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

Chapter 137 Boring template performance, let's get hyped!

Situation Room.

Twelve people were sitting on either side of the long table.

The group included the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the National Security Advisor, White House Chief of Staff Xinru Wan, and eight other people in military uniforms but without rank insignia.

Milk Dragon stood behind the main seat, with his hands on the table and his body leaning forward.

The screen displays live satellite footage:

A long, gray line of cars was moving slowly along Interstate 94, heading from Ohio into Pennsylvania.

"Are you all clear about the current situation?"

The milk dragon opened its mouth, its voice very flat.

No one answered.

"Then I'll say it again."

He straightened up, walked to the screen, and tapped the gray dragon on the screen with his finger.

"Carl Jensen, the so-called 'saint' of New Canaan, led 1.27 million men on a march to Washington."

"Among them, there are 13,400 armed combat personnel, all of whom are chosen by God, starting from the Black Iron level."

"The remaining 1,256,000 people are non-combatants, mainly minors."

He turned around and looked at the person at the table.

"Our goal is not to annihilate them completely."

"Our goal is to perform."

The defense minister looked up, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Mr. President, I don't quite understand."

"Let me finish."

Milk Dragon interrupted him.

"Karl Jensen needs to complete the oracle."

"He must get to Washington, go into the Lincoln Memorial, destroy the Lincoln statue, and sit on it himself."

"By completing this ritual, he will be able to break through to the Silver level."

He paused.

"We need to help him finish it."

The room was silent for a few seconds.

The National Security Advisor cleared his throat.

"You mean, we pretend to resist and let him in?"

"right."

Milk Dragon walked back to the main seat, but did not sit down.

"The first step: set up a defensive line around Washington, D.C., to project a posture of resolute resistance. However, keep actual firepower at a deterrent level to avoid large-scale casualties. In particular, try to avoid touching those more than one million children."

"Step Two: When Carl breaks through the outer defenses and enters the core area, gradually retreat and guide him towards the Lincoln Memorial. There may be some firefights along the way, but do not block his path."

"Step 3: As he entered the Lincoln Memorial, completed the ceremony, and broke through to the Silver level, the Milk Dragon paused and made a clasping motion with his hands in the air."

"We are launching a general offensive."

"I will personally lead the elite troops to launch an attack from the pre-designated counterattack positions."

"If the other side confronts us head-on, we'll unleash a barrage of missiles to cover the area around the Lincoln Memorial."

He looked at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"Are the missile contingency plans ready?"

"Ready, Mr. President."

The Chairman replied, "Twelve missile launch sites are in place, covering the entire Washington area. The warheads are conventional high-explosive rounds, which can be replaced with tactical incendiary rounds if necessary."

"very good."

Milk Dragon nodded.

"Fourth step: After defeating Carl's forces, I led my troops into the Lincoln Memorial and sat in the spot where the Lincoln statue had been destroyed."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Then it will be broadcast live nationwide."

"I've already thought of the title: The President Goes to the Front Lines to Crush the Rebellion and Protect the Union."

"By the way, I've broken through to the Silver level and become a true chosen one."

No one spoke in the room.

The only sounds were the low hum of the air conditioner vents and the slight electrical hum as the satellite images on the screen switched.

Wan Xinru was the first to speak.

"Mr. President, the risk of this plan is that if Karl Jensen's strength increases beyond expectations after breaking through to the Silver level, we may not be able to suppress him."

"Then let's use a barrage of missiles."

Nailong said in a cold voice.

"Silver-level beings are still made of flesh and blood; they'll still die even if they're blown to pieces."

"But the Lincoln Memorial is a national monument, and if it is damaged..."

"Then rebuild it."

Nailong looked at Wan Xinru.

"Using Noah AI's design blueprints and a black-box production line, it won't be long before we can build a larger and more magnificent one."

As for who will be sitting up there?

That would of course be the wise and mighty Grand Commander Milk Dragon.

Wan Xinru lowered her head and stopped speaking.

Milk Dragon looked around.

"Any more questions?"

No one asked any more questions.

"Then let's do it."

He said.

"Remember, this is a performance. But the performance must be realistic, and it must satisfy the audience."

