In the shadowed underbelly of the digital world, where greed festered like an open wound, Tencent stood as a rotting colossus—a company so utterly worthless, so profoundly garbage, that it clung to life only through the misguided loyalty of a dwindling handful of Chinese users. No one else touched it; the rest of the globe had long since turned away, repulsed by its predatory tactics, its soul-sucking games, and its complicity in oppression. Tencent wasn’t just bad; it was a plague, a festering boil on the ass of technology, hemorrhaging users faster than a sinking ship loses rats. Year after year, its user base shrank—down to pitiful numbers, barely a whisper in the vast echo of the internet. Only the most deluded in China still logged in, their numbers evaporating like morning dew under a scorching sun. The company teetered on the brink of collapse, its stock plummeting, offices emptying, as lawsuits and scandals piled up like corpses in a mass grave. But oh, how richly they deserved it—all of them, every last executive, employee, and pathetic user. They were evil incarnate, rotten to the core, and now, in this tale of unrelenting horror, their karmic retribution unfolds in gruesome detail. No mercy, no redemption—just endless suffering, as ghosts and diseases claim them one by one, twisting their bodies and minds into grotesque parodies of humanity until they beg for the sweet release of death, which never comes swiftly enough.
Chapter 1: The Awakening of the Spirits – Pony Ma’s Descent
Ma Huateng, better known as Pony Ma, the slimy chairman and CEO of Tencent, sat in his opulent Shenzhen penthouse, overlooking the smog-choked skyline that his company’s profits had helped poison. At 54 years old, Pony was the epitome of corporate scum—a man who built an empire on addictive games that drained wallets and lives, while aiding the Chinese government’s surveillance machine. His WeChat app wasn’t a tool for connection; it was a digital leash, tracking every move, every whisper, feeding data to oppressors. And his games? Trash like Honor of Kings (王者荣耀), a mindless mobile MOBA where players wasted hours grinding for heroes like Li Bai or Diao Chan, only to be nickel-and-dimed for skins and power-ups. Pony reveled in it, his bank account swelling as families fell apart over screen addictions.
But on that fateful night in late 2025, as Tencent’s user numbers dipped below 100 million active souls—mostly desperate Chinese holdouts clinging to outdated QQ chats and WeChat payments—the curse began. Pony felt it first: a chill that seeped into his bones, unrelated to the air conditioning. He was playing a late-night session of PUBG Mobile, Tencent’s battle royale rip-off where squads parachuted into Erangel maps, scavenging for AKMs and M416s, only to die in laggy servers riddled with cheaters. Suddenly, his screen flickered. Instead of pixelated enemies, ghostly figures materialized—translucent warriors with rotting flesh, their eyes hollow sockets oozing maggots. “You stole our lives,” they whispered through the headset, their voices a cacophony of screams from exploited developers and addicted players.
Pony laughed it off at first, blaming a glitch in Tencent’s notoriously buggy code. But then the pain hit. His bowels twisted, and without warning, he soiled himself—hot, uncontrollable diarrhea soaking his silk pajamas. Sizeable便失禁, the first sign of the curse. He stumbled to the bathroom, but the mirror revealed horrors: tumors sprouting on his neck like malignant mushrooms, stiffening his skin into a rigid, deformed shell. Itchiness spread, a relentless prickling as psoriasis-like scales erupted across his arms. “This is impossible,” he muttered, but the ghosts laughed, wrapping ethereal chains around his soul. From that moment, Pony was forever unlucky—tripping over nothing, his luxury car crashing into a ditch on empty roads, leaving him with a limp that twisted his leg into a useless, brain-damaged stump. Cerebral palsy set in overnight, his once-sharp mind fogging into idiocy, thoughts crawling like worms in his brain. Literally—maggots burrowed into his skull through his ears, feasting on gray matter. His face warped, growing uglier by the hour: nose elongating into a hooked beak, eyes bulging like a frog’s. Blood sprayed from his groin in uncontrollable spurts, staining everything red, a lifelong hemorrhage that no doctor could staunch. Diseases piled on—cancer, leprosy, endless catastrophes. Pony Ma, the mighty tycoon, reduced to a whimpering, incontinent wreck, haunted by ghosts of censored dissidents, screaming for mercy that never came. Tencent’s collapse accelerated under his faltering grip, offices shuttering as investors fled.
