Chapter 108 : The Revelation

Chapter 108: The Revelation

The Manager stood straight, with the microphone held in one hand, as billions of eyes across the world focused on him through their screens. The viewer count continued to climb—ten million, twenty million, fifty million—an exponential surge as people shared the link and news outlets picked it up.

"The Crucible," the Manager continued, "sounds like a television show but is not. It is not fiction. It is not entertainment in the way you understand the term."

The chat sidebar scrolled frantically:

"What does that mean?"

"Is this some kind of documentary?"

"Get to the point!!"

"For the past seven years," the Manager said, "an organization has been operating in complete secrecy. Every year, they abduct approximately multiple individuals from various locations around the world. These people ranging from tourists, businessmen, local guides, ordinary citizens to even barely teens are transported to an undisclosed location. A jungle island, erased from satellite surveillance and hidden from every government database."

He paused, letting that information settle. The chat was still confused but some evidently reached the conclusion.

"Once on the island, these individuals are given a simple proposition: kill each other. The last person alive supposedly goes free. They are provided no food beyond what they can scavenge. No shelter beyond what they can build. And to ensure they comply, a creature—a metahuman weapon controlled through neural implants—hunts them throughout the game."

"You are joking right?This can't be real.."

"No way this is real"

"Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"If this is real, where are the police?"

"The entire event is livestreamed," the Manager continued, his tone never wavering as he ruthlessly exposed the truth to the outside world, "to a select audience of wealthy clients who pay millions of dollars for access. They watch from their comfortable rooms while human beings are reduced to animals. They place bets on who will kill first, who will form alliances, who will break mentally before breaking physically. They toast with expensive champagne while people die screaming."

The chat had shifted. The jokes stopped. The accusations of "fake" became less certain.

"Holy shit"

"@FBI @CIA This is actually real?"

"Where are the authorities?"

"How did this happen under everyone's watch?"

"This has occurred seven times," the Manager said. "Seven seasons, as the organizers call them. More than 250 people have died for their entertainment so far. Men, women, teenagers—it made no difference. They were content, and content must be consumed."

He gestured to something off-camera.

"Multiple government organizations knew about the Crucible's existence," the Manager continued. "Certain intelligence agencies monitored it. Some officials were paid to look the other way. Others lacked the jurisdiction or resources to intervene. And some..." his voice took on a harder edge, "some simply didn't care, because the victims weren't important enough. They weren't wealthy enough. They weren't connected enough."

"Which fuckin governments?"

"This is fucking insane"

"Why didn't anyone stop this?"

"WHO KNEW ABOUT THIS?"

The Manager's expression remained neutral, but when he spoke again, there was something cold beneath the professional veneer.

"Today, that changes. Today, the final season of the Crucible will not feature anonymous victims. Today, you will watch something different."

The camera angle shifted slightly, widening.

"Today's contestants are very special guests. Quite popular infact. The organizers themselves. The eight individuals who funded this operation, watched every death and profited from every moment of suffering."

The livestream screen split.

Eight different panels appeared alongside the main feed, each showing a different scene. A dark room with a single chair. A spotlight activated and illuminated an unconscious figure slumped in restraints.

The chat exploded.

The Manager's voice continued, now narrating over the split screens as each spotlight activated in sequence.

"First," he said, and the leftmost panel's spotlight brightened, "Silas Tate. Real estate mogul. Net worth: four-point-seven billion dollars. CEO of Tate Global Properties."

The unconscious figure of Silas Tate—still wearing his Wolf mask, though it had slipped slightly—was clearly visible. His expensive suit. His Rolex. The unmistakable markers of extreme wealth.

The chat responses came immediately:

"Holy shit that's actually Silas Tate"

"I work for Tate Global, I never thought he would be.."

"My dad lost our house to his company's predatory lending"

"How come, didn’t he recently donated millions to charity???"

"Guess we know where the charity money really went"

"Second," the Manager continued, and the next spotlight activated, "Miranda Lockheart. Pharmaceutical executive. Net worth: six-point-two billion dollars. CEO of Lockheart BioSolutions."

