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

Chapter 140 The children were drenched in sweat.

The missile barrage has stopped.

Washington, D.C. is still burning, but the sound of explosions has subsided, leaving only the muffled thuds of collapsing buildings and the crackling of flames.

The door to the White House underground security facility opened.

The milk dragon came out.

He was wearing an army service uniform with general's insignia on his shoulder, but the fabric was covered in dust and there was a tear on his left sleeve.

His face was covered in ash, and his blond hair was somewhat disheveled, but his eyes were steady.

He looked up at the sky.

Three drones hovered at a height of thirty meters, their cameras pointed at him.

The live broadcast signal has been established and is being relayed via satellite to all terminals that can still receive the signal, primarily in the East Coast states.

Military bases, the private network of the Old Money family.

The milk dragon started walking.

Starting from the South Lawn of the White House, we passed through the collapsed fence and onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

The road is broken.

Craters appeared one after another, some as small as two meters in diameter and others as large as ten meters, filled with sewage mixed with blood and oil.

The rubble was piled up by the roadside, some of it still smoking.

Twisted metal frames protrude from the building ruins like bones.

Corpses were everywhere, some in military uniforms, some in civilian clothes, some intact, some just severed limbs.

He walked slowly, with steady steps.

The soles of my shoes crunched softly on the broken glass.

People started to follow behind.

A soldier crawled out of the ruins at the street corner.

His helmet was missing, his face was covered in blood, and his right arm was bound with strips of torn cloth and hung in front of his chest.

He saw the milk dragon, paused for two seconds, and then followed it.

Next is the second one.

He crawled out of the collapsed machine gun bunker, his left leg was lame, and he used his rifle as a crutch.

The third person emerged from the half-ruined store, his face covered in burn blisters, his eyes swollen shut.

The fourth, the fifth, and the sixth.

People emerged one after another from the sewer outlet, from behind the car wreckage, and from under the collapsed GG sign.

They were all federal soldiers.

Their uniforms were tattered, their equipment was incomplete, and some people had even lost their guns.

They all had injuries.

Gunshot wounds, shrapnel wounds, burns, fractures.

The blood stained the camouflage uniform dark brown, and in some places the blood had dried and hardened into lumps.

But their eyes were fixed on the back of the milk dragon.

The milk dragon emitted a faint golden light.

The power [Manifest Mandate] remains in effect.

The golden light, like a thin mist, enveloped the crowd behind them and covered the entire Washington, D.C.

The wound stopped bleeding, the pain lessened, strength slowly returned, and most importantly, loyalty was strengthened to the extreme.

They stopped thinking about why they were alive, stopped thinking about what to do next, and just followed the person in front of them who was radiating golden light.

tread.

The footsteps gradually became more orderly from a chaotic sound.

There weren't many people, probably around three thousand, but less than four thousand.

It's still increasing slowly.

But the footsteps on the broken asphalt surface produced a uniform vibration, like drumbeats.

After walking seven blocks, we arrived at the edge of the National Mall.

This place has been bombarded by missiles.

The lawn turned to scorched earth, and the grass ash was blown up by the wind, like black snow.

The trees are now just stumps, their broken surfaces charred black, some still emitting smoke.

The Washington Monument was broken in half, with the upper half crashing into the Reflection Pool. The water in the pool has evaporated, and the bottom of the pool is cracked, with fissures resembling a spider web.

The Lincoln Memorial is still there, but half of the roof has collapsed, three of the front columns have fallen, the steps are broken, and marble shards are scattered everywhere.

Milk Dragon walked up the steps.

Keep moving forward.

Step inside the memorial hall.

It's even worse inside.

A large hole was opened in the ceiling, and sunlight slanted in, illuminating the floating dust.

The ground was littered with marble shards, some as big as a table, others as small as a fist.

The central Lincoln statue has disappeared, leaving only a pile of rubble, which was smashed by rednecks with machine guns.

All that remains is a huge white stone seat filled with rubble.

Milk Dragon walked to the chair and stopped.

Turn around and face the doorway.

The drone followed, its camera aimed at him.

Milk Dragon raised his hand and pointed to the pile of rubble.

"have a look!"

The sound was transmitted through the microphone on the drone, and although it was somewhat distorted, it was clear enough.

"Look what they've done!"

He paused, letting the camera capture the details of the rubble, the broken marble, the bullet holes, and the scattered fragments of the Lincoln image's face on the ground.

"This is Lincoln! This is the symbol of America! This is our history!"

Then he turned around, faced the camera, and his expression changed from anger to determination.

"But it's okay."

He said.