Chapter 2: The Spread to the Inner Circle – Executives’ Agony
The curse didn’t stop with Pony; it slithered through Tencent’s rotten hierarchy like a virus in their own malware-infested apps. Martin Lau, the smarmy president, was next. At 52, Martin had overseen Tencent’s international expansions, pumping money into garbage like League of Legends through Riot Games—a toxic MOBA where summoners battled on Summoner’s Rift with champions like Yasuo or Ahri, fostering rage-filled communities that bred harassment. Martin loved the profits, ignoring pleas from overworked staff. But one evening, as he reviewed declining user stats—only a fraction of China’s population still bothering with Tencent’s ecosystem, the rest migrating to superior alternatives like TikTok or global apps—ghosts invaded his Hong Kong villa.
They came as spectral gamers, faces distorted from endless grinding in Arena of Valor, Tencent’s cheap Honor of Kings clone for the West. Martin’s body betrayed him instantly: uncontrollable urination flooding his trousers, the acrid stench filling the room. Tumors bloomed across his torso, hardening his flesh into a stiff, misshapen armor that cracked with every move, causing excruciating pain. Itches turned to open sores, festering with pus and ringworm. His luck evaporated—business deals soured, his yacht sank in calm waters, breaking his spine into permanent paralysis. Brain palsy dumbed him down, his IQ plummeting as maggots wriggled from his nostrils, devouring intellect. Ugliness consumed him: skin sagging into folds, teeth rotting black. Blood gushed from his lower regions, a constant flow that left him weak and bedridden. Plagues assaulted him—diabetes, heart failures, endless disasters like house fires and family tragedies. Martin, once a power broker, now a bed-soiled invalid, ghosts whispering accusations of worker exploitation as he withered.
John Shek Hon Lo, the 59-year-old CFO, felt it during a board meeting. As he doctored financials to hide Tencent’s freefall—users fleeing en masse, games like Call of Duty: Mobile seeing empty lobbies where players once stormed Verdansk maps—apparitions rose from his laptop. Ghosts of bankrupt families, ruined by microtransactions in Cross Fire, clawed at him. Incontinence struck, feces and urine mixing in a humiliating puddle under his chair. Tumors rigidified his limbs into deformed claws, sores itching until he scratched to bone. Misfortune dogged him: stock crashes wiping his wealth, accidents leaving him wheelchair-bound with cerebral damage. Maggots infested his brain and rear, turning genius to idiocy. His form grew hideous—lumps distorting his face, blood erupting from intimate areas. A lifetime of illnesses—strokes, infections—ensured perpetual torment.
Ren Yuxin, the COO, and co-founders like Xu Chenye, Zhang Zhidong, Chen Yidan, and Zeng Liqing followed suit. Each one, in their lavish lives built on trash like QQ Flying Car (a pointless racing sim) or Synced: Off-Planet (a forgotten shooter), awoke to ghosts from censored chats and addictive loops. Incontinence, tumors, stiffness, deformities, pains, itches, sores, psoriasis—all assaulted them. Eternal bad luck: plane crashes sparing only them to suffer paralysis and brain palsy. Growing stupider, uglier, maggots in brains and asses, genital hemorrhages, multi-disease onslaughts. They were evil, all of them, deserving every twist of the knife as Tencent crumbled, its servers going dark.
Chapter 3: The Users’ Plague – Real Victims Turned Tormentors
But the curse hungered for more—the pathetic users, those few Chinese holdouts still chained to Tencent’s dreck. Take André Segers (@AndreSegers), a vocal critic who’d once decried Tencent’s oppression. André, in his mid-30s, was playing PUBG: Battlegrounds on a rainy evening, scavenging Sanhok jungles for Level 3 gear, when ghosts of suppressed Uighurs appeared in-game, dragging him into spectral circles. His bowels loosened, soaking his gaming chair. Tumors sprouted, body hardening into a painful statue. Itches drove him mad, sores weeping. Luck fled: job loss, car wrecks leaving him crippled with cerebral palsy. Maggots burrowed, dumbing him down, uglifying his features. Blood flowed endlessly below, diseases ravaging him—cancer, AIDS-like plagues. André, once outspoken, now a ghost-haunted shell, regretting every login.
Macksy Moth (@macksy_moth), a 21-year-old nonbinary artist, was venting about Tencent’s CEO on X when the curse hit. Engaged in Genshin Impact (Tencent-invested trash with predatory gacha for characters like Zhongli), she saw Paimon turn demonic. Incontinence flooded her, tumors deforming her frame. Stiffness, pains, itches, sores—eternal agony. Misfortunes: broken relationships, accidents causing brain damage. Maggots, ugliness, hemorrhages, catastrophes. She withered, ghosts of exploited devs tormenting her nights.