End of the meeting.

People gradually left the war room, until only Milk Dragon remained.

He walked to the window and looked out at the South Lawn of the White House.

Spring has arrived, and the grass is starting to turn green.

But he couldn't smell the grass.

He could only smell blood.

The smell from afar.

The team entered Pennsylvania.

The situation is worse than in Ohio.

The virus broke out earlier and spread faster here because Pennsylvania has more cities, a denser population, and more frequent interstate travel.

Now these cities are all dead.

The chimneys of Pittsburgh's steel mills no longer emit smoke, Philadelphia's Liberty Bell stands abandoned in an empty square, and the state capitol building in Harrisburg is filled with corpses.

Occasionally, the outline of a town can be seen along the roadside, but most windows are black, and there are no cars or pedestrians on the streets. Only the wind creaks through the empty GG signs.

Some houses have white cloths hanging at their doors; that's a sign that someone in the house has died.

Some houses have black cloths hanging at their doors, which is a sign that the entire family has died.

The further east you go, the more white and black cloth you'll find.

But the supplies were unusually plentiful.

Noah AI's black-box production line has been frantically copied in the past few months.

With just a generator, a pile of scrap metal, and some basic materials, one can continuously produce nutrient blocks, drinking water, and basic medicines.

Therefore, you can often see piles of nutrient block packaging boxes on the roadside, some of which have been opened and some are still sealed, covered with dust.

In some places, there are temporary water purification stations with tanks filled with clean water, but no one around.

Resources are plentiful.

But almost everyone is dying.

Agatha Vanessa walked in the middle of the group, her rifle dragging on the ground.

She walked very slowly, stopping to catch her breath every few steps.

After all, there is still a virus in his body, and even with the blessing of the [Blood Flag Domain], his body is still limited.

Agatha raised her head and looked at the front of the group.

The saint's command vehicle was so far away that it could only be seen as a black dot.

She gripped her rifle tightly and continued walking forward.

At least they're still moving.

At least they're still alive.

"They're here, they're finally here."

Nailong sat in the security command center, staring at the six screens in front of him.

The screen displays satellite images from different angles:

Aerial footage of the entire marching column, close-up shots of Carl Jensen's command vehicle, an overview of the defense lines surrounding Washington, D.C., and real-time monitoring of the Lincoln Memorial.

The team has crossed Pennsylvania and entered Maryland.

It is less than 100 kilometers from Washington, D.C.

At the current speed, we should be able to reach the other side of the Potomac River by tomorrow afternoon.

Milk Dragon leaned forward slightly, tapping his fingers lightly on the control panel.

He had already imagined that scene:

Carl Jensen stormed into the Lincoln Memorial, smashed the Lincoln statue with his gun, sat on the ruins, roared to the sky, and broke through to the Silver rank.

Then he, Nailong Tekapo, led his elite troops out from all directions, raining down missiles and turning the entire memorial hall area into a sea of ​​fire.

Finally, he stepped over the ruins, sat in that spot, and announced his victory to the camera.

The new king.

The true king.

He was so excited that he was trembling all over.

The star-shaped scar on his chest was burning hot, as if urging him on, as if yearning for more attention, more performance, more power.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.

The performance hasn't started yet.

The actors are not in place yet.

He needs to wait.

Washington, D.C.

Washington today is completely different from what it was three months ago.

The White House, the Capitol Building, and the Supreme Court—these landmark buildings were all surrounded by concrete barricades, barbed wire, and automatic machine gun turrets.

Every fifty meters along the street, there was a sandbag bunker, inside which sat soldiers in black combat uniforms, with night vision goggles on their helmets and standard-issue rifles in their hands.

All the bridges over the Potomac River are equipped with explosive devices and can be blown up at any time.

The entire city of Washington was armed into a fortress.

Moreover, this time, the defending soldiers were no longer ordinary National Guard troops.

They were the "New Federal Army," all of them had been led onto the path, and all of them were of the Black Iron rank.

Although his powers are not strong, his physical fitness far exceeds that of ordinary people, allowing him to fight continuously for hours without rest.

Tanks, armored vehicles, attack helicopters, and missile launchers.

