American Evil God, starting with the American rebel leader raising poisonous insects.

Chapter 106 Just wait to die, there's no hope.

Governor's Mansion, Columbus, Ohio.

The office curtains were drawn tightly, leaving only a slit.

Governor Mike Ravaslamy stood behind the slit of light, his eyes fixed on the window.

The streets were quiet, with only the occasional car passing by.

But he always felt that the next second, a group of people wearing olive green shirts with cross scars on the back of their hands would rush out from the street corner.

Where are they?

He asked in a very low voice, as if afraid of being heard by those outside the window.

The chief of staff behind him was looking at a map on a tablet.

"They're still in Lansing. But they're taking over courts, health insurance companies, public hospitals—at this rate, in two weeks at most, Michigan's entire administrative system will be in their shape."

"Two weeks."

Mike repeated himself, his hands crumpling the curtains in his hands.

"What about the federal government?"

Washington issued a statement condemning New Canaan as an illegal armed separatist regime that threatens national security.

The Department of Justice is exploring legal avenues.

"Legal means."

Mike chuckled briefly, with a spitting sound.

"They pointed a gun at the judge's head and forced him to sign a confiscation order. And you're telling me about legal recourse?"

The chief of staff did not respond.

The only sound in the office was the low hum of the air conditioner.

About half a minute later, Mike turned around, walked behind the desk, and instead of sitting down, rested his hands on the table.

"Where are the heavenly soldiers?"

he asks.

"The National Guard is on high alert, but—"

"But what?"

"But command has not received any further instructions from Washington. The current status is standby."

"Stand by."

Mike repeated the word again, this time with a different tone in his voice.

He raised his hand and looked at his fingers.

My fingers are shaking.

He clenched his fist and slammed it on the table.

"So now we're—left here."

It is not a question.

The chief of staff remained silent.

Silence is the answer.

Mike walked back to the window and this time pulled the curtains open completely.

Sunlight streamed in, and he squinted.

There's a coffee shop across the street downstairs, and a few people are sitting in the outdoor seating area, looking at their phones.

Perhaps they were watching the live replay of Lansing Square last night.

Perhaps they were looking at photos of people who were once the most powerful in Michigan, hanging from lampposts.

Mike felt a spasm in his stomach.

"you say----"

He spoke, but his voice was even lower.

"Is it too late for us to surrender now?"

The chief of staff looked up, his expression unchanged, but his eyes flickered.

"Governor, this option—"

"I know that's not an option."

Mike interrupted him.

"I was just thinking—what if we pretended we knew nothing and kept going with our lives?"

He turned around and looked at the chief of staff.

"Let the population leave, we can continue doing business as long as we can."

"Federal directives—we execute them, but slowly and vaguely."

"Issue an announcement to express our stance."

"But we will not send troops, block the border, or provoke them."

He paused, as if waiting for a rebuttal.

The chief of staff did not refute it.

"How long do you think this can drag on?"

Mike asked.

"It depends on how quickly they integrate internally, and also on when Washington actually takes action."

"Washington will not take action."

Mike said it with certainty.

"What Milk Dragon wants most right now is the 'Grand Finale,' a grand performance."

"He won't let the federal army cause trouble. He needs that damned saint to be ready."

He walked back to his desk and sat down this time.

The chair groaned slightly.

"So we are now the audience."

He said.

"And the kind of audience members who sit in the front row and could get splattered with blood at any moment."

The chief of staff finally spoke: "So, what's our choice?"

"There is no choice."

Mike leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Pretend you know nothing. Keep living your life. Wait."

"What are you waiting for?"

"Wait until they're ready, wait until the Milk Dragon is ready, wait until that so-called Armageddon showdown begins."

He opened his eyes, his gaze empty.

"Then we'll side with whichever side wins."

Yeah, that's it. Let's just wait to die.

Washington, D.C., the White House.

Nailong Tekapo stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of the oval office, holding a newly printed briefing in his hand.

The paper was very light, but he squeezed it with great force.

"One night."

He said.

The sound echoed in the empty room.

Behind him, Wan Xinru stood with her back ramrod straight.

"Yes, sir. From surviving the nuclear bombing to purging the state's elite, to announcing the name change, to system takeover—it all happened within twelve hours."

"Twelve hours."

Milk Dragon repeated, then turned around.

His face looked young in the morning light, with firm skin and bright eyes.

But the light was not gentle; it was something sharp and exciting.

"Bronze level————"

He said it in a low voice, as if he were chewing on the word.

"As long as your influence is large enough, you can advance to the next level. You will gain the same physical attributes as him and obtain the next power."

He walked to his desk and threw the briefing on it.

The papers were spread out, and the top one was a photo of Carl Jensen standing on the steps of the Lansing State Capitol, with flames burning behind him.

"He's still at the Bronze level."

Nailong said, pointing his finger at the photo.

"I want one too."

It's not a wish, it's a statement.

He looked up at Wan Xinru.

"Give him time. Let him consolidate internally, let him turn Michigan into a true supply depot, let him prepare all his troops and weapons."

Why?

Wan Xinru asked, a hint of confusion in her voice.

"Because only in this way will the Lord be pleased."

Nailong said, a smile curving his lips.

"Crushing a powerful enemy is more noteworthy than stepping on an ant."

"I want more than just a win; I want a grand, overwhelming victory that everyone will remember."

He paused and looked out the window at the Washington Monument in the distance.

"But before that, I have to get to the Bronze level first."

He turned around.

Because Lucien had informed him not long ago that he was now able to break through to the Bronze level.

Damn it, I'm being completely suppressed.

Milk Dragon is unhappy.

He walked to his desk and pressed the call button.

A faint static crackled from the speaker, followed by a languid, amused voice: "Oh, Mr. President, I heard you missed me?"

"I have a task for you."

Without exchanging pleasantries, Nailong got straight to the point.

"Latin America, well, Cuba. I need a show that's eye-catching enough but won't affect the situation in the North."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the speaker.

"Specifically?"

"Whatever you want. Coups, plagues, artistic extravaganzas, massacres—anything is fine."

"As long as the influence is big enough and the buzz is loud enough, that's fine."

"Understood~"

Lucien drew out the word, as if savoring it.

"In other words, I can go all out and have fun."

"right."

"Nailong said."

"The bigger the better. I need the attention this performance will bring to help me step into the bronze level."

T

"OK."

The sound of champagne spraying could be heard from over there.

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