A Reckoning
“Hello, everyone… I am… Chen Yuan.”
April 28, 8:05 PM. In the dim, lightless bedroom, a man with black-rimmed glasses sat before his phone camera and started his livestream.
His hair was a mess, his dark circles were exceptionally heavy, and his under-eye bags were so pronounced they seemed ready to fall off his face.
He looked exhausted, so exhausted that he might fall backward in the next second.
But those eyes were filled with… resentment, a resentment capable of staring into the soul, so much so that the viewers in the livestream room couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated… and a chill down their spines.
“Who is this guy? Why is he looking at me like that?”
“Come on, come on, take a look at what kind of livestream this is.”
“This is that guy, his screen name seems to be ‘Ba Yuan Yi Fen,’ I’ve seen the photos people leaked.”
“Can’t sleep because you’re holding in anger, huh?”
“Oh, it’s him. His energy is so bad, he’s not getting it every day, is he…”
“Aiya, I heard his mom died a few days ago.”
“Good death, meow.”
Comments filled with mockery and malice kept popping up in the lower-left corner of the livestream room.
The line between human and beast became a bit blurred at that moment.
Chen Yuan glanced at those malicious comments, his face expressionless.
He rolled his eyes to the side and picked up a chopping knife he had prepared long ago.
He looked at his own reflection on the blade, then stared back at the camera.
“Today… I will give all of you a reckoning.”
Time rewinds to two weeks earlier.
At that time, Chen Yuan had not yet become the person he was now.
Like most college students who had recently graduated, he hadn’t found a decent job yet.
His biggest hobbies every day were just playing games and watching anime.
He watched a hot-blooded anime with a grand setting that had many fans.
He wasn’t a hater; he had even bought merchandise.
But then one day, in an anime forum he frequented, under a discussion thread, he saw someone else’s comments about that anime.
So he also seriously wrote down his own opinions, point by point:
“Was the growth arc of the protagonist team a bit rushed this time? It feels like when the villain’s ideology was overturned, and the subsequent redemption arc were handled sloppily, and the emotional impact of the final showdown was also diminished. Without the backing of BGM, I feel like out of a full five stars, it might not even get three stars.”
He wrote a lot, even citing details from the previous installment.
He thought he was having a discussion, a serious discussion.
Soon, someone replied.
At first, the comments were normal—some agreed, some argued.
He did his best to present his views, as dispassionately as possible.
Then… that kind of comment started appearing.
Not discussing the plot, but instead—
“Oh, here come the know-it-alls again?”
“Classic ‘Everyone else is drunk while I alone am sober.'”
In the comment section, you could see all kinds of ‘creatures.’
He frowned, his fingers typing on the keyboard, trying to explain his original intention.
He cited more details, but the other side responded with more mockery and labeling.
“If you can talk so eloquently, go write the plot yourself. Bet it would flop within a few episodes.”
“Classic customer judging the taste, but they need to be able to cook… What are they thinking?”
The debate quickly escalated from the plot to taste, intelligence, and even personality.
His wording also began to sharpen, and at the same time he made a fatal mistake—he started replying and counterattacking everyone who attacked him, trying to place himself on an absolute moral high ground.
In the end, he was dragged into it, even insulting the anime itself.
Malice began to ferment.
On the third day, his comments were screenshot.
Not the complete discussion process—just the most intense, most out-of-context sentences, and the final ‘map attack.’
After being continuously provoked, he cursed at a netizen who had been persistently attacking him personally.
These were all captured and published on relevant websites.
The post first appeared in that anime-themed core community.
That place did not welcome ‘heretics,’ especially not someone like Chen Yuan.
First, his forum account was doxed, and his posts over the years were dissected and judged word by word.
They wanted to prove their own points, prove they were right, prove Chen Yuan had a ‘criminal record’ all along.
A mild affirmation of a controversial work from three years ago was even interpreted as: ‘This guy has been shilling for a long time.’
His avatar became material for all kinds of insulting photoshopped images.
Chen Yuan was not soft-tempered.
He continued to fight with those people.
But even a male lion, facing an endless stream of wolves, will eventually be defeated, bitten, and torn apart.
Moreover, the opposition was even more terrifying than a pack of wolves.
Thus, what came next was the so-called ‘doxing.’
Someone, using a plane ticket stub he had posted on the forum a few years ago, combined with the bits of city information he had mentioned, plus some unsavory methods, managed to pinpoint his real identity step by step.
His name, alma mater, workplace… were all listed one by one.
On the fourth day, the phone started ringing.
It was an unknown number.
When he picked up, what came through were sharp curses or weird laughter with pinched voices.
A few even called his company’s front desk, reporting him in a tone of ‘righteous indignation’: ‘Your employee Chen Yuan has engaged in malicious defamation and personal attacks online, with corrupt morals. Recommend termination.’
After his boss talked to him, his gaze was complicated.