"Because I've come."

"We paid the necessary price—the price of blood, the price of fire, the price of the city—but we defeated the Antichrist's invasion! We drove those thugs back to their Gomorrah!"

He raised his hand and pointed to the burning city outside the door.

"Washington will be rebuilt."

"America will be rebuilt. From today onward, a new America will appear!"

"What President Lincoln failed to accomplish, I will accomplish completely under the Lord's watchful eye!"

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving.

Then, spreading her arms wide, she looked up at the sky and shouted, "Our America! It is truly a city upon a mountain!"

The sound echoed through the ruins.

"We are God's will! We are all the Lord's chosen people!"

After shouting, he turned around and sat down.

I sat in that broken chair.

Golden light surged from his body, no longer the faint mist of before, but a strong, dazzling light, like a searchlight.

[Illuminating Mandate] unleashes full power, granting yourself special effects.

The light illuminated the entire interior of the memorial hall, the soldiers at the entrance, and the drone's camera lens.

The soldiers at the gate moved.

They came in, spread out around the pile of rubble, and then knelt down on one knee.

Place your right hand on your chest, support yourself with your left hand on the ground, and lower your head.

Their movements were synchronized and uniform.

More than four thousand people formed three concentric circles around the milk dragon, as if guarding the throne.

The drone's camera zooms out, offering an overhead view.

Ruins, golden light, kneeling soldiers, and a milk dragon sitting in a chair.

The live stream chat started flooded with comments.

These aren't comments from ordinary people. Ordinary people are either dead, hiding in basements, or without internet access.

Those who flooded the screen were people who still had internet access.

The Old Money Family.

East Coast nobility.

Their comments were short and powerful: "YMCA!"

"The City on the Mountain Top!"

"Destiny!"

"voter!"

"America is great again!"

The barrage of comments refreshed so fast that the text was almost illegible; all that could be seen were white squares slicing across the screen.

Occasionally, a few different comments would appear, the font was very small and the color was gray, and they were quickly buried: "Help me, I'm in the basement of Georgetown, it hurts so much————"

"The hospital has no power, the ventilator has stopped, and the child is dying—"

But no one saw it.

Or they saw it, but didn't care.

Nailong sat in the chair, his face maintaining a solemn expression, but his back was already soaked with cold sweat.

The shirt clung to my skin, feeling icy cold.

He stared at the comments on the virtual screen, silently shouting in his mind:

Why haven't they arrived yet?

Oh God!

According to the plan, at this point, the Lord should be attracted by his performance, descend to his side, and promote him to the Silver rank, granting him new powers.

Then he can truly confront Lucien and truly take control of the situation.

But why hasn't it arrived yet?

He acted very well.

Ruins, golden light, kneeling worship, a speech—all the elements were there.

The dialogue was also carefully crafted—short, powerful, and fitting for his flamboyant persona.

Isn't that enough?

Does the Lord not like it?

Nailong felt the chair was a bit hard, and it hurt his tailbone.

He wanted to move, but he couldn't because the camera was pointed at him.

Sweat streamed down his forehead, slid over his eyebrows, and dripped into his eyes.

Tingling.

He blinked.

At that very moment, the sound rang out.

It wasn't something I heard with my ears; it surfaced directly in my mind—calm, neutral, and genderless: "Not very good."

Milk Dragon's body stiffened.

"Consider this a reward for your hard work."

The sound continued.

Give me an even bigger show.

The next second, energy was poured in.

It didn't erupt from the outside, but from the inside, from the location of the star-shaped scar on his chest, like a volcanic eruption, with a scalding flow of energy rushing into every blood vessel, every muscle, and every bone.

"Ugh!"

Milk Dragon couldn't help but let out a muffled groan.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was transmitted through the microphone.

The soldier kneeling at the door raised his head and looked at him.

Milk Dragon gritted his teeth and forced himself to sit up straight.

The energy continues to flow.

He could feel his body changing.

Increased muscle density means you can hear the fascia rubbing when you clench your fist.

With increased bone strength, the spine is like being replaced with steel bars, allowing it to withstand greater pressure.

The speed of neural reactions doubles, and the images captured by the eyes slow down, like watching a slow-motion video.

His sensory sensitivity skyrocketed; he could hear a soldier breathing fifty meters away and smell burning rubber three hundred meters away.

If a bullet were to be fired at him now, he could react the instant he saw the muzzle flash, either turning his head or raising his hand to catch it.

Then, a sound of breaking.

It wasn't a physical sound, but the sound of some kind of barrier shattering, echoing deep within his consciousness.

Class barriers.