Miranda Lockheart (Fox) was revealed in her restraints, her mask still partially in place and her designer dress disheveled from the sedation.

"MIRANDA LOCKHEART?"

"My sister died because she couldn't afford insulin that Lockheart makes"

"She runs cancer research foundations!"

"This can't be real"

"Oh my god it is her"

"Third," the Manager's voice was relentless, "Thomas Kord. Tech entrepreneur. Net worth: eight-point-nine billion dollars. Founder of Kord Industries."

Thomas Kord (Hyena) appeared on screen, his mask askew, revealing part of his face.

"Not surprising, look at his ugly face"

"We make MEDICAL DEVICES not weapons"

"The medical devices division is a front, genius"

"How did none of us know?"

"Fourth," the Manager continued, "Helena Ashe. Media conglomerate owner. Net worth: five-point-three billion dollars. She controls news outlets across North America and Europe."

Helena Ashe (Serpent) was shown, still unconscious, her serpent mask reflecting the spotlight.

"Helena Ashe owns the network I watch every morning"

"She won journalism ethics awards"

"How deep does this go?"

The Manager moved through the remaining four with the same tone:

"Fifth: Cole Bishop. Financial investor. Net worth: seven-point-one billion dollars. He pioneered high-frequency trading algorithms that destabilized markets and destroyed pension funds, profiting billions while thousands lost their retirement savings."

"Sixth: Victor Sterling. Defense contractor. Net worth: nine-point-four billion dollars. His company manufactures surveillance technology sold to authoritarian governments."

"Sterling Systems made my phone"

"They also made the facial recognition China uses in their concentration camps"*

"I'm throwing my phone away"

"Seventh: Chen Wei. Shipping magnate. Net worth: six-point-eight billion dollars. His freight empire moves forty percent of global container traffic."

"Eighth: Thomas Blackwood. Investment banker. Net worth: ten-point-two billion dollars. He specializes in making money disappear—laundering funds for cartels, warlords, corrupt officials, and apparently, death game organizers."

"Blackwood Financial handles my company's retirement accounts"

"He's supposed to be one of the most ethical bankers in the world"

"Nothing is real"

"NOTHING IS REAL"

The Manager let the information settle for several seconds. The viewer count had surpassed all time high and still climbing. The chat was moving too fast to read individual messages—a blur of shock, rage, disbelief, and dawning horror.

"These eight individuals," the Manager said, "have spent seven years watching people die for their amusement. They have paid millions of dollars to see suffering transformed into entertainment. They have laughed while teenagers were hunted like animals."

The eight panels showed the unconscious figures beginning to stir. Heads moving slightly. Fingers twitching. The sedative was wearing off.

"And now," the Manager said, "they will experience what their victims experienced. But not in a jungle. No. But with something far more terrifying."

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a weight that silenced even the chaotic chat.

"They will face the judgment of the world that finally knows what they are."

---

**Task Force X Headquarters - Undisclosed Location**

Amanda Waller stood in the operations center, surrounded by monitors showing the livestream from multiple angles. Her face was carved from stone—no visible emotion, just cold calculation as she processed what she was seeing.

"Tell me we're tracking the signal," she said, her voice cutting through the chatter and chaos of technicians working at their stations.

"We're trying, ma'am." The lead technician's fingers flew across his keyboard. "The broadcast is bouncing through approximately forty-seven different proxy servers across six continents. Each layer has military-grade encryption we have never ever seen. We crack one layer, and there are three more underneath."

"I don't care how many layers there are. Find them." Waller's jaw tightened. "Silas Tate funds three of our black site operations. Miranda Lockheart's pharmaceutical connections have kept our enhanced interrogation program supplied. Victor Sterling's surveillance tech is integrated into our entire security infrastructure." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to something dangerous. "These people are assets. Do you hear me? Critical assets. We still need them."

"Ma'am, even if we crack the encryption, the broadcast appears to be operating on a distributed network. It's not coming from a single location. It's everywhere and nowhere simultaneously."