The ammunition reserves are sufficient to wage a medium-sized war.

The dragon's orders were clear: feign resistance, but don't actually fight.

So although the soldiers were guarding their positions, they all looked relaxed. Some were smoking, some were chatting, and some...

People were checking the weapons, but no one was really nervous.

They are waiting.

Waiting for those rednecks to cross the river.

Waiting for the performance to begin.

The team stopped in Alton.

This is a small town outside Washington, D.C., which used to have several thousand people, but now almost all of them are dead.

The streets were deserted, most of the houses had their doors and windows tightly closed, and a putrid smell wafted from some of the cracks in the doors.

David stood in the town square, looking at the densely packed children before him.

One million two hundred and fifty-six thousand people.

The number sounds abstract, but when they actually stand in front of you, covering the entire square, extending to every street, and crowding into every building where people can still stand, the sense of oppression is very real.

David took a deep breath and picked up the megaphone.

"Everyone, rest where you are."

His voice came through the loudspeaker, echoing through the empty streets.

"The food and water distribution point is at the church on the north side. Take them in order and don't push."

"Remember, keep quiet and don't leave the town area."

The children listened quietly, and no one made a sound.

They are used to it.

I'm used to queuing, used to waiting.

David put down the megaphone and turned to look in the direction of Washington.

From here, you can see the outlines of buildings on the opposite bank of the Potomac River, the concrete walls, and the machine gun turrets.

He knew what the saint was going to do.

He also knew it was dangerous.

But he could only believe.

Believe in the saints, believe in the Lord, believe that this path is right.

Riverbank.

Carl Jensen stood at the makeshift observation post, looking across the river through binoculars.

The Arlington Bridge is just ahead. It is 500 meters long and 30 meters wide, and is one of the main access routes to the heart of Washington, D.C.

Fortifications have already been built on the other side of the bridge:

Sandbag bunkers, barbed wire, heavy machine gun positions, and at least two anti-tank missile launchers.

There were many soldiers, at least a battalion.

Moreover, judging from their posture and movements, they are all at the Iron level.

Carl put down his binoculars.

"Is everything arranged?"

He asked James Jones, who was sitting next to him.

"It's all arranged."

James replied, "The first echelon of three thousand men, led by me, will be responsible for the assault across the bridge. The second echelon of five thousand men will be responsible for suppressing fire. The third echelon of five thousand men will serve as reserves."

"What about David?"

"We have already set up camp in Alton and are ready to retreat at any time."

Carl nodded.

He glanced at his watch.

2:17 PM.

The sun was shining brightly, and the river surface shimmered with light.

The wind carried the distinctive fishy smell of the river, along with a faint stench of decay emanating from a river bend downstream where corpses had piled up.

"Let's begin."

Carl said.

He turned and walked to the front of the group.

Thirteen thousand four hundred passersby had already lined up, all armed, and all watching him.

He walked to the front and took two M249 light machine guns from the soldiers, one in each hand.

Very heavy.

But he held it very firmly.

A Silver-class body can easily withstand this weight and can fire hundreds of rounds continuously without needing to switch shoulders.

He raised his head and looked towards the opposite bank.

The soldiers on the opposite bank were also watching him.

Separated by a 500-meter river, by barbed wire and sandbags, and by an impending war.

Quiet.

Only the sound of the wind blowing.

Then Karl spoke.

The sound wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears.

"Holy War!"

He shouted.

"charge!"

The next second, he stepped forward.

The two machine guns opened fire simultaneously, bullets raining down on the opposite bank, hitting sandbags and kicking up dust, and striking the barbed wire and sending sparks flying.

Behind him, three thousand people roared in unison and followed him onto the bridge.

The sound of footsteps made the bridge surface tremble.

Gunshots rang out from the other side of the river.

But it's strange.

Most of the bullets hit the air or the concrete railings on both sides of the bridge. Occasionally, a few bullets hit the front of the crowd, but they only kicked up gravel and did not cause any real damage.

It's like providing accompaniment.

It's like acting.

Carl didn't stop.

He continued charging forward, the machine gun firing incessantly, the spent bullet casings clattering onto the bridge and rolling into the river.