Breakthrough.

Silver level.

New powers are simultaneously solidified:

【City on the Mountain Top】.

Effect: As a "believer of the Lord," one transforms their own beliefs into projectible memes.

All individuals within the scope who agree with this belief will enter a state of "rational fanaticism," maintaining rational judgment but acting entirely loyal to the dragon and spontaneously engaging in actions consistent with the logic of "divine authority."

Simply put, they will find ways to help him achieve his goals, and they are clear-headed and won't do anything foolish.

The milk dragon opened its eyes.

The golden light had subsided, not disappeared, but rather become more subdued, like a thin film on the skin's surface, reflecting light slightly in the sunlight.

He raised his right hand.

The movements were slow, but steady.

In the name of the Lord!

The sound was transmitted through the microphone.

"I will make the city upon a hill great again! America, under my leadership, will become a true city upon a hill!"

pause.

"I've already pulled up my napkin," he quoted a line from an old-fashioned speech.

"All the opportunities that come our way belong to America! We, America, will be great again!"

The soldiers kneeling at the entrance simultaneously looked up, raised their right hands, and shouted in unison, "America! Be Great Again!"

The sound shook the roof of the memorial hall, causing dust to fall.

Nailong lowered his hand and leaned back in his chair.

This isn't an act.

He was really tired.

Change perspective.

Interstate 70, eastern Pennsylvania.

The team is moving.

It wasn't a neat formation; it was a scattered, hurried movement, like someone fleeing a disaster.

The rednecks are at the very front.

He walked at the front, with the [Blood Flag Domain] fully activated, a dark red light covering his back.

The person covered quickened their pace, their breathing became smoother, and the bleeding from their wounds slowed down.

"Speed up! Brothers and sisters, speed up!"

The redneck turned around and shouted.

There were about 7,000 people following behind him.

They are survivors who have made it through the process.

James Jones was carried on David's back, unconscious, with a bowl-sized wound on his back that was being patched with gauze, but blood was still seeping out.

Aaron followed, albeit in the form of a box.

Everyone else was also injured.

Gunshot wounds, shrapnel wounds, burns, fractures.

But everyone is moving on.

Because we can't stop.

"Yes, Your Excellency!"

David shouted, his voice equally hoarse.

He carried James on his back, each step firm and steady, but his face was pale and sweat poured down his face.

James's blood soaked through his back, the fabric clung to his skin, and every step he took was excruciatingly painful.

Behind the procession was an even larger group.

More than a million children.

They split into dozens of columns, stretching for kilometers along the road. Each person carried something on their back: a pack, a canteen, an ammunition box, or a wounded soldier on a makeshift stretcher.

The stretchers were made of tree branches and clothes, and two people carried one, so they swayed as they walked.

Most of the wounded were unconscious, some were still groaning, but the sound was very faint, like the buzzing of mosquitoes.

There's also the black box.

It's not the large, black box type found on production lines; it's a portable, small version, about the size of a washing machine, which can be pulled by a trolley or carried by four people.

These black boxes are still operating, plugged into vehicle power supplies or small generators, producing as they move.

The feed inlet was clogged with various materials collected along the way, and the discharge outlet spat out a yellow nutrient block every ten minutes.

The nutritional blocks were distributed directly to the children around them.

The children didn't speak.

Just walk.

His face was expressionless, his eyes were fixed on the back of the person in front of him, and his steps moved mechanically.

He took the nutrition block, put it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and continued walking.

This brief but brutal battle forced them to grow up considerably, even under the protection of David and the others.

I saw a corpse.

I saw an explosion.

To witness death.

Then keep walking.

A boy of about twelve years old carried the front of a stretcher carrying a soldier who had lost his left leg. The wound was charred black from being burned, but was still oozing tissue fluid.

The boy's hand was trembling, but he didn't let go.

A girl next to me was carrying three backpacks, her back bent under the weight, but she didn't stop.

Even younger children, eight or nine years old, dragged boxes of ammunition in pairs, the bottoms of the boxes scraping against the road, making a screeching sound.

"good!"

Redneck took a breath and nodded.

He glanced back at the line.

More than a million people, like a gray river, flowed slowly along the highway.

But they are making a rapid turnaround.

The target is Michigan, New Canaan.

There are still 500 kilometers to go.

At the current pace, I can walk 50 kilometers a day, and it will take at least another ten days.

But the rednecks knew they had to go back.

Because the soldiers died in vain.

If we can't even bring these children back, then those who died in Washington, Aaron, and thousands of other passersby, will have truly died in vain.

He turned around and glanced in the direction of Washington.