"Then trace the video feed. Analyze the room. Find identifying details—architecture, electrical outlets, ambient sounds, anything." Waller's eyes never left the screens showing the eight unconscious billionaires. "And get me a tactical team on standby. The moment we have a location, we move."

"Yes, ma'am."

Waller's mind was already running contingency scenarios. Damage control. Asset recovery. Elimination of whoever orchestrated this if recovery proved impossible. The Crucible's exposure was catastrophic—not just for the eight billionaires, but for everyone connected to them. Including her.

She had know about the crucible for some time now but had kept that info aside for blackmail in case of rainy days.

"And find out who the hell is controlling that broadcast," she added. "I want to know who's behind this. Now."

---

**Justice League Watchtower**

The Justice League's main conference room had filled rapidly once the broadcast started. Superman stood before the primary monitor and his expression was grave. Wonder Woman stood beside him, arms crossed, her face showing controlled fury. The Flash paced restlessly near the window,while Green Lantern floated slightly off the ground, forming constructs and dissolving it around his hands as he processed what he was seeing.

And Batman sat at the computer terminal, his cowl pulled back slightly while his fingers danced across holographic keyboards as he attempted to trace the broadcast.

"How could this happen under our watch?" Superman's voice carried quiet devastation. "Seven years. Seven seasons. More than two hundred people murdered while we were..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"The operation was designed to be invisible," Batman said, not looking up from his work. "And participants selected from such a diverse population are unlikely to generate missing persons investigations that would draw gross attention. The organizers understood exactly how to exploit gaps in global surveillance."

"That's not good enough," Wonder Woman said, her voice hard. "Our responsibility is to protect those who cannot protect themselves. These people were being hunted like animals, and we knew nothing."

"Because someone wanted it that way." Batman's fingers stopped moving. "This encryption is remarkably sophisticated. Quantum-level cryptography integrated with adaptive algorithms. Every time I crack a layer, it regenerates with new parameters. Whoever designed this security knew how to keep even the League's systems out."

"Can you break it?" The Flash stopped pacing long enough to ask.

"Eventually. But it will take time." Batman pulled up a schematic on the holographic display. "The broadcast isn't originating from a single point. It's distributed across thousands of nodes worldwide, each one hosting a fragment of the stream. Taking down one node accomplishes nothing—the others compensate automatically. It's like trying to kill a hydra by cutting off one head."

"Then we cut off all the heads," Green Lantern said. "I can coordinate with the Green Lantern Corps, hit multiple nodes simultaneously—"

"That won't work either." Batman shook his head. "The moment the network detects a coordinated attack, it will shift to backup nodes we don't know exist. The only way to end this broadcast is to find the source—whoever is controlling it, wherever they're physically located."

Superman watched the split-screen showing the eight billionaires beginning to wake. "Is there anything we can do in the meantime?"

"Should I fly around the globe for a carpet search?" he asked, already half-ready to take off.

"Inefficient," Batman said. "Use your hearing. Try to localize the sound."

Superman closed his eyes. The room fell away as he focused on the voice from the broadcast.

In an instant, the world flooded in—every heartbeat in the building, every conversation across the city, the thrum of rail lines, turbine whine from a hydro plant miles away, a child crying for her mother on the other side of the planet, ships groaning against their anchors, gunfire rattling somewhere in the Middle East, a lullaby drifting through a cracked window in São Paulo.

He filtered deeper.

His brow tightened.

Channels folded over one another, each frequency crashing into the next like a storm of glass. Someone—or something—was deliberately saturating the spectrum. A dozen false echoes, artificial harmonics with decoys layered over the real feed.

Superman opened his eye and his jaw was tense.

"It's too chaotic," he said. "I can hear the broadcast, but it's buried under so much engineered noise I can’t pinpoint the origin. Someone knew exactly how to jam me."

Batman didn’t look surprised—only more determined.

"Then we find another way."

Note : I will start writing the new chapter once I get some sleep and upload it. I am still thinking about the kind of jigsaw trap I should use. Maybe I should watch some SAW films for inspiration.