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

Chapter 135 Pre-War Declaration

River Port City Plaza.

The simple platform that was originally made of broken wooden planks and scaffolding has now been replaced with a lectern with a metal frame and solid wood.

The platform is four meters wide and three meters deep, with steps on both sides. Behind it stands a five-meter-high cross-shaped frame made of welded metal pipes, with a rust-proof paint coating that gleams coldly in the afternoon sunlight.

This is in preparation for the holy war six months later.

Now I'm using it.

As the rednecks walked onto the stage, the soles of their boots made a dull thud on the wooden planks.

Below the stage, more than 13,000 newly arrived apostles had already assembled. Further away, the endless crowd spread across the entire square like a tide, reaching all the way to the base of the buildings on both sides.

He stopped and glanced at the row in front of him.

James stood there, wearing his faded army combat uniform, his hands hanging at his sides, his knuckles slightly curled.

David stood to his left, holding a folder in his arms, his face even paler than three days ago.

Stephen was on the right, the soldier standing straight with his eyes fixed on the stage.

Aaron and all the early core members are still here.

Redneck suppressed the emotions surging in his chest, a slight smile playing on his lips, his facial muscles maintaining that expression of "determination."

He walked up to the microphone.

There was a live streaming setup next to them, the screen was on, and the comments were scrolling.

It's not as popular as before.

The comments were monotonous: "Save me, Saint."

"Waaaaah, it hurts so much!"

"I'm going to die~"

"Can anyone give me some medicine? My mother is dying."

Occasionally, a few comments would be different: "Is a holy war about to begin?"

"Let's go! Let's go!"

"Eastern Expedition! Eastern Expedition!"

But they were quickly drowned out by more cries for help and wails.

Those who can remain uninvolved in this virus are a very small minority.

Most people are either already infected, are caring for infected relatives, or are waiting in fear for infection to strike.

The redneck took a breath.

The breath lingered in his chest for two seconds before he slowly exhaled.

"Brothers and sisters."

He spoke, his voice amplified through the loudspeaker, echoing across the square: "The Lord has given revelation."

He took the cross out of his pocket with his right hand and gripped it tightly.

The metal edge dug into my palm.

"The holy war has been brought forward."

He said, "We will begin our eastern expedition in three days. In order to fulfill the Lord's divine decree, sit on the Jade Throne, and embark on the path of atonement."

His hands were trembling as he finished speaking.

It was a very slight tremor, which only he could feel.

But the eyes of the more than 13,000 apostles below the stage lit up at the same time.

It was a gleam, a flame, something that had been suppressed for too long and finally found an outlet.

These people were guided onto the path, gained Iron-level physical attributes, acquired the powers of the [Hunting Dog], and were no longer afraid of viral attacks.

But they had no opportunity to use their skills.

The automated production line controlled by Misell AI met all material needs, with food, weapons, ammunition, and daily necessities all allocated on demand.

Therefore, there is only one goal left in life: to fulfill the Lord's will and walk the path of atonement.

The sooner the holy war begins, the better.

Everyone clenched their fists.

Some people began to stomp their feet lightly, the rhythm gradually becoming unified from chaotic, like the prelude to war drums.

Their breathing became heavier, and a smell similar to gunpowder filled the air.

It wasn't real gunpowder smoke; it was the smell of a mixture of adrenaline and dopamine.

James looked up at the redneck, his eyes conveying a clear message: Enough is enough. Let's just get the emotions going, ignite the frenzy, and then end it.

Cold-blooded, but necessary.

The rednecks saw it.

But he shook his head slightly.

"The White Knight has arrived."

He continued, his voice lower than before, with a hint of compassion, "This is a trial given to us by the Lord."

The audience fell silent instantly.

The fervor subsided as if doused with cold water, its heat fading away with a hissing sound.

The crowd in the distance began to stir.

Whispers, sobs, and suppressed coughs spread from the edge of the square.

The apostles in the front row also lowered their heads, thinking of their relatives, friends, and neighbors who had not yet embarked on the path.

"This is a trial where only charging, only fighting, and only victory are possible."

Redneck raised his right hand, fingers spread, then slowly clenched into a fist. "We will pass the trial! We will sit on the Jade Throne! We will return carrying the Lord's will!"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over every face.