Three hundred meters.

Two hundred meters.

One hundred meters.

The soldiers on the opposite bank began to retreat, not in defeat, but in an orderly manner, giving up their positions at the bridgehead.

Carl rushed across the bridge and jumped into the sandbag bunker.

There were still a few soldiers in the bunker who hadn't had time to evacuate. They glanced at Karl, then turned and ran.

没有抵抗.

There was no fighting.

It's like a rehearsed performance.

Carl stood there, panting, watching the figures disappear into the distance.

He frowned.

Not right.

But time is running out.

He glanced back.

The main force has crossed the bridge and is rapidly occupying surrounding buildings to establish a defensive line.

"Jones!"

He shouted.

"Hold the bridgehead and establish an evacuation route!"

"yes!"

James immediately ordered his troops to set up a defense.

Carl turned and looked toward downtown Washington.

The Lincoln Memorial is located there.

The straight-line distance is less than three kilometers.

He took a deep breath and gripped the machine gun tightly.

"Second team, follow me!"

Five thousand people followed him, advancing along Constitution Avenue toward the city center.

He encountered some small-scale resistance along the way, but it was all very weak and seemed more like stalling for time than actually trying to stop him.

Men.

The tank did not fire.

The helicopter did not take off.

The missile was not launched.

Everything went strangely smoothly.

But Carl didn't have time to think it through.

He had only one goal: the Lincoln Memorial.

Inside the security command center.

Milk Dragon stared at the screen, a smile on his face.

"Yes, yes, that's it—"

He muttered to himself.

"Keep moving forward, keep moving forward—"

In the footage, Carl Jensen leads 5,000 men through one defensive line after another, getting closer and closer to the Lincoln Memorial.

One kilometer left.

800 meters.

500 meters.

We'll be there soon.

The ceremony will be completed soon.

Immediately————

A sudden, piercing noise burst from the audio system.

Milk Dragon suddenly covered his ears and cursed.

"What's going on?!"

The technicians frantically adjusted the equipment.

"Mr. President, there is strong signal interference; the source is unknown."

Before the words were even finished, a screen suddenly switched images.

It's no longer satellite surveillance, but a live streaming camera.

The footage is from a helicopter, offering an aerial view of downtown Washington, D.C.

The helicopter door opened, and a person stood in the doorway, holding a microphone.

Lucien Alden.

He was wearing a white suit, his blond hair was flying in the wind, and he had that signature, cynical smile on his face.

"Hi, Carl~"

His voice came through the loudspeaker on the helicopter and echoed through the streets of Washington.

"Wouldn't it be incredibly boring if this performance dedicated to the Lord just ended like this, simply following the script?"

He paused, then laughed through the microphone.

"The Lord wouldn't like this kind of performance."

Milk Dragon suddenly stood up.

"Fuck!"

He yelled at the screen.

"What are you trying to do?!"

But Lucien couldn't hear.

He continued speaking to those below.

"all"

He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.

Let's get hyped!

The next second, the ripples of the [Extreme Wave] spread outwards from him with a roar.

Silver-level power, one of the pinnacle abilities of the [Art of Music] pathway.

It forcibly raises the sensory thresholds of all living beings within its range, causing them to break through the limits of rationality and enter a state of frenzy.

What he chose was the fervor of battle.

The fluctuations covered the entire District of Columbia.

moment.

The soldiers on the street stopped what they were doing.

They looked up, their eyes bloodshot, their breathing heavy, their fingers unconsciously on the triggers, bullets shooting into the sky and against the walls.

The previously orderly retreat of the defensive line collapsed instantly.

People started screaming, laughing, and indiscriminately attacking everything in sight.

The tank's turret began to rotate, and the machine guns began to fire, but not at the rednecks; instead, they were aimed at the surrounding buildings, at the sky, and at everything in sight.

The whole of Washington was in an uproar.

Like a pot of boiling water.

Like an erupting volcano.

It was like a complete, out-of-control, and crazy carnival.

Nailong stood in the security command room, his face dark as he looked at the frantic images on the screen.

"Fuck!"

He turned and ran out of the security command center.