Imperial Hunter - Chapter 177 (177/707) #21. Doctor, Patriot, and Terrorist (4)
Just as the prisons the old Japanese Empire had built across its colonies were designed to break the spirits of inmates through pain and terror, the forced labor camps in the colonial Uyghur region existed for the same purpose. Thus, the brutality inflicted by the camp guards—Communist Party members flashing their membership cards—on the Uyghurs was in no way inferior to what the Japanese had done. From the testimonies I'd gathered and pieced together from the groups I'd rescued, the guards at the Karamay camp favored exposing prisoners to extreme cold—a torture Maryam herself had endured. Leaving them naked for hours in the midsummer heat wasn't bad, but the freezing cold was preferred because it could make Muslims crave the pig fat they'd warmed themselves. Plus, it required minimal effort from the guards. Beating prisoners for fun worked for a day or two, but over a year—365 days—it just became tiring, sweaty drudgery. Exposing dozens at a time to the cold was the most efficient torture, minimizing labor while avoiding damage to the merchandise slated for shipment.
The next most popular was electric shock torture. All it took was jabbing a long rod-shaped stun device into various spots and flipping the switch. Preferred targets included the mucous membranes inside the mouth, ears, bound soles of the feet, palms, genitals, and nipples. Lingering on one spot could burn or necrotize the skin, ruining the product's quality, but alternating spots at whim allowed shipment without major issues. While maximizing pain required skill, even amateurs could deliver enough agony. Convenience also made forced feeding a staple: shoving a tube deep into the esophagus and pumping in animal-feed mush, water mixed with chili powder, pig fat, or pig shit and piss. This was mainly for those refusing meals, begging to die. You can't even die without our permission, they'd say.
Other tortures abounded—bamboo slivers under nails and toenails, the tiger bench warping leg bones over time, ironing out wrinkles as a "beauty treatment," drowning cells where only the head barely surfaced from sewage, compression frames crushing the spine into a hunchback under heavy weights, experimental drug injections—but since the Uyghurs I'd rescued were all bound for slave markets, few had experienced disfiguring ones.
These ordeals had raised the entire group's pain threshold. They endured harsh training without complaint, even if torture left trauma. With clever manipulation of their dependence on me, I could eventually overcome even that trauma.
"Next: vertical jumps, 50 reps! Everyone, prepare!"
At the instructor's command, Maryam's group neatly removed their ankle weights, moved into position, and regulated their breathing. Before them loomed a 2-meter stack of stones—starting at 50 cm and building up. The provisional goal was 3 meters. Mastering a 3-meter standing jump dramatically improved urban obstacle navigation; single-story buildings became leapable in one bound. It wasn't impossible before, but using hands created firepower gaps. In combat, a sub-second gap could mean life or death.
"Begin!"
The reps started. The Guinness record until a couple years ago was 1.65 meters; here, 2 meters was just a fitness benchmark. For proper measurement, many could clear 2.2 meters. Even the leg raises earlier surpassed the old Korean special forces elite threshold of 20 reps. This explained the wave of athlete suicides across disciplines. Pre-awakening stars, untrained for less than a week, were now outclassed in raw physicality by these young Uyghurs.
Well, I get it... but if it were me, I'd be content with the money I'd socked away, living a happy—no, comfortable retirement.
The fleeting thought of happiness felt like sand in rice—gritty, unwelcome. What happiness would fill my life once all goals were met? Sound sleep without nightmares might suffice, but calling it happiness? Doubtful. I couldn't even imagine myself happy.
Happiness required components. I knew none to fill my days.
"Ack!"
A young Uyghur misstepped on the stones, crashing down belly-first. His flushed face spoke more of shame and dismay than pain. Tense in my presence, he'd erred before me—and panicked into second and third mistakes, spraining an ankle on the last.
"Stay still."
I approached, supporting his back and touching the ankle. The boy, who'd collapsed tearfully, began trembling violently—overwhelmed by tension, awe, excitement. Nearby trainees slowed, eyes thick with envy.
"Don't shame yourself for failure."
I spoke loudly, generously, hypocritically for all to hear.
"As long as your hearts remain faithful to me and every action brims with belief in me, success or failure won't cost my favor. No shame, no fear—just always give your best. Understood?"
"...Y-yes! My Lord!"
"Good. Resume once calmed. Perfecting the blessed bodies I've given you is your basic duty."