"We will guide everyone through this trial."

The words were spoken softly, but amplified by the microphone, they were clearly heard by everyone.

James closed his eyes.

David lowered his head, his shoulders slumping.

Stephen gritted his teeth, his cheeks bulging out in a hard line.

The rednecks know what they're thinking:

More than 13,000 apostles are enough; there is no need to drag down more than 4 million ordinary people.

The speed of marching and the intensity of combat are both important factors. With each additional non-combatant, the chances of victory decrease.

But he couldn't do it.

Just like his initial motivation for embarking on this path, it wasn't for any grand ideal, but simply to avenge his family.

Wife, daughter, and son—three ordinary people who died under the crushing weight of the system.

If he were to announce here today that he is abandoning those who failed to embark on the path, what difference would there be between him and those who crushed his family?

"The Path to Atonement!"

He raised his voice, holding the cross above his head, "Invincible!"

silence.

Then the first response rang out from below the stage: "The path to redemption! Undeterred by a hundred battles!"

It's Mike.

The former truck driver had red eyes and a hoarse voice, but he shouted loudly.

Second tone: "The path to redemption! Undeterred in a hundred battles!"

The third and fourth sounds—the sound was like sparks splashing into an oil drum, exploding with a bang.

The apostles in the front row started shouting, followed by the middle row, the back row, and finally even the ordinary survivors in the distance joined in.

"The path to redemption! Undeterred by a hundred battles!"

"The path to redemption! Undeterred by a hundred battles!"

The sound waves rose higher and higher, crashing against the exterior walls of the buildings surrounding the square and bouncing back, creating overlapping echoes.

The cross trembled slightly amidst the sound waves, and the metal frame resonated with a buzzing sound.

The redneck put down the cross and looked down at the audience.

The flames in those thirteen thousand-plus eyes ignited again, but this time it was different.

Before, it was pure fanaticism; now something else has mixed in—responsibility, or something else that sounds abstract but is actually real.

Something that exists.

He nodded, turned and walked off the podium.

James approached, his lips moved, but he only said one sentence: "The resource allocation plan needs to be adjusted."

"Prepare for maximum load".

The redneck said, "Bring as much as you can."

"That marching speed"

"I know."

The redneck interrupted him, "But it's a choice. I made the choice, so I have to bear the consequences."

James didn't say anything more, just gave him a deep look, then turned and left.

David walked over and handed over a new document: "The logistics department has calculated that if we take all the non-combatants who are willing to come, our marching time will be extended, and then—"

The redneck continued, "I understand. You select them, twenty days, that's the deadline."

"Yes."

David left too.

The rednecks stood still, watching the crowd gradually disperse from the square.

Some people began moving towards the west gate, which was the assembly area.

Someone is hugging and crying; it's goodbye.

Some people stood still, looking around blankly, as if they didn't know what to do.

He looked away and walked towards the command post.

Seventy-two hours remain.

Georgia, Alden family estate.

The concert hall is located on the third basement level.

Lucien Alden sat at the piano, his fingers hovering three inches above the keys, not touching them.

The piano is a Steinway D-274, a nine-foot concert grand piano, its polished ebony casing reflecting the crystal chandelier on the ceiling.

He did not play the piano.

He is sensing.

The Silver-level power, [Limited Tide], spreads outwards from him like an invisible net, covering Georgia.

Alabama, Mississippi, South Carolina, and the entire southern United States.

The entire Bible tape.

Every node in the network is a living, breathing person.

At this moment, these nodes are transmitting sensations.

pain.

high fever.

cough.

Difficulty breathing.

Itching from skin ulceration.

The acid that causes muscle breakdown.

Numbness caused by nerve erosion.

And fear.

A bottomless, black fear.

Fear of impending death.

"Ah~"

Lucien sighed softly, a pleased smile curving his lips. "That's the feeling. I think I'm starting to understand."

He was empathizing.

Wilson, the "super bio-matrix" who was infected three days ago with twenty new versions of the virus that were circulating on the market.

He is currently lying in an isolation ward in the west wing of the manor, his body like a living petri dish, producing new mutant strains every moment.

Lucien, through the "Extreme Wave," conveyed Wilson's feelings, along with the feelings of all the infected in the southern states.

The parts are connected together.

