Here is the first account from one of the eyewitnesses to the execution (I apologize for any possible errors in translation, as I am not an expert in Eastern script):
The sun was slowly rising over the city as a large crowd gathered at the execution square. The air was heavy with morning fog, but rumors of today’s exceptional execution had spread, piquing the curiosity of everyone. This was not an ordinary execution. This time, the condemned, Magelitè, hailed from distant France, from Europe - an exotic and mysterious land for those in the East. She was a courtesan, not just a common harlot, but a woman of extraordinary beauty and intelligence. She had been found guilty of conspiring against the emperor, and her sentence had to be both painful and exemplary. Lingchi - death by a thousand cuts - was not only meant to bring justice but to serve as a warning to anyone who dared to even think of betraying the emperor.
Magelitè was brought to the square, surrounded by guards. Her golden blonde hair, loose and shining, fell to her shoulders in a loose braid that barely tamed its natural softness. Her face, though pale and visibly exhausted, still retained its delicate beauty.
The guards tied her to a tall wooden post standing at the center of the square. Magelitè’s hands were tightly bound behind her back with thick hemp ropes, so tightly that the skin around her wrists quickly turned red. Her fingers were immobilized, clenched under the tight pressure of the rope. Her feet - beautiful, well-kept, smooth as silk - were bound tightly at the ankles and secured to the base of the post. Movement was impossible. Only her chest heaved violently with every breath, betraying the rising fear within her.
The executioner, a master of lingchi, a middle-aged man known for his precision and skill in prolonging the suffering of his victims, entered the square. He wore a simple, dark robe and held in his hand a long, slender knife with a gleaming blade. This tool was sharper than anything else in the square, its thinness allowing for precise cuts that didn’t immediately kill but instead inflicted unbearable pain. The executioner approached Magelitè slowly, almost ceremoniously, scrutinizing her with a piercing gaze, like an artist evaluating his future “canvas.”
Without warning, the first cut came - a long, deep slice down the outside of her right forearm, where her soft skin barely concealed the muscle beneath. Blood spurted out, and she let out a deep moan, though she tried with all her might not to scream. A wave of pain shot through her body, and her fingers convulsed. The second cut followed on her left arm - a similar incision, just as deep, tearing through muscle and tendon. This time, a scream escaped her lips, though she quickly stifled it by biting down hard.
Next came the cut across her right thigh, slicing through the muscle from the inside of her leg. Magelitè’s reaction was violent - though tied tightly, her body convulsed in pain. The executioner, accustomed to such reactions, waited a moment until her breathing calmed. The crowd, hypnotized, watched every movement of the knife, every moment when the Frenchwoman’s golden skin yielded under the blade.
The executioner worked with clockwork precision. Slowly, methodically, he began peeling away pieces of her skin. This time, he focused on her torso - first removing a flap of skin from her right breast, then from the left. Each cut was made with almost ritual calmness. Magelitè’s face was drenched in tears of pain, but her gaze remained proudly fixed ahead. Her arms, despite being tightly bound, twitched in spasms, but the ropes held them firmly in place, allowing no movement.
The executioner moved once again to her legs. He began with her inner thighs, where the skin was softer, the muscles more supple. He made long incisions along both legs, slow and deliberate. Her feet - once admired for their beauty, graceful and tender - were the last to be touched. There, on the inner side, he made shallow but agonizing cuts. Magelitè screamed as blood poured from her feet, now a gory mess. Even the slightest breeze on her exposed wounds deepened her suffering.
The crowd remained silent, watching the slow torture unfold. No one dared move, and every whisper was silenced by the butcher-like precision of the executioner, who showed no mercy as he continued his work. Each cut was precise, yet deeper with every stroke.
Magelitè, fully aware of what was about to happen, began trembling uncontrollably, trying to escape in any way possible. The executioner grabbed her face with a firm grip and, with one swift motion, sliced a piece of her cheek, exposing the jawbone. Next, he cut off a small part of her nose. Magelitè’s scream pierced the air - deep, prolonged, filled with unimaginable agony.
Her face, once delicate and smooth, now resembled a bloody, distorted mask. Her lips quivered, and her eyes silently pleaded for an end to the suffering. But the sentence was clear - she was to suffer until every drop of her blood drained from her body.
Her face, grotesquely disfigured, was drenched in blood. With every moment, her strength ebbed, her body a hollow vessel of pain. But the executioner continued his work. He moved on to her arms, cutting away chunks of muscle from her forearms, and then doing the same on the other side. Her skin hung in tatters, with muscles barely visible under the streams of blood flowing freely to the ground.
Further cuts were made to her abdomen. Magelitè could feel parts of her body systematically being sliced away - from her arms, legs, and stomach. Every move of the executioner was slow and deliberate, his knife sliding across her skin like an artist crafting a masterpiece. Her firm buttocks were among the last places the blade touched - the skin there was slowly cut, and blood flowed evenly onto the ground.
After two hours, her body was in a pitiful state. Most of her limbs had been stripped of pieces of skin and muscle, and her face was barely recognizable. Her eyes, once vibrant green, were now clouded with pain. She was still breathing, but each breath was a struggle, and her heart beat faintly under layers of blood. The executioner knew it was time to end it.
At last, following tradition, the executioner sliced off her ears - a final act of humiliation, the ultimate desecration of her feminine beauty. Magelitè was barely conscious, her breath shallow, her body weakening with every passing moment.
The final cut, a stab straight into her heart, ended her life. Magelitè’s body, stripped of nearly all its skin, hung lifelessly from the post. Her light blonde hair, matted with blood, fell over her mutilated shoulders, and her legs, once slender and well-maintained, were now disfigured by countless cuts.
After the execution, the crowd slowly began to disperse. The executioner, as usual, carefully cleaned his tools, and the guards began tidying the execution site. The severed pieces of Magelitè’s body were gathered into a basket, and the square was washed down with water to cleanse the blood that had soaked into the earth. That day, lingchi had been performed on many of the conspirators, but it was Magelitè’s body, with its once-delicate features, that would remain the most enduring image of suffering and the price of treason.