Training had halted; the group fixated here. The instructor-subordinate knew better than to scold. Seizing the moment, I bestowed Life Incantation on each one by one—a minor miracle restoring stamina. Bodily miracles deepened faith effectively. Soon, Maryam wouldn't need to deceive herself. She'd forget the lies were lies—self-hypnosis perfected by her own will.
After more drills, the Uyghurs ended with a 5-km run in weighted packs. Gas masks were too much yet—not cardiopulmonary limits, but fear of face-covering suffocation, rooted in waterboarding trauma. Some even convulsed mid-run.
Water poured over cloth-covered faces—torture leaving no marks. I'd appeared in a gas mask today to dilute that phobia. London ops would mandate them, choice or no. I joined the final weighted run masked, for the same reason. My overtaxed body had recovered enough during oversight.
Post-run, Maryam's group lined up in the mess hall clearing as ordered. At the front knelt a row of bound sacrifices—hands and feet tied, heads bagged.
"...?"
The young Uyghurs, anticipating meals, eyed the living offerings with curiosity or unease—the latter prevailing. Some recoiled at mere bondage, memories stirring.
"These are sinners."
My words flipped gazes to loathing and contempt. No charges named, yet hostility surged. If the Messiah deemed them sinners, reasons didn't matter. Maryam's eyes blazed fanatic hate—unexpected even to me. Hands behind back, I continued.
"Their sins are many: luring people into gambling scams and fleecing their money; usury trapping victims in crushing debt; murder and violence for unpaid loans; driving innocents to suicide and threatening families to seize homes; enslaving the blameless..."
Raiding scam parlors and hunting usurers was one of my organization's petty profit ventures, enabled by gambling addict bloodhounds. Bottomed-out addicts, unable to live without bets, got stake money in exchange for offline casino intel—plus bonuses for good tips. Addicts sniffed out joints like no one else, gambling till broke, then contacting us in rage. My men watched till ripe, uprooting the harvest: billions to hundreds of billions. Overseas chases sometimes netted trillions. Captured small-fry became periodic staff training aids—like now.
"I sentence them to death."
What mattered wasn't justice, but the illusion of it. Even vile criminals delude themselves as good. Under Islamic law, usury alone damned them unforgivably.
"Who among you will execute in my stead? Raise hands and step forward."
Hostile Uyghurs instantly raised arms, advancing.
"Excellent. Maryam first—set the example."
Startled at her name, she soon took position, gripping the greatsword from my subordinate. Untrained in combat, her grip was awkward, but her killing intent transcended herbivores. No surprise from hellish camp survivors.
I signaled; the first aid's bonds loosened.
"Mmph—"
Hood off first. Squinting at light, groaning, he gaped at the sword-wielding foreigner 5 meters away. Restraints cut, gag removed, he panted, muttering warily.
"Fuck... what the hell is this? Who're these chinks...?"
Local comms were standard Mandarin only, so they mistook us for Chinese. No plans to teach Uyghurs Korean.
Clang!
A military greatsword hit the freed man's feet. Wary, he picked it up, mumbling.
"What, one-on-one with that gazelle? Win and you let me go? That it?"
"Yes."
He flinched at my sudden Korean, staring confused.
"Joseon clan...?"
"Does it matter?"
"What the fu—"
"Shut up and prepare. Don't die stupidly standing there."
"Fuckin' hell."
As they bantered, Maryam steadied her breath. Initially rattled by the unbinding, she now gauged my intent, steeling herself. I snapped my fingers.
"Begin."
It unfolded in seconds. Maryam's charge was clumsy but blindingly fast to the unawakened aid. Clang! She batted his defensive blade with 4.7x strength, then drove her repointed sword into his gut.
"Huh?"
Blank-faced, he stared at his belly.
"A-aaaaah!"
Heart pounding max, Maryam screamed, frenzied amateur stabs shredding his abdomen: twice, thrice, four, five... Machine-like high-speed reps.
"S-stop... please..."
His legs buckled. Fifteen gut holes; his plea a blood-gargled whisper-cough. Hot red spread on frozen ground. Maryam backed two steps, gripping the sword awkwardly, staring at me—flushed, shoulders heaving.
"Well done. Perfectly."
I clapped slowly; the group adored their leader. Maryam's lips twitched into something smile-like, blood splattered diagonally across.
The first aid died slowly amid my zealots' cheers. Subsequent killings flowed smoothly. Short on aids, later groups mobbed for killing practice. Adults and minors mixed; younger ones showed blinder, fiercer bloodlust. As I'd once mulled: when children learn and enact evil, none purer exists.