this?!" Hayan shrieks, completely failing to grasp the situation as she babbles hysterically.
"You stupid bitch! Why did you interfere?! You should have just let me die!" The woman's naked body thrashes inside the iron cage as she scratches and tears at Hayan.
It is a literal catfight. No, it is worse—it is like watching two rabid fighting dogs in a gambling pit, stripped of even the slightest shred of feminine grace.
"They fight like total retards."
"Hey, you dumb bitch, you're not doing any damage like that!"
"Why are you complaining? It's fucking hot."
"Use your fists, goddammit!"
"How is she supposed to get any reach inside a cage, idiot?"
"I'm just saying, man."
Watching the tangle of naked female flesh inside the cage, the men begin betting cigarettes on the outcome. Just then—
"You fuckers can't go five minutes without gambling, can you?" Byeongji sneers, sauntering over with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"Why don't you place a bet too, boss? Stop sitting out all the time," Seongil says, not even bothering to look back at Byeongji.
"I don't gamble on cheap entertainment, kid."
"Says the guy who smokes like a chimney."
"We live in a world where bitches look down on war veterans and run wild. How the fuck am I supposed to survive without cigarettes?"
"...Fair point."
"Anyway, wrap it up. It's time."
"Time for what?"
"Execution time."
"Already?"
"Yeah."
"Man, why do they always send the hottest ones to the chopping block first..."
"You've already passed her around enough. What are you whining about?" Byeongji says, looking down at the woman currently rolling on the floor with Hayan.
Just as Byeongji said, the woman's body is completely ruined from endless abuse. Her groin is swollen to a grotesque degree, bruised a deep, necrotic purplish-black. Her breasts, their blood vessels entirely ruptured, have begun to rot, turning a sickly, decaying black. Because of the winter cold, the stench isn't too overpowering yet, but her entire body is caked in layers of dried semen. If she were brought into a warm room, the smell of rotting flesh and stale semen would undoubtedly be suffocating.
"I guess we did use her a bit too much..." Seongil scratches his head sheepishly.
"You call this 'a bit'?" Byeongji clicks his tongue in disbelief. "Whatever. Call off the bets and get the execution started."
"Tsk, what a waste."
"I was just about to win too."
"Win? You lose every single time, dumbass."
"I'm telling you, I would've won the next round!"
"Yeah, right. You're fucking trash at this."
The men scoop up the cigarette packs they had tossed onto the ground, stuff them back into their pockets, and unlock the cage.
"You fucking bi—kyaah?!" The woman, who had been sitting astride Hayan and raining down punches, is suddenly grabbed by the back of her hair and dragged out of the cage.
"M-Mister... ah... please. Please don't rape me anymore. I'll take as many dicks as you want, just please don't shove wooden clubs inside me. I don't want the lightbulb torture either. Please don't smash my cunt. No gang rapes, please, no spitroasts..." The moment the man grabs her hair, the woman's violent rage vanishes, replaced by a pathetic, submissive whimpering.
They say there is no better cure for a bitch's attitude than raw violence and semen. In this woman's case, it seemed she had been heavily overdosed, but it wasn't like anyone actually cared.
"Don't worry. We're not raping you today."
"Thank you... Thank you so much. Please stop. I can't take any more rape. My cunt hurts so much. I can't even produce any wetness anymore. Please, please."
"Don't mention it," Seongil says with a genial smile.
"Today is your execution day, so there won't be any gang rapes," Taehyun adds.
"Wh-What...?" The woman blinks, utterly dazed. "So... I'm dying today...?"
"Yep."
"Ha... haha..." A hollow laugh escapes her lips. She chuckles in sheer, empty relief. "Thank you... Thank you so much for finally killing me... Please, do it quickly... Just let me die already..." Tears well up and spill down her cheeks. Her eyes are smiling. Her mouth is smiling.
A short while later, they arrive at the execution ground. It is nothing more than a few parking spaces in a spacious lot, cordoned off to serve as a makeshift execution site. Even the omnipotent National Male Vanguard cannot simply destroy public utility property at whim; thus, the boundaries are marked not with permanent spray paint, but with simple sandbags and nylon ropes.
"Please... *sob*... please just kill me already..." Kneeling on the cold asphalt, the woman frantically begs.
"Thanks for the good times."
"You were a fucking great ride, bitch."
"We'll never find another tight cunt like yours. Farewell, you worthless whore."
"See you in the next life, cunt."
"Y-Yes, thank you for the compliments. So please, just kill me now. Please. Please. Please. Just end it." Terrified that the men might change their minds, the woman continues to beg desperately for her own death.
"Alright, let's get started!" Byeongji commands.
"Yes, sir!" The men move briskly. What they bring out next is—
"A t-tire...?" Before the woman can even comprehend what is happening, they shove her emaciated body through the center of a tire, like slipping a finger through a donut.
"Wait... what...? What are you doing...?" She looks around in confusion. One of the men approaches carrying a plastic jerrycan and begins dousing the tire.
"Uh... ah...?" Sniffing the air, the woman finally realizes the nature of the execution awaiting her. Burning at the stake...
