Having traversed countless realms, can you possibly be as clever as me?

Sergei Antonov, the head of the KGB's Ninth Directorate, entered the room, his face ashen than a gloomy November day in Moscow.

"We have completed the evacuation plan for the capital's residents as requested. Underground bunkers are ready, and the backup command system—"

“Sergei.” Poroandev raised his hand, interrupting him, his voice so calm it didn’t sound like he was facing a global crisis, but more like he was dealing with a routine party matter. “Do you believe in God?”

Antonov paused for a moment. "...Comrade Cardinal?"

“I’m asking you,” Poroandov repeated, this time fixing his gaze directly into the other man’s eyes, “Do you believe in God?”

"I...I am a member of the Soviet, Comrade Andev. The state teaches us that religion is the people's religion—"

“Then don’t tell me about the things these countries taught you.” Poroandev suddenly raised his voice, then quickly lowered it again, like a fire being forcibly smothered, his voice tinged with slight panting.

"I'm asking you about yourself. Do you believe in God?"

Antonov was silent for a few seconds, then said bitterly.

“…I don’t know, Comrade Andev. But I think if God really exists, he’s probably wearing a white cloak right now and isn’t on our side.”

Polonadev let out a short, dry laugh—not because it was funny, but because in such an absurd moment, the most decent human reaction was to laugh.

“You’re right.” Poroandev stood up and straightened his tie. His movements were meticulous, like someone about to step onto the reviewing stand for a military parade on Red Square.

He walked to the window and looked out at the Moscow night sky. The red star of the Kremlin shone with a dark red light in the darkness; it was the symbol of the Soviet regime, a symbol forged over seventy years by countless people with their lives, faith, and blood.

He wondered what Lenin would do if he were still alive at that moment.

Then he laughed, a bitter and self-deprecating laugh. He would fight to the end, of course, because he believed history was on his side, and that the proletariat would ultimately triumph. But he lived in a human era; his enemies were the Tsar, capital, the White Army, and people of flesh and blood.

They are formidable enemies, but ultimately they can be defeated.

Today, the Soviet Union's enemy is not a human being, but a god on earth who disarmed the entire world in ten minutes, a God who is invincible in both force and ideology.

"Comrade Andev, you must get into the bunker—"

"I never go into other people's basements, so let's just speak frankly here."

The sound came from the window at the end of the corridor, where the floating black and white figure stood. Antonov instinctively drew his pistol, but Poroandov gestured for him to step back.

Tsugumi walked around him and stopped in front of Poroandov. The two were separated only by a mahogany desk, a negligible distance.

“I am the former Grand Councilor of the Soviet Central Committee,” his voice was hoarse, but each word was emphasized. “Yuri Vladimirovich Poroandev. Who are you?”

"Your name is Tsurugi, and you say you've come to conquer me. You look like you're from another country," Poroandov said to himself without waiting for Tsurugi to speak.

"We didn't come to conquer; we've already conquered. Your nuclear weapons are gone. Your allies are gone. Two-thirds of your military command system is paralyzed. The only weapon you have left is yourselves."

Tsugumi looked at the regrettable leader before her, who had inherited the corrupt legacy of the previous emperor and was now trying to mend the mess, and tilted her head.

Polonadev clenched his fist under the table. His nails dug deep into his palm, and pain shot up from between his thumb and forefinger, but the pain kept him awake.

"So, what exactly are you?"

"In your words—I am a contradiction you cannot resolve," Tsugumi laughed.

Tsugumi's words elicited a cold, disdainful laugh from Poroandov.

“We do not accept your rule,” Poroandev said, each word as if carved from stone.

“You can destroy our weapons. You can destroy our buildings. You can kill our officers and soldiers. But you cannot make us surrender to you. The will of the Soviet Union will not yield to an alien tyrant. Never.”

"Us, or me? Or 'us'?" Tsurugi looked at Poroandov, a half-smile on her face.

"Is it the 'will of the people' that refuses to yield to me, or is it that the small minority who consider themselves masters of the country—those who eat Western products from special supply stores, live in villas that once belonged to the Russian nobility, have their children studying abroad, and receive pensions equivalent to twenty years' wages for ordinary people—are unwilling to relinquish their privileges and status to me?"