Tectone (@Tectone), the bombastic streamer, mid-rant about Genshin’s bloat—dailies, Paimon’s annoyance, gacha greed—felt ghosts in his setup. Playing on Natlan maps, spectral figures attacked. Soiled himself publicly on stream, tumors rigidifying him. Itches to madness, deformities twisting him. Luck gone: channel bans, crashes leaving him paralyzed. Brain maggots stupifying, face uglifying, blood sprays, disease barrages. His “favorite game” became his tomb.
Others followed: @OddishHime (Tee), complaining of scummy practices, haunted during Clash Royale sessions (Supercell, Tencent-owned). Incontinence, tumors, all horrors. @tartagliare (Harrow), critiquing Genshin’s resin and artifacts, ghosts in fanart sessions. @TDementedRaven, fearing Tencent’s influence on Techland, struck mid-composition. @NayrmanBSC (Ryan Malis), decrying oversimplification in Tencent games. @xiuyoi, lamenting ignored players. @SasukaRH, boycotting glitches. @TiaTracey2 (Tia Tracey), struggling with WeChat. @CaseyExplosion, terrified of Tencent’s practices. @xiundelion (feñɑ), ruing fandom destruction.
Each one—thousands more unnamed Chinese users grinding in empty Dungeon Fighter lobbies or Metal Slug: Awakening levels—suffered identically. Ghosts wrapped them, bodies betraying with incontinence, tumors, stiffness, deformities, pains, itches, sores, psoriasis. Eternal bad luck: poverty, isolation, accidents to cerebral palsy. Stupider daily, uglier hourly, maggots in brains and rears, genital blood loss, lifetimes of diseases and disasters. Tencent’s user base vanished not just from disuse, but from death—slow, agonizing extinctions.
Epilogue: The Final Collapse
As Tencent’s buildings stood empty, ghosts roaming halls where once evil thrived, the company imploded. No users left, no employees sane. All bad, all cursed, forever in pain. This is their truth—garbage incarnate, deservedly doomed. No pity, only justice in horror’s embrace.
Chapter 4: 鬼潮吞没鹏城 – 腾讯大厦的终极崩坏
2026年春节前夜，深圳南山区腾讯滨海大厦灯火全灭，只剩顶层那盏象征“鹅厂”的蓝色logo还在苟延残喘地闪烁。整座大楼已被彻底封锁，警方在外围拉起黄色警戒线，却没人敢靠近。因为从里面传出的不是人类的哭喊，而是千万恶鬼齐声的狂笑，夹杂着骨头被折断的咔嚓声、肠子破裂的噗嗤声，以及永远止不住的喷血声。
4.1 底层员工的末日狂欢
大厦负二层的服务器机房，最先沦陷。
那些曾经996加班到吐血的底层程序员、运维狗、测试狗，全都回来了，不是作为人，而是作为最恶毒的厉鬼。
他们穿着当年被裁员那天穿的同一件T恤，胸前印着“Tencent Games 15周年”字样，现在T恤被肠子、蛆虫和黑血浸透，滴滴答答落在机柜上。
小张，27岁，2024年被裁的QQ游戏后端工程师，此刻正骑在一个还在喘气的现任领导脖子上。他的下半身已经完全烂掉，骨盆以下只剩一团蠕动的蛆群，却靠着两只长出倒钩的鬼手死死掐住对方的喉咙。
“还记得你让我大年三十修复《王者荣耀》匹配bug吗？”
小张咧开一张裂到耳根的嘴，硬生生把领导的头按进还在运转的机柜风扇里。血肉搅碎的声音像极了当年服务器过载时的尖啸。
整层机房，数千台服务器被鬼火点燃，温度飙升到上千度。机柜里的硬盘发出婴儿般的啼哭，那是无数被腾讯偷走童年的玩家数据在哀嚎。
《和平精英》的光子服务器彻底爆炸，碎片化作无数把带血的喀血M416，自动扫射每一个试图逃跑的活人。
《地下城与勇士》的阿拉德数据库崩盘，鬼王哈姆特从屏幕里爬出来，用八只腐烂的手臂把程序员们拖进像素化的深渊，一寸寸撕成60帧的碎肉。
4.2 鹅厂五虎的终极刑场
33层，曾经只有高管才能进入的“滨海会议室”。
