The Price of Passing

"Passing?"

Ryuk's voice sounded like rusty gears forced into motion. He held an apple that had just begun to rot, ominous spots mottling its skin, while his crimson eyes flickered with an unreadable light in the gloom.

"He said you passed? Wow, what's this? Grading? Your little murder performance earned you a... passing grade?" He gave a short, strange snort, as though he had choked. "Humans really are... do you have to rank even the way you slaughter each other?"

He did not mock me mercilessly as he usually did. He merely tilted his head and studied me with a new, almost appraising gaze, as though evaluating a toy that had suddenly grown complicated.

I did not respond. The roar of ice and fire in my chest slowly subsided, settling into an utterly calm anger that approached absolute zero.

Passing.

He had used what I was supposedly "best" at to deliver the most insulting judgment possible. He had seen through my tricks, accepted my "gift," then casually assigned it a grade. As if to tell me: I know what you're doing. I permit you to do it. But this is the limit of your abilities.

He was reestablishing his position of condescending control through this petty psychological humiliation.

But he had made a mistake.

A fatal mistake.

He had exposed his utter dependence on "rules," even his... obsession with them. He had corrected the version of the encryption algorithm I used in the forged suicide note. He immersed himself in checking "details" and felt superior because of it.

He thought rules were the tools he used to control the game.

But he had forgotten, or perhaps never understood, that when rules themselves became weapons, the final authority over their interpretation never belonged to the person who made them. It belonged to... the god who could rewrite them.

I needed a trial without a single remaining "flaw." A trial flawless in its adherence to the "rules," yet capable of turning that very "perfection" into the sharpest dagger.

A trial... he could not criticize over "details," whose outcome he could only endure.

The choice of target had to be beyond reproach. His crimes had to be backed by irrefutable evidence, and the manner of his death had to satisfy every outward appearance of "procedural justice." It even had to... resemble an exemplary "internal purge." But the outcome had to wound him directly, striking the most hypocritical nerve of the system he sought to protect.

My gaze swept over the scattered rumors on the screen about the internal investigation into Zhang Zhiyuan's "suicide," then over the suppressed, terrified whispers about the SRO-7 code. The information was like muddy river water, but beneath the murk, a clear pattern was emerging.

Found him.

Li Mingyu. A prosecutor with the Provincial Procuratorate's Special Investigation Team. Renowned for his impartiality and uncompromising approach. Currently heading the investigation into Liu Jianming's case, at least on the surface. A perfect "embodiment of justice." But an encrypted record of correspondence in Sun Ming's emails, overlooked by almost everyone, led to an anonymous account when reverse-engineered using a particular algorithm. Beneath layers of concealment, the account's ultimate beneficiary turned out to be none other than this "incorruptible" prosecutor's wife. The sum was enormous, and the timing coincided precisely with the critical period when Liu Jianming's case was first suppressed.

A perfect hypocrite. Cloaked in the law, conducting the filthiest deals. His death had to resemble a genuine "atonement," an unimpeachable act of "self-judgment."

I opened the notebook, my pen cold and steady.

[Li Mingyu]

Cause of death: atonement. Time: tomorrow afternoon, at the Provincial Procuratorate's press conference, immediately after informing the media of "major progress" in Liu Jianming's case. Cause of death: publicly shoot himself using his registered service pistol, concealed beforehand. Before dying, he must face the cameras and recite Article One of the General Provisions of the "Prosecutor Disciplinary Regulations" in full, then admit to accepting bribes from Liu Jianming and deliberately misdirecting the investigation, and disclose the overseas account into which his wife received the illicit funds (matching exactly the information derived from Sun Ming's emails).

Every detail had been considered. A registered service pistol: a legal source. Reciting the disciplinary regulations: correct procedure. Disclosing the account information: conclusive evidence. Dying at the press conference: witnessed by everyone, impossible to alter.

This was a performance without a single "flaw." An execution carried out within the framework of the rules, delivering the ultimate humiliation.

The following afternoon, in the Provincial Procuratorate's press briefing room.

Li Mingyu had just announced the "latest breakthrough" in Liu Jianming's case to the flashing cameras below, his tone grave and resolute. He declared that the investigation would be pursued to the very end, with no leniency.

Routine applause rose from the audience.

Before it had died away.

He abruptly pulled a standard-issue pistol from beneath the lectern, moving too quickly for anyone to react.

"Article One of the General Provisions of the 'Prosecutor Disciplinary Regulations': loyalty, impartiality, integrity, strict discipline..." His voice suddenly rose, clear, cold, and utterly emotionless, like a machine reading aloud, drowning out every startled cry and commotion!

"...I violated every principle." His words shifted, and the muzzle was already pressed beneath his chin.

"I accepted bribes from Liu Jianming through his wife's overseas account, account number XXXXXXXX, in the amount of..."

Bang!

The gunshot exploded through the cavernous briefing room.

Blood and brain matter splattered across the solemn national emblem behind him.

After one second of deathly silence, the audience erupted into chaos.

The live feeds were frantically cut off, but countless phone cameras had already captured everything.

In my room, the screen was flooded with videos of the bloody scene from every angle.

Ryuk leaped to his feet, his enormous body nearly brushing the low ceiling. He threw away the rotten apple, his crimson eyes fixed on the screen, then whipped his gaze toward me. For the first time, his expression held something close to... wariness, even a trace of horror.

"You..." he rasped, every trace of mockery gone from his voice.

The call came faster than ever before.

Within barely three minutes of the gunshot, the phone began vibrating wildly. Its ringtone was no longer a steady beep, or even an electronic tone, but a shrill, almost agonized alarm!

I answered.

No voice.

Only heavy, intensely restrained breathing. One breath, then another, as though someone were gripping his own throat to keep himself from roaring.

Ten long seconds passed.

At last, the electronic voice sounded. Every word seemed squeezed through clenched teeth, carrying an indescribable chill and... the faintest trace of a tremor, perfectly concealed yet still detectable.

"Service pistol registration number, LC-2021-0783."

The number he recited matched what I had written exactly.

"The overseas account information matches the data chain from Sun Ming's decrypted emails in full."

"The speech, word for word."

He checked each item in turn.

Then came a deathly silence.

I could almost hear the faint crackle of current passing through the processor.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice low, hoarse, and slow, yet carrying a chill that could freeze the air.

"The performance..."

"Was flawless."

"But..."

He paused, as though the words that followed cost him an immense effort.

"Who gave you permission..."

"...to defile the national emblem?"

The call was abruptly cut off!

The busy tone screeched.

I slowly lowered the phone.

Outside the window, the sunlight was blinding.

I slowly lifted my head toward the light and closed my eyes.

The corners of my mouth curled upward, impossible to restrain.

Passing?

Now this was...

A perfect score.

Mentor.

The perfection you saw

was, for you,

the ultimate humiliation.

Defile it?

No.

That was

the color it should have been all along.