“I don’t want to humiliate you. You’re a good man, a paperhanger, a cleaner trying to wipe the deck of a sinking ship, but unfortunately it’s all in vain.”

"But the fact is that countries that claim to be fair are not fair. They are all human beings, but a lathe operator in Sverdlovsk has to work hard for 22 years and three generations of his family still have to squeeze into a 43-square-meter Khrushchev-style apartment, while the Minister of Trade of Uzbekistan can go on vacation to the Black Sea every year and has countless villas and treasures throughout the country."

"Regardless of how it started, was everything done to make three generations of a lathe operator cramped in a 43-square-meter apartment eating cabbage soup? Or was it to make the Minister of Trade's wife eat caviar on a yacht in the Black Sea?"

"Enough!" His voice boomed like thunder, his hand slamming on the table, echoing in the quiet office. Poroandov stared intently at the alien before him, gritting his teeth as he spoke.

"Our system, our society, may indeed have problems. But that's not a reason for you, an alien, an alien who doesn't even understand our history, our language, our suffering, to teach us how to do things. You can kill me. You can kill everyone here. You..."

777 >>

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778

You can wipe the Kremlin off the map, just like you wipe the White House. But you can't change one fact—

He raised his hand, his index finger pointing at Tsurugi's chest. His finger was trembling, but it was still pointing straight at him.

"This country was built by ourselves, maintained by ourselves, and we will correct our own mistakes. It's not because you came, not because you are stronger than us, not because of your power that we cannot fight back against that threatens us. You try to force us to surrender with fear, but we will ultimately resist!"

The air in the office froze; Antonov's breathing was clearly audible, and Poroandev was prepared to die.

But Tsugumi just smiled, patted Poroandov on the shoulder, and said casually.

"Well said, really, so well said."

He turned and walked to the window. The Moscow night sky spread out in his view, like a black wasteland dotted with scattered lights. In the distance, the main building of Moscow State University on Lenin Hills shone dimly in the night.

"But unfortunately, it's not very useful."

He snapped his fingers, and the office door opened.

A middle-aged man walked in—wearing a gray suit, with the typical face of a Moscow official, a serious expression, and a steady gait. He walked up to Poroandov, nodded slightly, then stopped, looking him straight in the eye.

Poloondev stared at the face for three seconds, then his pupils suddenly contracted.

“This is… Pavlov?” He recognized the face—Vladimir Pavlov, former deputy chairman of the USSR State Planning Committee, a bureaucrat he had met dozens of times and dealt with countless times. But the Pavlov standing in this office now was subtly, almost imperceptibly, different from the Pavlov he remembered.

He was too perfect; his breathing rate was suspiciously stable—a normal person breathes twelve to twenty times per minute, while Pavlov's breathing rate was exactly fifteen times per minute, not a second off.

“This is a robot,” Tsurugi said with a smile. “A nanoscale bionic human. Its skin tissue, nervous system, and even muscle fibers are exactly the same as the Pavlov you know. But it is not an independent individual—it is one of my terminals.”

What do you want to do?

“It’s not that I wanted it, it’s that I’ve already done it.” Tsugumi walked up to the 'Pavlov', reached out and gently patted the android’s face.

"I've replaced about 65 percent of your Soviet bureaucracy, from the central government to the local level. Yes, I've replaced them. Those officials I replaced are still alive, just 'held in custody' by me. Once the world order stabilizes, they'll return to their posts and continue their work. But by then—"

He turned his head and looked at Poroandev, his scarlet eyes flashing with a cold, chilling light.

"I will also announce at the same time that they are robots, and at that time the people will be able to choose whether to let these perfectly allocated machines continue to manage them, or to let the original people rule them?"

He smiled, looking at Poroandov with a slightly mocking expression.

"Actually, whether or not the skin is changed is unnecessary in my opinion. Your people don't really care about changing a ruler. To them, it's like changing a factory director. They don't care whether the factory director has been a party member for thirty years or thirty days. What they care about is whether their salary will be paid on time this month and whether their bonuses have been deducted."