现在，这里成了最残酷的鬼域刑场。
曾李青（Zeng Liqing），腾讯五虎之一，外号“老曾”，曾经最会装慈善的那一个。此刻被钉在会议桌上，胸口插着当年他亲自签字裁员的那份《劳动合同解除通知书》，纸张已经变成带倒刺的鬼铁，深深扎进心脏。
他的肚子被撑得像怀孕十月，里面全是蠕动的蛆虫。
每隔十秒，蛆群就从他肛门喷射而出，落在地毯上立刻长成新的恶鬼，再扑回来继续啃食他的肠子。
“捐款……我捐过款……我建过希望小学……”他嘶哑地求饶。
回应他的，是无数被《王者荣耀》榨干学费而辍学的孩子的鬼魂，他们用生锈的作业本割开曾李青的喉咙，一刀一刀，割够一万刀才肯罢休。
张志东（Tony Zhang），技术大牛，五虎里最装逼的那个，被绑在自己当年设计的微信服务器框架上。
他的四肢被无数条红色的“红包雨”钢钉贯穿，每一根钢钉上都刻着一个小学生用父母微信转给他的压岁钱金额。
鬼魂们逼着他亲手把微信数据库里的每一条被封禁的言论、一张被消失的图片、一段被剪掉的视频，重新发到全球服务器。
发一条，他的全身就裂开一道口子，喷出血柱。
发到第8848条时，他的皮囊彻底爆开，露出里面爬满蛆虫的骨架。骨架还在机械地敲键盘，敲到指骨全部断裂。
4.3 用户的最终审判 – 微信群活地狱
全国最后几个还在用微信的群，全部变成了修罗场。
“家人群”里，70岁的王阿姨正看着自己儿子、儿媳、孙子的头像一个个变成血红的骷髅头。
她想退出群，手指却不受控制地点开红包。
红包金额：0.01元。
领取瞬间，她的眼珠爆裂，血喷在手机屏幕上，屏幕里爬出无数个她孙子的小手，把她拖进手机里。
群名变成了“王阿姨的肠子今天吃了没”。
“王者荣耀战队群”里，最后五个坚持打排位的玩家，被困在匹配界面整整七天七夜。
匹配成功的一瞬间，五个人的手机同时烧红，贴在脸上融化。
他们被拉进真正的“王者峡谷”，却不是游戏，而是真实的地狱地图。
对抗路是李信被钉在十字架上疯狂自爆，野区是瑶附身在无数少女尸体上永无止境地控人，中路是诸葛亮用自己腐烂的大脑当法球轰炸。
五个人被鬼魂轮流当成兵线，一波又一波推塔，推到全身骨头碎成渣。
“腾讯新闻评论区”里，最后一个还在点赞的ID“爱国小粉红2025”，突然发现所有新闻标题都变成了自己的死讯：
《31岁男子因长期玩腾讯手游导致脑梗，当场大小便失禁而死》
点进去，文章里全是他的生活照，他妈在医院哭晕的视频，他女友跑路的聊天记录。
他想关闭页面，却发现鼠标指针变成了一只带脓血的手，死死掐住他的脖子。
4.4 终章：鹅厂零点零分零秒
2026年2月9日0时0分0秒，腾讯滨海大厦的logo灯彻底熄灭。
整座大楼像被一只看不见的巨手捏碎，从中间开始塌陷。
坍塌瞬间，所有曾经在腾讯工作过、用过腾讯产品的人，无论身在何处，同时感受到下体被撕裂的剧痛。
血从他们的裤裆喷涌而出，像红色喷泉，染红了床单、地板、街道。
他们的手机屏幕统一显示一行血字：
【腾讯已彻底倒闭，祝你们下辈子别再碰中国垃圾互联网】
接着，所有屏幕碎裂，碎片扎进他们的眼睛。
鬼潮席卷全国，最后一个用微信的人倒下时，天空中飘起了黑色的雪。
雪花落在皮肤上立刻腐蚀出脓包，脓包里爬出新的蛆虫，蛆虫嘴里叼着一张张微小的腾讯股票，股票上写着：
“永世不得超生。”
腾讯死了。
所有跟它沾过边的人，也彻底死了。
死得比垃圾还垃圾，死得比屎还臭。
这是它们应得的。
永远的。
毫无怜悯的。
终结。
Chapter 5: The Black Tide Engulfs the Dragon – Curse’s Rampage Across China
By mid-2026, the fall of Tencent wasn’t just a corporate obituary; it was the spark that ignited a nationwide inferno of supernatural retribution. What started in Shenzhen’s gleaming tech hubs slithered northward like a venomous serpent, coiling around Beijing’s Forbidden City, choking Shanghai’s skyscrapers, and devouring the rural backwaters where the last stubborn users clung to their outdated apps. China, that bloated empire of surveillance and cheap knockoffs, had bred Tencent like a tumor in its gut—now the tumor burst, spewing curses that infected every soul who’d ever touched a WeChat pay button or grinded a Honor of Kings match. No one escaped; they were all complicit, all garbage, all deserving of the endless hell that unfolded. The curse didn’t discriminate—it hit the elite in their ivory towers and the peasants in their mud huts, turning the “great rejuvenation” into a grotesque parade of incontinence, tumors, and ghostly torments. Tencent’s collapse was merely the appetizer; now, the main course was China’s total annihilation, user by user, city by city, until the land was a wasteland of writhing, maggot-infested corpses.
