"The patient has ventricular fibrillation! Prepare the defibrillator!"
When Cheng Jianqiu's white coat was splattered with blood, the electronic screen in the operating room was suddenly covered with oracle bones. A gap opened in the bronze Taotie pattern, and a mechanical female voice mixed with the buzzing of the chimes: "Civilization Observatory Sample No. 20350223 Has been loaded - distinguished guests are invited to the banquet."
The emergency department evaporated into a cafeteria in a bloody red light. The oysters are beating to the rhythm of the heart on the silver plate, the lobster claws automatically cut the glutton's throat, and his scalpel is inserted into the steak, and a tattoo of "Countdown to 167:59:59" appears.
"This is not the first time we have met." The folklorist in Tang suit shook his retrograde pocket watch. On the inside of the watch cover was Cheng Jianqiu's ID photo from three years ago. "You won my left lung in a greedy gamble in 2012, but now, you have forgotten that you have even performed seven surgeries."
The gears of the Seven-Day Temple are rotating precisely on the bones of the old gods:
The floating stairs of the sky arena are made of the backbones of the Arrogant. Every time you take a step up, you can hear the crisp sound of broken bones.
The roulette wheel of the golden gambling game sucks the heartbeat of greedy people, and mathematicians fold the probability of death into paper cranes and stuff them into blood vessels to delay bleeding.
The most tender killing is hidden in the hospice ward. When Cheng Jianqiu discovered that all the sedatives were labeled with his name, the blindfolded boy was writing in Braille on the wall: "On the seventh day, the surgeon will dissect his memory."
In this frozen doomsday, Cheng Jianqiu grasped the scalpel that could transform pain and cut open the rotten truth beneath the temple's gorgeous skin - the bronze tripod with the same pattern thirty years ago, the future corpses flashed in the museum mirror, and the memory crystal transformed by each deceased person, all echoed with the same near-death recording:
"Don't believe... The so-called customs clearance..."
Among the rustling noise, he heard his own voice.
When the star map on the seventh day covered the entire morgue ceiling, they finally discovered:
Humanity is just a feast on the dining table of advanced civilization, and the knife and fork are already in the hands of yesterday's best friends.
Intention: Born towards the sun, Nirvana grows