0111 The Withered Skirt

What kind of skirt was this? Or rather, could it even be called a skirt? It was a real and brutal work of art, though one devoid of any aesthetic appeal, serving only to nauseate and horrify the onlooker.

Standing close by, Hou Rui finally saw it clearly: the so-called black strips on the skirt were, in fact, severed, dried-out human arms. Judging by the wide, skeletal knuckles, most of these forearms, which were strung together in a circle around the alliance leader’s waist, had once belonged to men.

*It can’t be,* he thought. *Am I seeing this wrong? How can such a thing exist in this world?*

Shocked to the point of doubting his own eyes, Hou Rui shook his head violently, then stared again with wide, searching eyes. There was no mistake. The nearly one hundred black strips encircling the leader’s waist were indeed human arms. Looking closer, Hou Rui felt a surge of terror as he realized that beneath the ring of adult arms, there was another layer of smaller, dried-out arms belonging to children. This horrific skirt alone represented more than a hundred people turned into amputees.

"Beautiful, isn't it, outsider?" After silently savoring the shock and horror on Hou Rui’s face, the alliance leader spoke. To show off the effect of his gruesome garment, he deliberately swayed his hips, causing the desiccated limbs to flutter like the hem of a skirt.

Although the man spoke in perfect English and every word was crystal clear, Hou Rui’s mind was in such disarray that he didn't know how to respond.

The man in the skirt seemed to relish Hou Rui’s stunned expression. He walked slowly toward him, step by step. By then, the alliance soldiers had already confiscated Hou Rui’s Type 29 handgun, along with his remaining can of soda, several packs of cigarettes, and two *Playboy* magazines.

The large black man bent down to pick up a *Playboy* magazine. After flipping through it for a moment, he suddenly grinned. "Hahaha! Western women are too fragile. The children of the sun are far stronger. Outsider, did you intend to bribe the warriors of the Alliance with these?"

"Ooh-ooh-ooh! Rat-tat-tat-tat!" At the leader's words, the surrounding alliance soldiers began to howl and cheer, firing their weapons into the sky, terrifying the villagers into holding their breath.

At that moment, the black man standing in the center of the clearing exuded an imposing aura. He stretched his arms toward the sky, then quickly spread them wide and pressed them down, silencing the soldiers instantly. Ignoring the dazed Hou Rui, he turned to face the villagers.

"Some call me 'The Hand-Cutter,' a name I quite enjoy. You all know why I am here, but before we begin, I have a few more things to say." The man suddenly raised the *Playboy* magazine high and roared at the crowd with fury.

"Look at this! This is the work of Westerners, of Americans. They keep talking about bringing us democracy, prosperity, and freedom. But what is this 'freedom' they speak of? It is the bodies of these white women. And what is their 'democracy'? It is the right to vote. The Americans want to prop up a government to hold elections, and every voter needs to provide a thumbprint to cast a ballot. I am The Hand-Cutter, and I am here to destroy their hypocritical democracy! I will cut off your hands because you do not need the fake democracy brought by Americans. This way, we can proudly continue the way of life of our ancestors! Long live the Liberation Alliance!"

As the man raved, the soldiers sprang into action. They lined up the men of the village and dragged them one by one to the side of a pickup truck. There, a soldier would expertly loop a rope around a man’s right wrist, thread it through the truck’s railing, and pull the arm taut.

The first man to be strapped in struggled silently, but his strength was no match for three soldiers. Then, under the desperate, pleading gaze of the victim, the man in the skirt approached and accepted a large machete from a subordinate.

"I grant you eternal freedom now. Hah!" With a shout, he swung the blade, severing the man’s arm as easily as if it were a willow branch.

"Ahhh!" The man screamed and writhed on the ground, blood spraying from the stump like a fountain. The alliance soldiers watched the spectacle with indifference. Someone picked up the severed arm and tossed it at the feet of the pickup truck’s machine gunner, right next to a box of ammunition.

After handling the first victim himself, the leader delegated the task to his men. The cruel, blood-spattered deviant then returned to Hou Rui, his eyes filled with murderous intent.

"Outsider, who are you? Answer The Hand-Cutter's question now!" He bared his white teeth in a grotesque grin. Even Hou Rui, a professional killer who had seen plenty of blood, felt a shiver of fear—not out of weakness, but a natural instinctual recoil from a madman.

Hou Rui struggled to find an answer, but his silence seemed to infuriate the man. "Outsider, did you not hear me? Or do you wish to have a hand cut off before you answer?"

Stung by the threat, Hou Rui snapped back to reality, his mind racing at unprecedented speeds. *Listening to his speech, he clearly hates Americans because they are supporting the Somali government forces against them. I cannot say I am American. How can I fabricate a perfect identity in an instant? I'll have to tweak the details.*

Thinking quickly, Hou Rui knew his life hung in the balance. "My name is Douglas Wang. I am a war correspondent from the UK," he said cautiously.

"Heh heh heh. The British are no better than the Americans! You are all enemies of our Liberation Alliance! Tell me, how did you get here? What is your purpose? Are you a Western military advisor hired by the government forces?"

"No, no, not at all! I am just an ordinary photojournalist. People in Baka Town helped me cross the blockade. I came here to report the truth about your Liberation Alliance, so the world can see the reality behind the misunderstandings. Your fight against the government is a pursuit of true freedom, not the work of separatist terrorists."

To save his life, Hou Rui lied without hesitation, weaving in the man’s own rhetoric to curry favor.

The man tilted his head and stared into Hou Rui’s eyes, as if trying to discern the truth.

Thirty seconds passed.
One minute.
Three minutes.

Amidst the intermittent screams from the side, the man stared at him, motionless. Cold sweat beaded on Hou Rui’s forehead.

"Good! The Hand-Cutter chooses to believe you, outsider. You are lucky, for your life is yours for now." The leader finally spoke, and Hou Rui’s heart rate began to slow.

"People around here call me The Hand-Cutter, but my real name is Captain Mulu, an officer of the Liberation Alliance. From now on, you will follow me and witness the true Alliance!" Captain Mulu signaled his men to lower their weapons.

"Captain, this man’s origins are unclear. We cannot trust him so easily!" Suddenly, the comical leader who had been watching from the side spoke up. He understood English, and his accent was decent, but his words made Hou Rui want to kill him on the spot.

"Sergeant Kun, are you questioning my judgment?" Mulu looked at him with a menacing glare.

The stench of rot wafting from Mulu’s skirt drifted toward Kun. The pressure was immense; Kun lowered his head, his voice dropping several decibels. "Of course not. How could I question Captain Mulu’s judgment? It’s just..."

"Just what?" Mulu’s voice was low, heavy with threat.

"The General issued an order: anyone who wishes to join the Alliance must undergo the Blood Hand Ritual."

Faced with the weight of the General's command, Mulu hesitated for a moment, then slapped Kun on the shoulder and turned to the other soldiers. "Sergeant Kun is right. The General’s order is our highest directive. This man must also undergo the Blood Hand Ritual." He pointed his finger directly at Hou Rui.