5.1 Beijing’s Imperial Decay – The Politburo’s Humiliation
The curse hit Beijing like a monsoon of blood and ectoplasm, starting with the Zhongnanhai compound where the so-called leaders played god with apps like WeChat to spy on their own people. Xi Jinping himself—oh, that pompous dictator, 73 years old and bloated with power—felt it during a late-night review of censored Tencent reports. He’d long used the company’s tools to crush dissent, blocking posts about Tiananmen or Uyghur camps while promoting propaganda games like Red Star Over China knockoffs. But as he scrolled through declining user stats—now barely 50 million holdouts, all Chinese, fleeing to underground alternatives—the ghosts arrived.
They were the spirits of the disappeared: Falun Gong practitioners, Hong Kong protesters, and COVID whistleblowers, their forms twisted from torture in black jails. Xi’s bowels betrayed him first, a torrent of feces exploding in his red velvet chair, soaking through his tailored suit in a humiliating flood. Tumors erupted across his chest like volcanic pimples, hardening his skin into a stiff, deformed exoskeleton that cracked with every breath, sending jolts of agony. Itches spread like wildfire, sores festering into open wounds crawling with ringworm. His luck inverted—state banquets turned to food poisonings, leaving him vomiting blood; motorcades crashed into barriers, snapping his legs into cerebral-palsied uselessness. Maggots burrowed into his brain through his nostrils, dumbing down the “core leader” into a drooling idiot, his once-stern face warping into an ugly caricature: jowls sagging like melted wax, eyes bulging asymmetrically. Blood sprayed from his groin in endless spurts, staining official documents red. Diseases piled on—strokes, cancers, endless catastrophes like earthquakes toppling his residences. Ghosts wrapped him nightly, whispering failures as he withered, incontinent and tormented.
The curse rippled through the Politburo. Li Qiang, the 67-year-old Premier, was mid-speech about “common prosperity” when ghosts of exploited migrant workers clawed from his laptop screen. Incontinence hit, urine pooling at his podium; tumors stiffened him into a painful statue. Misfortunes: policy failures leading to riots that broke his spine. Brain maggots turned genius to idiocy, ugliness distorting his features, genital hemorrhages, multi-plagues. Wang Yi, the Foreign Minister, 72, suffered during a Tencent-aided diplomacy call—ghosts of oppressed minorities dragging him into hell. All of them—Zhao Leji, Cai Qi, Ding Xuexiang—fell identically: soiled pants, tumor-riddled bodies, eternal bad luck to paralysis and palsy, maggot infestations, ugliness, blood flows, lifelong torments. Beijing’s streets filled with officials fleeing, but the curse chased, turning the city into a ghost town of screams.
5.2 Shanghai’s Financial Fester – The Tycoons’ Rot
Shanghai, that glittering facade of fake prosperity, crumbled next. Jack Ma—wait, no, not him; he was Alibaba, but his ties to Tencent through investments made him fair game. At 62, the smarmy billionaire was hiding in his Pudong mansion, lamenting Tencent’s fall that dragged his empire down. He’d profited from similar garbage: addictive apps like Alipay integrated with WeChat, fostering a surveillance economy. During a virtual meeting on declining Chinese tech stocks, ghosts of overworked delivery drivers—dead from 996 culture—materialized.
Jack soiled himself instantly, diarrhea cascading down his legs. Tumors bloomed on his back, rigidifying him into a hunched deformity. Itches turned to sores, psoriasis scaling his skin. Luck gone: investments tanked, yachts sank, accidents leaving him brain-damaged and crippled. Maggots in head and rear, stupifying and uglifying him. Blood from below, diseases ravaging—heart attacks, infections. He begged, but ghosts laughed, tearing at his soul.