Sharing pain.

Fear resonance.

Then, at this zenith of sharing and resonance, a gentle push leads everyone simultaneously onto the path of the joy of art.

It's that simple.

Therefore, he can be calm and at ease.

The scope of authority of a Silver-level expert is vast enough that, if he so desires, he can send the entire population of the south onto the path within a single day.

The only difference is whether he's willing or not.

And now, he is willing.

But there's one question I can't figure out.

"magic."

He withdrew his fingers, leaning back in the piano bench. "Why did Milk Dragon take a different path?"

He was referring to the phrase "Heaven's Mandate is clear."

That is clearly not the power of "the joy of art," but an independent and entirely new path.

Although the connection is still established through Lucien, its nature has changed.

The gifts that the milk dragon received came directly from the Lord's attention.

"Is it because he's the president? Or because of something else?"

Lucien stood up and walked to the French windows.

Outside the window is a meticulously manicured lawn, beyond which lies dense forest, and further still, the vast plains of Georgia stretch out before you.

"How did I come to receive the Lord's attention?"

This problem has been bothering him for many days.

Therefore, instead of guiding all his subordinates onto the path at once, he used [Symphony of Fate] to set up threshold change monitoring for each person.

It's like having an alarm installed in everyone's consciousness; once a sign that "may attract the master's attention" appears, the alarm will sound.

He cannot accept the appearance of a second Milk Dragon.

They cannot accept that their subordinates, whom they recruited as clowns, fuel, or entertainment tools, suddenly rise to a position on equal footing with them.

On what grounds?

Is it because I'm not exciting enough?

Is it still too boring?

"Ultimately—"

Lucien turned to look at Luke, who had been standing in the corner of the concert hall. "Art, what exactly is the ultimate art?"

Luke looked up.

He was the first person Lucien guided onto the path, and he's still only at the second tier of Black Iron.

It wasn't that he lacked talent; it was that Lucien intentionally controlled it. He treated Luke as an experimental subject to observe the speed, direction, and possible mutations of his path growth.

"saint."

Luke pondered for a few seconds, then spoke calmly, "I believe it is Holy Communion."

"Holy Communion?"

"It is to become a part of the Lord."

Luke's eyes gleamed strangely in the dim light. "Just as Susu bore the sins of the world, we too can attempt a resurrection of saints."

He spoke slowly, each word as if carefully crafted.

Lucien stared at him.

Luke's face showed fanaticism, but beneath that fanaticism lay something else: desire.

Naked, undisguised desire.

That desire to devour the saints, the desire to pull down those in higher positions, tear them apart, and swallow them whole.

They desperately wanted to be the Lord's chosen people.

The thought was that they could do whatever it took.

Just as the scriptures say, let the saints die, and then ripen in the earth.

Blood is wine, and meat is unleavened bread.

After the meal, the saints make atonement for the sins of the latter, who are without sin.

"Yeah----"

Lucien closed his eyes.

He prayed silently, though he didn't know if his prayer would work: "Lord, what is it?"

A thought flashed through my mind.

Like a shooting star streaking across the night sky, brief but bright.

It is the brilliance of life, the brilliance that bursts forth like a meteor, bursting forth with extreme brilliance before quietly falling and disappearing completely.

That kind of extreme impulse, that may be the ultimate form of art.

"Maybe,"

Lucien opened his eyes and smiled. "I understand. I almost understand."

He murmured, seemingly waiting for affirmation, or perhaps affirming himself.

He walked toward the entrance of the concert hall.

"Prepare the plane."

He said, "Aren't they about to start a holy war? It wouldn't be fun if we didn't lend a hand."

Luke followed up: "Yes, Your Excellency."

"Also, notify everyone who has already embarked on the path."

Lucien stopped at the door, glanced back at the Steinway piano, and said, "Meet in front of the main building of the manor in three hours. We're going to—attend a grand feast."

"feast?"

"right."

Lucien pushed open the door, and the light from the hallway flooded in, illuminating half of his profile. "A feast grand enough, interesting enough, and worthy of the Lord's attention."

He went outside.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, growing fainter and fainter.

Luke stood there, processing what he had just said.

A few seconds later, he smiled too, a smile that bore a striking resemblance to Lucien's.

Then he took out his satellite phone and started dialing.