He opened his mouth, trying to explain the twisted sequence of events, but found his own voice dry and pale.
The company didn’t care whether he was right or wrong; they only knew that his actions might affect the company, impacting its future image and revenue.
So, he was sent home to rest and see if the storm would blow over.
On the fifth day, the blaze of war reached his social media account, which he had closed years ago and was now overgrown with weeds.
His slightly rebellious middle school photos, college club activity group photos, and even photos of his mother were all dug up.
His mother’s WeChat was found.
She was just an ordinary retired teacher, her profile picture a lotus flower, a simple style unique to the older generation.
In her moments, she had been sharing health articles and flower photos for a long time.
Now, under every single post, it was crowded with filthy words from strangers:
“Raising such a vicious son, you’re no good either.”
“Old hag, hurry up and control your thing.”
“Why aren’t you dead yet?”
At first, his mother tried to reply, wanting to ask if there was some misunderstanding.
She had always believed that her son was not that kind of person.
But in the end, what she got in return was fiercer mockery and attacks.
In the end, she learned to be silent, hastily adjusted permissions, and finally completely closed her moments.
When Chen Yuan rushed home, his mother was staring blankly at the moments interface she could no longer open, her body trembling slightly.
She looked up at him, her eyes red, but she forced a smile, her lips trembling:
“Son… those people online… don’t take it to heart. Let’s stop watching, okay?”
That night, Chen Yuan held his phone, the screen filled with countless fresh, venomous words pouring into his mother’s account.
He trembled all over—not from fear, but from something cold and unprecedented that was slowly climbing up his spine, freezing his blood.
He reported them one by one, the system replying ‘Verifying,’ over and over.
He called the police, and after recording, they said they would investigate, but such cases are difficult to obtain evidence for and the process is long; no one knew how long it would take.
He contacted the platform’s customer service, but all he got were automated replies and long queues.
His mother’s silence grew deeper.
She no longer looked at her phone, not even watching TV.
She often sat by the window, sitting for an entire afternoon.
Sometimes, Chen Yuan could hear her suppressed, faint sobs in the middle of the night.
He hadn’t heard such a sound in a long time—a sound that wrenched his heart.
Until that afternoon, he received a call from the property management, the voice on the other end quite urgent:
“Mr. Chen, come back quickly! Your mother… she’s standing on the edge of the rooftop!”
The world, at that moment, lost all sound and color.
He only felt a huge roar echoing in his ears, and his vision suddenly went black.
He didn’t remember how he rushed back, nor how he climbed to the rooftop.
He only remembered the wind was strong.
His mother stood at the edge, her back thin.
When she turned back, her face held a kind of calm after complete shattering.
From downstairs, there was a faint sound of clamor, and some people were holding up their phones, recording ‘another unforgettable moment.’
His mother’s lips moved, her voice drifting in the wind, light as a feather yet heavy enough to suffocate:
“Mom… caused you trouble.”
“They… are too noisy. Mom is old, can’t stand hearing these things.”
“I’m sorry.”
Then, like a falling leaf, she dropped.
He didn’t even have time to grab her hand, didn’t have time to say sorry.
Time seemed to freeze.
Only he stood there stunned, staring at the blood-red scene below, his eyes trembling, his ears ringing.
In the following days, he lived like a walking corpse.
Handling the aftermath, facing relatives’ looks of sympathy or suspicion, accepting the police’s conclusion of ‘homicide ruled out, suicide confirmed.’
The world continued as usual.
That anime community was still lively, new hot topics covering the old news.
Only a few scattered people left a flippant comment under the news of his mother: ‘Her psychological resilience was too weak.’
And in the core community that started it all, someone posted:
“That ‘Ba Yuan Yi Fen”s mom killed herself? Trolls really have no psychological fortitude.”
“Can’t take it anymore? Could it be fake? Trying to gain sympathy?”
Below that post was a chorus of ‘hahahaha.’
“Serves her right.”
Were those on the other side of the screen really human?
He looked at the temperature of these words and suddenly felt that the last bit of humanity in these people had also been extinguished.
He didn’t know; he only felt something cold crawling along his spine, completely taking over him.
He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his haggard face in the phone screen.
Time lost its direction.
Chaotic, disorderly sounds suddenly appeared in his ears, like whispers from the abyss or a call from heaven.
He seemed not to hear them, just staring blankly at the phone screen.
Until a pair of hands extending from purple sleeves placed themselves on his shoulders.
Only then did he slowly lift his head, as if given a command.
He began to carefully tidy the room and changed into a clean set of clothes.
Then, he sat in front of the computer, adjusted the camera, and clicked open a livestream platform.
In the camera, his face was eerily calm, only deep in his eyes a pale flame flickered.
He spoke into the microphone, his voice clear and steady, with obvious fatigue:
“Hello, everyone… I am Chen Yuan.”
“Today… I will give all of you…”