Wall of Death

To Alex's surprise, after a large crowd was herded into the open square, they weren't immediately divided into groups. An officer stepped out from a corner, a pair of white gloves glaringly conspicuous in the dim surroundings. The officer didn't even glance at the chaotic crowd before him; his hands intertwined, he tilted his head back slightly, as if lost in thought.

The guards who had been roughly escorting them all retreated to the sides. Without restraint, the crowd grew louder, and a few bold ones even started shouting for food.

Alex watched the officer, a fear creeping into him like facing a venomous snake—this was an extremely dangerous man. Alex dared not act rashly. Under his warning, the Eisenhart family also stayed obedient, not making a single move.

After another moment, perhaps because no one had intervened for so long, the crowd grew even more reckless, their shouts rising in volume.

"Courting death!" Alex muttered under his breath, decisively pulling Ella and Audrey to the edge of the crowd. The Eisenhart family followed suit.

The officer leisurely raised his hand, turning it over and examining his palm carefully, muttering something under his breath.

Then, the previously motionless guards burst forth like tigers from a cage, charging into the crowd and dragging out those who had been shouting the loudest. When someone tried to resist, a rifle butt slammed without hesitation into their forehead, blood instantly spurting out.

Over twenty people were dragged out and shoved against a wall. The white-gloved officer stepped forward, a faint smile playing on his lips, speaking slowly.

Behind him, a man in a black leather coat with rimless glasses, his frame slightly hunched, stepped up and introduced himself in English with a strange accent: "This is Rudolf Fernandi, Major of the SS Skull Division, now Commandant of Auschwitz Concentration Camp." He then pointed angrily at the twenty-plus people pinned against the wall, scolding furiously, "These people disrupted the peace of Auschwitz, so Commandant Rudolf will grant them death!"

After speaking in English, the Translator repeated the words in French and other languages Alex couldn't understand. Alex guessed he was just reiterating the same statement.

Alex turned his head slightly, glaring coldly at the white-gloved Rudolf, then at the impassioned Translator. Rage boiled inside him, but he was utterly helpless. All he could do was cover Audrey's eyes and watch helplessly as those twenty-plus people fell under the guards' gunfire.

After that direct threat of death, everyone fell silent, docile as lambs. The subsequent grouping went unusually smoothly; no one dared to argue, faces full of sorrow as they watched their loved ones being separated from them.

Ella and the others had long been warned by Alex. Though reluctant, they obediently followed the leading **guards to where they were supposed to go. Meanwhile, Alex, along with Jacob and Marx, followed another group of guards in a different direction.

The large group of men was divided into several barracks, each holding over 500 people, assigned to low brick huts filled with rows of bunk beds stacked several layers high. Each layer was only thirty centimeters tall—just enough to lie down, with no room to sit.

At that moment, Alex regretted everything with all his heart.

On the other side of Auschwitz, in a three-story building with white walls and black tiles, Rudolf lounged on a sofa, a glass of amber-colored liquor in his hand, a cold smile on his face: "The Führer said these people are useless. Kill them if you can. If you can't, find a place to bury them alive."

The Translator stood beside him, bowing and scraping: "Heil the Führer!"

After a moment, the Translator left the building, walked into the adjacent office, and returned to his own room. Before he even stepped inside, his expression suddenly changed. He signaled the **guards behind him not to follow and entered alone.

"Sebastian Shaw, Wang is very dissatisfied with your work." A figure emerged from the corner of the office, a young face full of arrogance. "Why is there still no news about that Teleporter?"

The Translator—Sebastian Shaw—glanced at the young man, a flash of anger quickly hidden, and put on a panicked look, defending himself anxiously: "This isn't our territory after all. We can't conduct a large-scale search. Our informants planted in Hydra report that they've lost all trace of the Teleporter—it's like he vanished into thin air. Due to certain special circumstances, Red Skull has also given up the chase and rushed off to Norway for some unknown reason."

Seeing the fear on Sebastian Shaw's face, the young man felt secretly pleased. He put on airs and nodded: "Don't give up the search. He's very important to us."

"It's just teleportation. Don't we still have the Red Devil?" Sebastian Shaw asked cautiously, feigning confusion.

The young man snorted coldly, turned to face Sebastian, and said slowly with a hint of threat: "Sebastian, don't ask about things that aren't your concern. The more you know, the faster you die!"

Sebastian's face went pale at the words, his lowered head covered in cold sweat.

After a moment, Sebastian looked up. The young man was no longer in the room. Straightening his back, Sebastian walked slowly to the window, turned his head to look at the open square outside, and muttered with hatred: "One day, I'll kill every last one of you."

In the early days, the concentration camps weren't as insane as they later became—people sent straight to the gas chambers, then tossed into the crematorium. Back then, the camp still looked like a camp: people were isolated and locked up, then assigned various kinds of work.

Of course, that didn't mean the camp was safe.

On the third day after entering Auschwitz, an old man working in the quarry swung a crowbar and sent a small stone flying. Unfortunately, that stone hit a **guard. The old man was then beaten to death on the spot—over a dozen **guards surrounded him, kicking and punching, and no amount of begging could save him.

On the fourth day, someone accidentally dropped a piece of bread while eating. As luck would have it, White Glove Rudolf saw it. That person was then taken to the wall where the twenty-plus had been executed, and White Glove shot him in the head on the grounds of wasting food. Everyone in the camp was forced to stand in the square and watch.

On the fifth day, more people died—eight of them, still at that wall.

On the sixth day, twenty-six people died, again at that wall.

On the seventh day, seventeen strong men rose up, killed eight **guards, seized their guns, and tried to fight their way out. In the end, all seventeen were killed, their bodies hung in the open square until they rotted. But it didn't end there. The remaining 483 men from the same barracks as the seventeen were dragged one by one to that wall and shot.

That night, gunfire rang out endlessly across the camp. Everyone huddled in the low brick huts, trembling. By the wall, blood had pooled into a lake.

The name "Wall of Death" spread throughout the camp. No one dared to walk past that wall, not even to glance at it.