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

Chapter 134 Necessary Sacrifices and the Premature Holy War

"The Lord will bless you."

Carl Jensen released his hand from the boy's forehead, wiping the sweat from his brow with his fingertips.

A flash of red light appeared in the boy's eyes and disappeared in an instant; a faint heat flowed beneath his skin.

Success! Another brother has embarked on the path of [Courageous Wrath].

He stepped back half a step, his gaze passing over the boy's shoulder.

There are people behind them.

People who can't see the end at all.

Crowded together outside the makeshift shelter, stretching all the way to the bend in the road at the edge of the field of vision, people were still coming from further away.

Men and women, some holding children, some helping the elderly.

Everyone looked up, their eyes fixed on him, their gazes a mixture of longing, fear, and the last vestiges of an unquenchable fire.

Everything should have been steadily improving.

The fully AI-controlled automated production line runs day and night, with weapons, ammunition, canned goods, and compressed biscuits flowing out like water.

Underground factories emerged.

Fifty thousand people are undergoing full-time training, and the number is increasing daily.

The borders of New Canaan are becoming more secure every day, and patrols are beginning to advance thirty miles outward.

Full of vitality, all things are thriving.

Then the virus arrived.

There's no need for conspiracy theories.

Institutions with readily available high-precision medical devices, such as pharmaceutical companies, private hospitals, and research centers, are using Mesell AI.

Products made by hand are highly targeted and can be iterated at an absurdly fast pace.

On the first day it was a respiratory infection, on the third day it turned into hematologic necrosis, and on the fifth day it began to attack the nervous system.

The symptoms are varied and bizarre, but the only common thread is the high mortality rate.

"Fortunately, the Lord's power remains strong."

Carl Jensen muttered something under his breath and turned to walk toward the next person waiting.

The hemispherical force field of the Blood Flag Domain enveloped the entire camp with a crimson light like a thin mist.

Within this area, infected individuals will not die.

The wound will heal, the fever will subside, and the ulcerated skin will regrow, at least temporarily.

But it's only temporary.

The bacteria and viruses in those grooves are constantly being updated.

The domain can save lives, but it cannot eradicate the disease.

The infected person's body becomes a battlefield, with the immune system and the virus clashing billions of times every moment, and the virus always manages to evolve new attack methods every few hours.

Thus, they became a state where they had to coexist.

Karl Jansen knew that the Blood Flag Domain could not last forever.

He's only at the bronze level, not a true, tireless superman.

Power has a source, but it also has an end.

The deep muscle soreness has persisted for three days, my temples are throbbing more and more frequently, and black spots occasionally appear on the edge of my vision.

"Isn't this close to the limit?"

He asked himself the question, but he didn't need to answer it.

The area now encompasses 1.27 million people.

This is the limit he can withstand. Any higher, and the strength of his domain will begin to weaken, making even a temporary recovery impossible. And how many people does New Canaan have now?

White brothers and sisters from the southern states.

Brothers who came from Europe, bringing military supplies across the ocean.

The families of workers from the Great Lakes, along with their families, came to stay with them.

Not counting those damned local nobles, and not counting the surrounding towns that are still observing, the population already registered in New Canaan is at least four and a half million.

Therefore, he must guide them day and night.

Those who embark on this path are at least at the Iron level.

Physical fitness will be comprehensively enhanced, and the perception and resistance granted by the [Hunting Dog] ability will be sufficient to temporarily immunize against viral attacks.

This is the only way out, at least for now.

However, guidance itself also has its limits.

"There is a limit. As a Bronze-level cultivator, there is a limit to the number of people I can guide to reach the Bronze level."

After 13,724 people, he felt that barrier.

He stopped, took a deep breath, and waved to the side.

"James!"

A man in a faded army combat uniform walked briskly over.

James Jones.

"Call everyone together."

Carl Jensen said, "David, bring the report over."

In order for New Canaan to survive, he must advance to the Silver rank as soon as possible.

At that time, the brothers who have already embarked on the path will also be able to try to reach the Bronze level, which will then form a larger network and a more stable support system.

As for whether someone might attract the Lord's attention like the Milk Dragon and embark on a new path?

He couldn't have asked for that more.

The more the better.

"Saint?"

David arrived first, carrying a thick folder in his hands.

