Dark, thick clouds obscured the moon. Rain poured rhythmically onto cement streets. Trees breathed cold wind, and the echo of voices was muffled by blue flashes of lightning dancing through the clouds, along with the falling rain.
Inside a small, gray-painted room, a man with neatly brushed hair and an expression as calm as an undisturbed lake lay quietly on a stretcher. Cold restraints bound his body, ensuring he couldn't stand up or leave. Two guards watched him with impassive expressions.
Four other rooms surrounded the one where the man waited. Behind his head, a chamber housed two executioners standing behind a partition, holding anesthesia in quantities sufficient to kill any human.
To his right, twelve people observed him with eyebrows furrowed, jaws clenched, lips pressed tightly together. To his left, where his family should have been, no soul sat.
At the foot of the stretcher, the press documented the scene. Journalists spoke in hushed urgency while cameras recorded everything. In this state, filming executions was normally forbidden, but an exception had been made for the man who would die today.
After all, a legendary saint was about to die.
"It's November 27, 2025. This is Helena from YouBroadcast, reporting live on the execution of the man known as the Medical Saint, who developed a cancer vaccine with over ninety-nine percent efficacy," said one of the journalists present.
One of the two guards approached the man. All cameras pointed toward him. Death would come soon to take him, but his expression remained calm; her visit did little to sway his mood.
"Fang Mo. Do you have any last words?"
Everyone around him held their breath. Throughout his trial, Fang Mo claimed to be innocent, but the evidence was incontestable. To the world, Fang Mo was a serial killer who hid behind his title as Medical Saint.
His sentence came swiftly; it was death.
Many raised their voices and claimed it made no sense, but the results were set in stone from the beginning. Powerful people wanted his death. Evidence, combined with pressure from the top, had done its job. Today, Fang Mo, who said little to nothing during his trials, would have the chance to speak again, to admit his crimes.
It took a breath of time for his lips to part. The sound of his voice echoed throughout the room—calm and steady, carrying the weight of forty years of life with dignity.
"In this life, I lived as a saint. If there is a next life, I shall live as a demon."
Once, Fang Mo carried the innocence of a child. He was dead set on helping both humanity and Earth. He developed a vaccine for cancer, donated most of his money to charity, and fought against tyranny, hunger, and social inequality.
What did he get in return? Pain and betrayal from his own wife and the person he once called his best friend. Even humanity was quick to find him guilty. His heart grew cold. Regret washed over him.
But he had already come to terms with it. His heart was now clear and cold, devoid of the feelings a human should have. His wishes for this life had come to an end.
In the room to Fang Mo's left, the loud sound of a wall being struck echoed inside. An elderly man with a thick white beard glared at him through the glass with bloodshot eyes, his jaw clenched.
"Fang Mo, you tortured and killed my daughter. Now you dare to spout bullshit? Just die, you bastard!"
From the other eleven people near the old man, curses and angry shouts filled the room. But their voices didn't pass through the thick wall and glass to reach Fang Mo's ears. Even if he had heard them, the target of their fury would not have replied.
Noticing that Fang Mo's lips would not part again, the guard looked behind him and nodded for the executors to proceed. A lethal dose of barbiturates entered the tubes connected to Fang Mo's arm.
Medical Saint Fang Mo closed his eyes for the last time. Today, a saint has died.
Tomorrow, a demon would be born.