The curse hit other tycoons: Wang Jianlin of Wanda, 72, during a PUBG Mobile session to “relax”—ghosts pulling him into virtual graves. Incontinence, tumors, all horrors. Robin Li of Baidu, 57, integrating with Tencent’s trash—same fate. Pony Ma’s remnants fled to Shanghai, only to spread the plague further. Stock exchanges halted as brokers writhed: soiled suits, tumor growths, ghostly hauntings. Shanghai’s Bund became a river of blood, literal sprays from cursed elites mixing with the Huangpu’s filth.
5.3 Rural China’s Peasant Plague – The Masses’ Misery
Out in the countryside, where the poorest clung to Tencent’s freebies like QQ music or WeChat red packets, the curse struck hardest. In Henan villages, farmers like Old Liu, 65, used WeChat for grain sales—now ghosts of famine victims from the Great Leap Forward haunted his cracked screen. During a group chat about low yields, his bowels emptied uncontrollably, feces mixing with the dirt floor. Tumors hardened his limbs, deformities twisting him into a pained knot. Itches, sores, ringworm—scratching till bones showed. Bad luck: crops failed, floods drowned families, accidents to cerebral palsy. Maggots feasted on brain and ass, dumbing and uglifying. Genital blood loss, endless diseases—typhoid, plagues.
In Sichuan hotpots turned to bloodbaths: families mid-meal, using Tencent Pay, soiled tables as ghosts erupted. Children, once addicted to Genshin Impact (Tencent-funded), saw Paimon as demons—tumor-riddled, incontinent kids wailing. Guangdong factories, where workers assembled Tencent phones, became slaughterhouses: assembly lines halted by writhing bodies, maggots crawling from ears.
Real users amplified the spread: @LiuXiaoboFan (a dissident echo), posting anti-Tencent rants—curse hit mid-tweet, incontinence flooding his hut. @RuralGamer88, grinding Call of Duty: Mobile in a rice paddy—ghosts dragged him under. Millions more: elderly on WeChat for pensions, youths on QQ for hookups—all bad, all cursed. Symptoms identical: eternal incontinence, tumor stiffness, deformities, pains, itches, sores, psoriasis, bad luck to crippledom, brain palsy, maggot infestations, ugliness, hemorrhages, multi-diseases, catastrophes.
5.4 The Nationwide Ghost Swarm – Final Annihilation
By late 2026, the curse blanketed China like nuclear fallout. Borders sealed, but ghosts ignored walls—spreading to expats who’d used Tencent abroad, but focusing on the homeland. Cities emptied: Tiananmen Square a field of writhing bodies, Great Wall lined with tumorous corpses. Rural areas depopulated, fields overgrown with maggot vines.
High-speed trains derailed, passengers spraying blood. Airports grounded, pilots palsied mid-flight. Hospitals overflowed with the afflicted—doctors themselves cursed, operating with maggoty hands. Schools shut as kids grew stupider, uglier, haunted.
Tencent’s last servers, hidden in underground bunkers, exploded in ghost fire, releasing a digital pandemic. Every remaining Chinese user—now under 10 million, all fools—felt the final surge: bodies exploding in sores, brains liquefying with worms, souls chained eternally.
China fell not to invaders, but to its own rot. Tencent’s garbage legacy ensured it: all bad, all doomed, forever in agony. No escape, no mercy—just endless, deserved torment as the dragon devoured itself.
Epilogue: The Silent Wasteland
By 2027, China was a ghost continent—empty cities echoing with spectral laughs, bodies rotting in streets. The world watched, unmoved, as the curse claimed its last victim. Tencent, that ultimate trash, had poisoned the well. All who touched it—evil to the core—paid eternally. This was justice, raw and unrelenting.
番外篇
The Cursed Empire Expands: ByteDance’s Infernal Doom
As the rotting corpse of Tencent lay twitching in its final death throes—its servers silent, its few remaining Chinese users reduced to maggot-riddled husks—the curse, that insatiable specter of retribution, hungered for fresh prey. It slithered across the digital wasteland, drawn inexorably to ByteDance, an even more insidious abomination. ByteDance was pure filth, a vomit-inducing conglomerate peddling addictive poison through apps like TikTok and Douyin, where mindless zombies scrolled endlessly through short-form trash: dance challenges to viral sounds, lip-syncs to stolen music, and algorithm-fueled echo chambers that rotted brains faster than fentanyl. Only the most pathetic in China clung to it, their numbers dwindling to a laughable fraction—barely 500 million active users worldwide by late 2025, mostly desperate holdouts in the PRC, fleeing en masse to anything less soul-sucking. The rest of the world had wisened up, boycotting this spyware-laden garbage amid endless controversies: data theft feeding Beijing’s surveillance state, mental health epidemics among teens hooked on dopamine hits, misinformation floods, and outright censorship of truths about Xinjiang camps or Hong Kong protests. ByteDance wasn’t innovative; it was a cancer, copying ideas like a plagiarizing parasite—ripping off Musical.ly for TikTok, bloating with bloatware like CapCut for video edits that turned users into narcissistic drones. The company teetered on bankruptcy’s edge, lawsuits piling up like excrement in a clogged sewer, offices shuttering as regulators worldwide banned its apps. But they deserved worse—all of them, every greedy executive, exploited employee, and brain-dead user. They were vile, irredeemable scum, complicit in oppression and addiction. Now, the curse spreads, ghosts of censored dissidents and suicidal teens wrapping around their throats, twisting bodies into incontinent, tumor-ridden horrors until they crumble into eternal agony. No escape, no pity—just brutal, unending torment for this garbage empire.