"Kyaaaaaah!" A bloodcurdling shriek rips from her throat as she leaps up like a coiled spring. Trapped inside the heavy tire, she somehow finds the strength to sprint frantically in all directions like a panicked wild animal, letting out one bizarre, guttural scream after another.
"No! I don't want to burn to death! No!" She tries desperately to flee the cordoned-off area, but the men ruthlessly kick her back into the center of the makeshift execution ground. Finally—
"Kyaaa—kyaaaaah!" One of the men tosses a blazing wooden club at her, and the gasoline-soaked tire erupts into roaring flames.
"It's hot! Save me! Save me!" This scream is entirely different from the ones before—it is a shattered, agonizing screech of pure torment. It is no longer a mere scream; it is a death rattle.
Trapped inside the blazing tire, the woman thrashes and flails in a grotesque, jerky dance. In a final, involuntary spasm of terror, urine leaks from her swollen groin, but such a pathetic trickle cannot hope to douse the roaring rubber fire.
Encased in the burning tire, she is slowly roasted alive. The flames do not merely scorch her skin; the melting rubber clings to her flesh like napalm, slowly baking her muscles and bones to the core. It is less of a traditional burning and more akin to smoking livestock—a human tataki.
This is "necklacing"—the infamous method of execution from failed African states, once legendary among online gore enthusiasts. To see this exotic foreign custom recreated on the soil of the Republic of Korea is a true testament to cultural exchange, a deeply moving moment proving that all of humanity is indeed a harmonious global village.
Thus, the woman slowly expires, enjoying a grotesque distinction she never asked for.
"Aaaah... aaah..." Her lungs, shriveled by the intense heat, can no longer produce proper screams. The fire feeds on her body fat, melting the yellow grease from her heavy breasts to fuel the inferno anew.
"Aaaaah... ah..." Human life, it seems, is far more resilient than one would think.
"Die well, you stupid bitch."
"Don't go being a feminist in your next life."
"If you reincarnate and start babbling about feminism again, we'll roast you all over again, so watch out!"
The men each offer a parting word to the dying woman. Meanwhile, "... " Perhaps they had grown close during their brief, violent struggle, but as Hayan watches her "roommate" drift off to a warm, eternal sleep in the flames, she weeps tears of sheer terror, vaginal fluids leaking from her in a pathetic display of absolute submission.
A long while later, the iron door creaks open. "Kim Hayan. It's time for your trial." The men haul her out, their faces suddenly adopting a solemn, judicial gravity.
"Ah..." As Hayan is dragged along, her bare foot steps squarely onto a shard of broken glass lying on the floor.
"Keep moving!" But with the guard barking at her side, she cannot even slow her pace.
"Ugh... *hic*..." Every step Hayan takes leaves a bloody, crimson footprint. The shard piercing her foot had fallen from the vagina of the woman who was just burned alive—a remnant of a brutal session of bobyeongkkae, where glass bottles were shattered inside her—though Hayan has no way of knowing this.
A moment later, a voice barks, "The defendant will rise." The Alternative Trial has begun. This vigilante court operates entirely outside the official state judicial system, established and run by alt-right factions.
"Aren't the old bastards infesting the executive, judicial, and legislative branches all in bed together, bound by school ties and regional cliques? Has the system of checks and balances ever actually worked in the first place?"
"Politicians meet judges in hostess bars. Judges meet bureaucrats in hostess bars. Politicians meet bureaucrats in hostess bars. Or all three of them gather together. They are all the same breed, and none of them have any intention of changing. We need a new order, and we need new people."
"The executive, the judiciary, and the legislature have been entirely seized by sweet old men and anti-national bitches. It is time to establish a new separation of powers."
When the civil unrest erupted, the alt-right factions used this exact logic to declare a total vote of no confidence in the traditional separation of powers. They established their own judicial bodies to conduct trials. These new courts claimed to be "more righteous" and "more just" than the corrupt systems of old. As a result, countless feminists and their enablers met their ends either on the gallows or as public sex toys.
Hayan, too, was brought before this court.
"...Therefore, this court sentences the defendant to death."
With this, the narrative loops back to the beginning of Part 4. Donghoon had desperately tried to prove he had no connection to Hayan—even resorting to cannibalism—but during his interrogation, his past as a Sweet Male Feminist was laid bare. Thus, Donghoon was executed before Hayan, sentenced to death by sledgehammer. The hypocritical, middle-aged Young Forty sweet feminist met his end as a flat smear of meat on the asphalt, bringing a pathetic close to a cowardly life.
And now, Hayan.
"U-Um... who is coming...?" Trembling with terror, she waits for the people who have signed up to participate in her Public Participation Humiliation Execution.
"This fucking bitch sure has a lot of questions," Byeongji growls, raising a hand threateningly. Hayan instantly shuts her mouth, urine trickling down her legs in fear. Every so often, her prolapsed uterus slips out of her mutilated groin, forcing her to awkwardly shove it back inside.
After what feels like an eternity, the door opens, and Hayan is confronted by her executioners.
"We finally found you, you fucking feminist cunt."
"Do you have any idea how many companies went under because of you?"
"You fucking bitch, do you know how much money I blew on that game before it shut down?!"
They are the developers and players of the very games that had been forced to shut down after Hayan secretly slipped That Finger into her illustrations.