The Great Hall of the People thrummed with righteous fury. Red banners, emblazoned with the sacred words of the Great Helmsman, draped the walls like flames of revolution. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and iron—the sweat of the toiling masses, the iron of their unbreakable will.

At the center of the stage, bound in the shackles of his own decadence, stood Bernardo Kastrup, the snake-oil philosopher of idealism, the purveyor of reactionary mysticism. His books, his lectures, his poisonous thoughts—all had sought to lead the people astray, to drag them back into the fog of bourgeois individualism. But the Red Guards, sharp as the edge of a sickle, had seen through his lies.

The crowd roared. Fists shot into the air like a forest of spears. Kastrup trembled, his face pale, his Western suit stained with the sweat of fear. He opened his mouth to defend himself—a fatal mistake.

But mere beating was not enough. The poison of idealism had to be purged utterly.