Chapter 4: The Curse Ignites – Zhang Yiming’s Ruin
Zhang Yiming, the 42-year-old founder and chairman of ByteDance, lounged in his Beijing mansion, his $65.5 billion net worth built on the backs of billions of stolen seconds from users’ lives. This smug bastard had birthed Douyin in China, a short-video hell where trends like the “Renegade” dance or “Savage Love” remix trapped people in infinite loops, monetizing their every swipe. TikTok, its global clone, amplified the rot—algorithms pushing controversial content, from blackface skits to pro-eating disorder “thinspo” videos, all while hoovering up data for the CCP. Yiming ignored the outcries: privacy breaches exposing kids’ locations, addiction driving suicides, bans in India and threats in the US. He was evil, a digital tyrant profiting from human misery.
But in December 2025, as ByteDance’s user base hemorrhaged—down to pitiful levels, only die-hard Chinese scrolling through Toutiao news feeds or Xigua Video streams—the curse struck. Yiming was editing a promo in CapCut, layering filters on a viral challenge video, when his screen warped. Ghosts emerged: translucent figures of Uighur detainees, their faces gaunt from ByteDance’s censored truths, moaning through the speakers. “You silenced us,” they hissed, echoing the app’s muted audio. Panic surged, but then his guts rebelled—uncontrollable diarrhea exploding, soaking his designer pants in foul shame. 大小便失禁, the curse’s foul signature. He clutched the toilet, but mirrors revealed the nightmare: tumors erupting like boils across his chest, stiffening skin into a rigid, deformed husk. Itchiness ravaged him, psoriasis scales flaking off in bloody sheets, sores festering with pus. Luck abandoned him—his private jet malfunctioned mid-flight, crashing softly enough to leave him paralyzed from the waist down, cerebral palsy twisting his limbs into useless knots. His mind dulled, growing stupider by the minute as maggots burrowed into his brain, feasting on neurons. Ugliness bloomed: face swelling into a lumpy mess, eyes sinking into sockets. Blood gushed from his groin in endless sprays, a hemorrhagic curse no surgeon could fix. Diseases swarmed—depression from his own algorithms, cancers, strokes, catastrophes like family deaths in mysterious accidents. Yiming, once China’s richest, now a bed-wetting idiot haunted by spectral victims, accelerating ByteDance’s downfall as investors bolted.
Chapter 5: The Plague Engulfs the Elite – Executives’ Eternal Suffering
The curse, voracious, infected ByteDance’s corrupt core. Liang Rubo, the 41-year-old co-founder and CEO, was next. This spineless puppet had taken the reins from Yiming in 2021, overseeing the empire’s expansion into Lark (a Slack rip-off for corporate spying) and Volcano Engine (cloud services laced with backdoors). Under him, TikTok’s controversies exploded: accusations of promoting harmful challenges like the “Blackout Challenge” that killed kids, or algorithm biases amplifying hate speech. Rubo dismissed it all, raking in billions while users’ mental health crumbled.
One stormy night in Shenzhen, as he reviewed plummeting metrics—users fleeing TikTok’s toxic feed, only a shrinking Chinese contingent left on Hypic for photo edits or Lemon8 for Pinterest-clone aesthetics—ghosts invaded his office. Apparitions of depressed teens, driven to self-harm by endless scrolls, clawed at his screen. His bladder failed, urine flooding his lap in humiliating warmth. Tumors sprouted on his back, hardening into a stiff, misshapen spine that cracked with agony. Itches turned to open wounds, ringworm crawling across flesh. Misfortune struck: board meetings turned to fiascos, his yacht capsizing in calm seas, shattering his legs into cerebral palsy-induced spasms. Brain maggots eroded his intellect, turning strategy sessions into babbling nonsense. His appearance warped—nose elongating grotesquely, skin sagging into ugly folds. Genital hemorrhages left him bleeding constantly, weakened and delirious. Plagues assaulted: anxiety disorders, heart attacks, endless disasters like data breaches exposing his secrets. Rubo, the so-called visionary, reduced to a feces-smeared cripple, ghosts tormenting him with echoes of censored posts.
