Sharma's legs went weak, and if he hadn't held onto the podium in time, he would have collapsed.

Just then, the tent's entrance curtain was lifted again.

This time it was a senior official from the United Kingdom delegation who entered, looking equally grim, holding a fax paper.

"No need to wait for the prosecution."

"Just ten minutes ago, London, Canberra, Ottawa, and Wellington simultaneously issued a joint statement. In light of the Commonwealth Games in India being an 'unprecedented organizational failure, security disaster, and humanitarian crisis,' the four governments officially announced: Effective immediately, India's Commonwealth member status is suspended until it undergoes 'thorough and verifiable political and administrative reforms.'"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the stunned Indian officials: "Meanwhile, we urge all Commonwealth members to re-evaluate the value and operational methods of this organization. A 'federation' that cannot ensure the basic safety of athletes has no reason to exist."

Suspend member status!

This was harsher and more direct than prosecution. It was an 'expulsion' and public execution of India within the British-led old system of the Commonwealth.

Sharma completely collapsed.

He grabbed the water bottle on the podium and slammed it to the ground!

The plastic bottle exploded, muddy water splashing everywhere.

"Get out!" he roared hoarsely, tears and snot streaming down, "Get out, all of you! You white people! And you!" he pointed at the domestic reporters, "Traitors! Get out!!!"

He was like an old, wounded dog trapped and making its last frenzied howl before total collapse.

The tent descended into chaos.

Reporters frantically took photos to capture the final collapse scene. Australians and British looked back coldly one last time and turned to leave. Some Indian officials went to support Sharma, some were dazed and panicked, others started to wipe tears secretly.

The Commonwealth Games in Delhi, amidst this night filled with the smell of cow dung, curses, and tears of despair, ended in a way uglier and more thorough than anyone had anticipated.

The news spread instantly across the globe like a monsoon carrying plague.

Late that night, London, the briefing room under 10 Downing Street

The place felt more like a wake than the tent in Delhi.

The Prime Minister sat at the end of the long table, facing away from the screen showing a frozen image—an aerial shot of cow dung littering the track in the chaotic Delhi stadium.

He didn't look, just rested his head on his hand, fingers deep in his graying and sparse hair.

Everyone else in the room held their breath, watching the rolling news headlines and social media trends on another screen.

[Death of the Commonwealth: Delhi Disaster Buries the Last Decency of the Old Empire]

[From Mexico's Olympic Torch to India's Cow Dung: The Rift Between Two Worlds]

[Australian Prime Minister: A Shame to Civilization, Britain Cannot Escape Blame]

[#EscapeDelhi #CommonwealthJoke #IndiaMurdersTheGames]...

"The four main member states jointly suspended India's status." Graham's voice broke the silence, dry as sandpaper rubbing, "Over fifteen member states have expressed support or are considering following suit. The Commonwealth… is effectively brain dead now. The remaining shell won't last much longer."

Chancellor of the Exchequer Howard made a sound close to choking: "They're slapping our face! In front of the whole world!"

"Our face,"

The Prime Minister finally spoke, his voice hoarse to the point of inaudibility, "had been stomped into the cow dung by the Indians long ago. They're just helping to bury the corpse."

He slowly turned around, his face showing a near-numb calm, but the bloodshot eyes and deep dark circles revealed extreme exhaustion and a sort of… acceptance.

"The Indians messed up everything, but ultimately it's us who pay the price." The Prime Minister's gaze passed over the present cabinet members, military representatives, intelligence heads, "Because we are the emblem of that old system, the 'boss' of the club that should have been dissolved long ago. If the guest dies in the store, can the boss avoid being implicated?"

"But it was the Indians themselves—" Minister of Defense Portillo wanted to argue.

"We were the ones who put the Games in India!"

The Prime Minister's voice rose sharply, then quickly fell, laden with endless sarcasm, "It was us who needed India's 'largest democracy', 'crown jewel' to decorate the facade, to prove our 'global influence' still exists! It was us, who turned a blind eye to India's outrageous organizing reports, thinking 'we'll muddle through'! So what was the result?"

He pointed at the screen's #CommonwealthJoke tag: "Now we ourselves have become the biggest joke. Mexicans are hosting future Olympics, and we're… handing out 'resilience spirit' medals next to a pile of cow dung?"

No response.

Shame, like thick tar, stuck to everyone's hearts.

"What about Scotland?" The Prime Minister looked at Graham, seeming to want to change the subject, but the question might have been worse.

Graham's adam's apple moved: "McTavish's delegation returned from Mexico. They were… unusually high-profile. Held a press conference at Edinburgh Airport showcasing extensive photos and videos shot in Mexico of 'modern urban management', 'efficient event organization', 'advanced technology application'. The contrast is very… stark."

He brought up several news clips: McTavish standing on an Edinburgh street, behind him a screen playing scenes of Mexico City's clean streets and the spectacular 'Phoenix Nest'. He spoke to the camera: "Some are still wallowing in the mud, some have seen the stars. Scotland's choice is obvious."