"Ideals are great, but bread is more important. You sing praises of great ideals and social change, but you just can't provide them with enough goods to satisfy their need for a good life."

“But I can. I will not only give them bread, but I will also give them meat, vodka, and everything they want and need.”

"And they don't actually need to pay anything; they're just doing what they already know how to do. They can easily access the book club forum and read thousands of great books, such as 'Traveling Through the Heavens, Can You Be Smarter Than Me?'. As for me—I just made some reasonable adjustments on the allocation side."

At this point, he shrugged and looked at Boroandov in front of him.

"To be honest, I could have been as direct and brutal as I was in reforming America, but I'm willing to give you a chance. No matter how unbearable reality may be, you have always had glorious ideals. And what I want to try to prove is that if you had built it entirely according to your ideals, you could have created a wonderful heaven."

"After all, it would be very easy for the people of your country to accept my rule, since they are already used to being ruled by an invincible 'father'."

Boroandov staggered back, panting and clutching his heart, staring in terror at the person before him.

He seemed to understand why Tsuruga said he was an intractable conflict between them.

The man before me was not a tyrant, a ruthless monster, or a god. He was, in a sense, a contradiction and an enemy that neither the Soviet Union, nor the United States, nor any nation that adhered to modernism could confront.

He was a philosopher-king; an enlightened emperor is the greatest enemy of revolution. Therefore, an entity capable of single-handedly replacing the functioning of a nation or even the world's government, and capable of almost perfectly allocating social resources, is an enemy that no system can defeat or reconcile with.

He did nothing. The violent rule of fear and threats is terrible, but not the worst thing. People will resist, and as long as they are willing to resist, there is always hope.

But he put the world into his glass bottle, giving everyone inside a happy and healthy life. Then, pointing to their past, he asked them whether they would rather live in his perfect bottle or in that unknown world.

This is too vicious, too terrifying! How can they possibly incite the people to resist his brutal rule if they do this?!

The river vanished into the November night sky over Moscow, leaving the leader of this vast empire to face a future of utter uncertainty with fear.

Meanwhile, Dongjiang rose into the sky, where a smooth, blue entity had been waiting for a long time.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dr. Manhattan said softly, looking at Tsugumi.

He paused, tilted his head, and asked with great confusion.

"If you're not Superman, then who are you?"

Killing on the Road to Sainthood: 509. [The Watcher Complete] On the road to prison, I brought you a naked man!

Dr. Manhattan was somewhat confused.

He couldn't understand where the 'Superman' in front of him came from—it didn't make sense; Dr. Manhattan had no recollection of ever 'seeing' him.

For Dr. Manhattan, who transcends the timeline, the past, future, and present of this world are all unfolded like a painting.

He was situated on an unchangeable riverbank, with the flowing river offering him an unobstructed view. Therefore, both Silk Spectre's and Pharaoh's self-righteous observations of Dr. Manhattan's 'humanity' can be considered one-sided illusions.

The story of the Watchmen is, in essence, just another story of Dr. Manhattan continuing to act out this stage play.

He should approve the Pharaoh's plan in Antarctica, then kill Rorschach, and finally leave this world that he finds insignificant, and head to the DC Universe.

He could even see the unknown punch that Superman was throwing—

But now, something has appeared before him that he cannot see the past, future, or present.

He is by no means a superman, nor is he the being who belongs to the center and origin of the entire universe.

Although his existence made the Superman in the other universe that Dr. Manhattan observed almost identical to him, his origin was definitely not that of Superman.

This puzzled Dr. Manhattan, but it also intrigued and amused him.

For the quantum god who observes everything, this curiosity and pleasure is indeed incredibly new.

"As a mortal who ascended to become a godlike being, the only thing you retained was..."

779

Sex is probably just curiosity about the unknown.

Tsugumi quietly looked at Dr. Manhattan in front of her and softly commented.

"I'm really curious, do you still retain humanity towards other things? For example, love? For example, hate? For example, all sorts of other things?"

Dr. Manhattan tilted his head slightly, then raised his hand.

He almost instantly parted the threads of time in Dongjiang.