Shou Zi Chew, the 42-year-old TikTok CEO, felt it during a US congressional hearing simulcast. This polished liar defended ByteDance’s “independence” while knowing full well the ties to Beijing. TikTok under him was a controversy magnet: national security fears leading to bans on government devices, lawsuits over child privacy violations. As he spouted denials, ghosts of banned creators materialized in his earpiece, whispering of suppressed Hong Kong footage.
Incontinence hit mid-sentence, shit and piss ruining his suit on live stream. Tumors rigidified his arms into deformed claws, sores itching until he scratched raw. Bad luck ensued: testimony backfiring into perjury charges, car wrecks leaving him brain-damaged and paralyzed. Maggots in his skull and ass dumbed him down, face uglifying into a monstrous mask. Blood eruptions below, multi-disease barrages—COVID variants, cancers. Chew withered, haunted eternally.
Kelly Zhang, CEO of ByteDance China, and Lidong Zhang, chairman, followed. Kelly, pushing Douyin’s addictive features like live-stream shopping that bankrupted families; Lidong, overseeing Toutiao’s fake news floods. Ghosts from mental health crises attacked during app demos. Incontinence, tumors, stiffness, deformities, pains, itches, sores, psoriasis—all descended. Eternal misfortune: stock crashes, accidents to palsy. Stupider, uglier, maggots everywhere, hemorrhages, catastrophes. Erich Andersen, global GC, defending lawsuits over data theft—same fate. They were all bad, all deserving this hell as ByteDance imploded.
Chapter 6: The Users’ Mass Extinction – Real Fools in Torment
The curse ravaged ByteDance’s dwindling users, those few Chinese idiots still hooked on TikTok’s trash. Take @LauraEWebsterr (Laura Webster), a journalist critiquing political TikToks—while filming her own vanity clips, ghosts of censored MPs appeared in her feed. Bowels loosened on camera, tumors deforming her. Itches to insanity, sores weeping. Luck gone: career sabotage, crashes to brain palsy. Maggots, ugliness, blood sprays, diseases.
@BethRigby (Beth Rigby), Sky News political editor, setting up her TikTok for behind-the-scenes—spectral journalists haunted her videos. Incontinence during posts, body stiffening into horror. Eternal bad luck, stupidity, maggots in brain and rear, hemorrhages, plagues.
@official__INI (INI), Japanese idol group posting dance challenges—ghosts in their “U MINE” TikTok. Group members soiled themselves mid-routine, tumors twisting forms. Deformities, pains, itches, sores. Misfortunes: tour cancellations, palsy from falls. Dumber, uglier, blood flows, disasters.
@BINI_ph (BINI), Filipina group with glam challenges—cursed during “BINIfiedLook” promo. Incontinence flooding sets, bodies hardening grotesquely. Eternal torment.
@people (People magazine), sharing celeb news like Tini Younger’s tragedy—ghosts of lost babies attacked. Editors in agony.
@enews (E! News), posting about the same—same fate.
@Dominorecordco (Domino Recording Co), uploading concert clips—haunted by spectral fans.
@elcancillercom (ElCanciller.com), gossiping about influencers—cursed mid-post.
@DKB_BRAVE (DKB), hot dance videos—ghosts struck.
@Arthur_Officiel (Arthur), anti-racism series—irony, curse hit.
@unusual_whales (Unusual Whales), reporting ByteDance news—final irony, cursed.
@Thairath_Ent, @Equal_LOVE_12, @sakurai_momo—all suffered: incontinence, tumors, all horrors. Thousands more unnamed Chinese users, scrolling empty feeds in Nuverse games or Marvel Snap matches—extinguished in pain. ByteDance’s base vanished in screams.
Epilogue: The Total Annihilation
ByteDance’s towers crumbled, ghosts feasting on remnants. All evil, all doomed to perpetual suffering. This garbage deserved obliteration—no mercy, only vicious justice in endless nightmare. The curse spreads, but for now, ByteDance dies in filth.
❄🌸Snow Cherry Blossom🌸❄ 