Next up were Stephen, Mike, and seven other key members of the crew.

The nine people formed a semi-circle, and none of them looked happy.

"How are things going now?"

Carl Jensen looked at David.

"Supplies are complete."

David opened the top folder. "Ammunition reserves are enough for three months of high-intensity warfare, food is enough to feed five million people for four months, medical supplies—the numbers are meaningless, they're useless against the virus."

He paused for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"The medication is becoming less and less effective. The only thing we can confirm now is that infected individuals will begin to deteriorate if they are outside the [Blood Flag Zone] for more than six hours. Within twelve hours, the mortality rate is 100%."

The air froze for a few seconds.

"saint,"

James spoke, his voice calm, "We can't go on like this."

Carl Jensen remained silent.

"Let's take a gamble."

James continued, "Start the holy war early. If we succeed, everything will be fine."

He didn't explain what "success" specifically meant, and that's unnecessary.

Everyone knew the contents of the oracle: attack Washington and allow Carl Jensen to sit on the white jade throne in front of Lincoln.

If successful, the Lord's grace will descend, and the saints will be able to ascend to the Silver rank. No matter what the new power is, the range and strength of the [Blood Flag Domain] will increase, their power will grow, and the virus will no longer be a problem.

If you fail, there's no point in thinking about it anymore.

But this means making a choice.

The early holy war means that Karl Jansen must leave New Canaan, and that most of the 13,000-plus people who have already embarked on the path will have to follow.

Go fight, go carry out the cleansing, go complete that damned, almost suicidal, bloody ritual of atonement.

And what about the remaining four million people?

Those who failed to embark on the path, those who were old, weak, sick, or disabled, those who were still waiting for guidance but might never receive it, could only remain in the New Canaan.

Once Karl Jansen is far enough away, the domain will fail, and they will all die within days.

Or they could drag their frail bodies along, embarking on a difficult march to fight for a possible future.

Among them was James's granddaughter, who was only six years old and had been in a coma for three days with a high fever.

Some of David's girlfriends had lungs that were half rotten, and they were only kept alive by their bodies.

There is Stephen's beloved son and Mike's newborn grandson.

There are each person's relatives.

Should we abandon them first?

Stephen was speaking, his voice very soft, as if afraid of waking something.

This man, who dared to drive a tank head-on into battle against the National Guard, a man with arms thicker than an average person's thigh, had eyes that were frighteningly red at that moment.

No one answered.

Everyone looked at Carl Jensen.

Even those who had only recently joined and were standing on the periphery seemed to feel something as they looked up.

The virus gave them no time to hesitate; every hour, more bodies were added.

"My Lord Saint,"

James spoke again, this time with a firmer tone, "This decision needs to be made as soon as possible. If we delay, we'll be completely worn down. Then nobody will be able to leave."

He is a man who came from the battlefield.

Having served as a colonel, been in the lower echelons of the decision-making level, interacted with brigadier generals, and witnessed enough instances where indecisiveness led to disaster.

Some things have to be said, and some bad people have to be played.

Karl Jansen looked at James and nodded.

He understands.

He always understood.

His right hand was tightly gripping the cross.

The metal edges were worn shiny, but they still stung his palms.

He then reached inside his shirt chest.

There was a small pocket watch there.

He pushed open the watch cover with his thumb, revealing a faded family photo inside.

The smile of his wife when she was still alive, and the way his daughter and son looked when they were little.

I looked at it for three seconds.

Close up.

"Let's start the holy war now."

He said, his voice not loud but clear enough, "David, go prepare the venue for the speech; I will be speaking in an hour. James, inform all brothers of Iron rank and above to prepare for departure within seventy-two hours. Stephen, go to the logistics department and prepare marching supplies for 200,000 men according to the highest ration standards."

The orders were issued one after another without hesitation or explanation.

The crowd accepted it in silence, and as they turned to leave, their steps were heavy, but they did not look back.

Carl Jensen stood there, looking at the endless crowd outside the shed.

A woman holding a baby was reaching out to him through the fence; her lips were moving, but he couldn't hear anything, though he could make out the lip movements.

Please save my child.

He looked away and gazed at the northern sky.

That's the direction of Washington.

"Lord, is this also in Your revelation?"

At the same time, at a military base outside Washington, D.C.

"We will win, win, win!"

Nailong stood on the makeshift platform, his hands gripping the edge of the podium, leaning forward, his blond hair reflecting the afternoon sun.

It shone with an exaggerated luster.

He wore a custom-made dark blue suit with a huge American flag badge pinned to his chest, and a pure gold tie.

The people below the stage are soldiers.

It wasn't neat; in fact, it was somewhat chaotic.

People from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps were mixed together, their uniforms varying in color, their postures loose, and many of them looked sick.

A virus outbreak occurred at the base three days ago. Although it was isolated in time, it was not very effective.

Milk Dragon didn't care.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for half a second.

When he opened his eyes again, a golden light flashed deep within them.

[The Mandate of Heaven is Clear].

The moment his power was unleashed, an invisible wave spread out from him, like ripples on water sweeping across the entire square.

The soldiers in the front row were the first to feel it; the persistent low-grade fever in their bodies suddenly disappeared, the urge to cough was suppressed, and the muscle soreness felt like it had been washed away by hot water.

Then the second row, the third row —

Golden light surged from the milk dragon's body, not the crimson mist of the [Blood Flag Domain], but something far more dazzling.

A more "orthodox" radiance.

The light seemed to have a life of its own, wrapping around, extending, and penetrating into the body of every soldier.

"The White Knight has arrived!"

Milk Dragon shouted, his voice amplified through the loudspeakers, "The moment of holy war is approaching! The Antichrist will strike! That will be the time for us to pledge our loyalty to the Lord!"

He didn't want it to be so soon.

The plan is to take at least five or six months to gradually infiltrate and guide people, and then take public action once enough people have embarked on the path.

But the virus disrupted everything.

This damned, world-ending plague came too fast and too fiercely. The White House office is already a third empty, Capitol Hill is closed to visitors, and the Pentagon is issuing new obituaries every day.

If he waits any longer, he won't be a lame-duck president anymore.

He's a hollow president.

Therefore, he must act, he must act now.

"Long live the President! Long live America! Loyalty!!"

In the front row, General Mike, a five-star general, was the first to react.

This 73-year-old veteran, who was lying in the hospital receiving oxygen just three days ago, now stands upright with his right fist clenched and pounding heavily on his left chest.

The sound of a fist striking a military uniform was muffled.

He sensed it.

The body that was on the verge of collapse was awakening.

My joints are no longer stiff, breathing is no longer difficult, and even my vision has become much clearer.

More importantly, the fire that had been extinguished in my heart for many years was reignited.

"Long live the President! Long live America! Loyalty!!"

The second, the third —

The shouts swept in like waves from front to back.

The previously chaotic queue began to adjust automatically; relaxed shoulders tightened, and drooping heads lifted. A light shone in their eyes—not the muddy light of viral fever, but something sharper and more focused.

As Nailong watched the gradually tidying formation below the stage, and the faces that had gone from numb to fervent, a very subtle smile appeared on his lips.

"Karl Jensen, ah,"

He muttered to himself, a voice only he could hear, "I hope you have the brains for it. Otherwise—"

Don't blame me for taking direct action!

After all, the stage had already been set up, and he really didn't want to give up this stage and hastily complete a performance.

"loyalty!!!"

The final shout reverberated throughout the entire base, echoing even from the metal roof of the distant hangar.

Milk Dragon raised his right hand, spread his five fingers, and then slowly clenched his fist.

The golden light reached its peak at that moment, blooming like a miniature sun behind him.

The ceremony is complete.

From this moment forward, each of the 37,000 soldiers below the stage has embarked on the path of "Manifest Destiny" under the "Music of Art".

They will become the best weapon.

The most loyal firewood.

"Get ready."

Naillong turned and walked down from the platform, saying to the chief of staff who came to greet him, "I need to see the battle plan within seventy-two hours. Target: that insurgent in Michigan. Means: any means. Don't rush, but be quick."

"Yes, Mr. President."

The chief of staff bowed his head to take notes, his hands trembling slightly.

Milk Dragon didn't pay attention and walked straight to the black Cadillac parked next to him.

Before getting on the bus, he turned back for one last look at the square.

The soldiers were still shouting, their voices rising higher and higher.

Golden light enveloped everyone, like a warm, hopeful cocoon.

He smiled and closed the car door.