The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 165 The Broken Iron Cross and the Lion's Roar

August 5, 1940, 11:15 p.m., High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, Royal Air Force Bomber Command Underground Operations Room.

There were no windows, only the humming of exhaust fans keeping the air circulating. The glaring incandescent light shone on the huge European military map in the center, turning the markers representing industrial nodes and densely populated areas a stark white.

Air Chief Marshal Charles Portal, the commander of the only offensive force in the British Empire besides the navy, stood before a map. A cigarette was between his fingers, and his gaze was fixed on the other side of the English Channel.

Like Daoding, he had a deep vertical line between his eyebrows, a mark left by long-term insufficient troops and high-pressure decision-making.

Behind him was Winston Churchill, who sat silently in a peeling leather chair, his hands folded over his stomach.

Meanwhile, Arthur Sterling stood in the shadows, slowly reviewing the report on the incendiary bomb inventory in his hands.

"Mr. Sterling, Your Excellency the Prime Minister."

Porter turned around, his expression grave, his voice cautious: "I must remind you both. Although the German Air Force is currently in a strange state of respite due to our smoke bombs, which gives us a chance to catch our breath, it does not mean that we have the capability to launch a strategic counter-offensive."

Porter walked to the map table, picked up his baton, and tapped the marked points: "The Royal Air Force's current long-range bombers are mainly Wellingtons. Their payload and range are on the edge of the red line. If we were to launch a long-range attack on Berlin, it would mean that each bomber would need to carry external fuel tanks, which would reduce the space available for bombs. From a tactical damage benefit-to-performance perspective, bombing the steel mills in the Ruhr region or the shipyards in Hamburg might be more logical."

"But this is not a simple calculation problem, General Porter."

Arthur closed the folder in his hand with a soft "snap." He stepped out of the shadows, his leather shoes clicking crisply on the concrete floor.

"General Porter, please forget about your tactical damage assessments."

"With that pitiful bomb load limit, bombing the Ruhr industrial region was a pure waste of precious aviation fuel. Even if you blew a steel furnace to scrap tonight, Albert Speer's engineering team could get it running again in just two weeks. Such a loss would be laughable and pathetic to that corporal; and for Roosevelt, it was far from the kind of infamy he wanted—a pledge of allegiance that would make him throw gold coins around."

Arthur walked to the map and stretched out a long, pale hand. His finger swept across the dense industrial icons of the Ruhr region, pointing directly east, and finally pressed heavily on the black swastika symbolizing the heart of the Third Reich—Berlin.

"What we need to do is show Washington a reply." A reply proving that the British Empire could not only be beaten, but could also bite its bloodied teeth into the throats of the Nazis.

Arthur turned around, his blue eyes devoid of warmth. "According to intelligence from MI6 and our Sterling family's business partners in Sweden, Little Mustache is currently indulging in the peaceful fantasy woven by that diplomatic memorandum. Berlin's air raid sirens are on low alert, and even the pilots of the night fighter squadron are on leave."

"This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

At this point, Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze seemingly piercing through the thick concrete walls of the basement and projecting towards the distant east.

square.

In the deep projection of his retina, the dark blue tactical command holographic grid that only he could see was currently conducting a full-load, ultra-long-range surveillance operation that defied conventional tactical radius.

Its scanning range extended far beyond fifteen kilometers, even one hundred and fifty kilometers. It ignored the barrier of the English Channel, pierced through the cold darkness of the North Sea, and firmly shrouded the heart of the Third Reich's homeland with that dark blue net that represented absolute control.

This is the final answer presented after countless radio waves from Royal Air Force listening stations, the Sterling family's extensive business networks across Europe, and fragmented intelligence obtained by MI6 agents at the cost of their lives, all integrated and reorganized by this system at this moment.

Destination: Berlin.

Although due to the distance, it was impossible to see the exact location of each anti-aircraft gun and each fighter jet as clearly as in conventional tactical command.

However, in the system's threat assessment, this city was marked as a deep red high-risk zone, symbolizing "absolute death," at any point after Arthur arrived in this world. The dense anti-aircraft fire rings, radar warning lines, and nighttime fighter patrol radius intertwined to form a death net that would chill any Allied pilot to the bone.

But tonight, a miracle happened on that holographic tactical map.

The icons representing the Krupp 88mm heavy anti-aircraft gun positions were all grayed out as "offline/resting"; the searchlight battalions were in "standby" mode with minimal power consumption; and the tireless Messerschmitt night fighter squadrons were all lying on the tarmac, with their status bars showing "engine cooling" in green.

The Germans went home and, completely and without warning, pulled the power switch, suspending business.

The usually meticulous Kleimans finally relaxed their tense nerves. Since rumors were spreading everywhere that the British were about to surrender...

If that's the case, then why bother with overtime?

The bigwigs above are preparing champagne and pens, while the ordinary soldiers below are naturally lying down and sleeping as usual—this is tacitly approved by those above. These past few months of intense duty haven't resulted in any British bombs being dropped on Berlin. Tonight, it's a rest day. Anyone have a problem with that?

On this night when everyone was certain that "peace had come," no one believed, and no one dared to believe, that the dying British would have the audacity to drop bombs on the heads of Germany.

This is an absolute lull period.

Once the first bomb falls tonight, the Germans will once again be in a state of constant readiness for war. The next time they can so easily drop bombs on the Brandenburg Gate will probably have to wait several years, until the Allied air power has completely drained the last drop of blood from the German Luftwaffe.

That will be a long, brutal process that will require the blood of countless Lancaster bombers and B-29 crews to clean up.

But tonight, the doors are open.

Not to be missed.

Arthur withdrew his godlike gaze and turned his head. He did not say that he knew the gates of Berlin were open tonight, but instead said decisively to Porter, "You know, even during the most intense weeks of the Battle of France, the citizens of Berlin could still leisurely drink beer on the streets."

Not a single bomb had ever fallen over their heads. That absolute sense of security, guaranteed by Göring, had become German arrogance. And at this moment, that arrogance had reached its peak.

"We must attack. Not to destroy a few factories, but to drop bombs on Little Mustache's head, and on the city of Berlin."

"They threw it onto the people's dinner tables, into the Nazi Party's propaganda department's backyard, in front of the whole world."

Arthur was thrilled just thinking about it: "We're going to slap that little mustache like that. Make him bleed, drive him mad, and humiliate him."

Only when he tears off that facade of peace and begins his frenzied revenge will those machine tools and aluminum materials from across the ocean actually be shipped.

Churchill took a deep drag on his cigar, the glow of the cigarette tip illuminating his face, which was covered in age spots but still remained resolute.

"Arthur is right, Charles."

The Prime Minister finally spoke: "We need a symbolic victory. An offensive that the whole world—especially the Americans—can see. If we're going to put on a show, let's go all the way. While Little Mustache is still dreaming, send all the latest gifts from the Stirling factory to Berlin."

This is no longer a purely military operation, but the highest declaration of national will, a political game with the lives of pilots at stake.

Porter's gaze shifted between the two men before him. The one on the left was the highest-ranking official in the British Empire; the one on the right was the largest shareholder of the Royal Air Force.

It was a suffocating combination; Porter felt the air in his lungs thinning.

Reason told him that both of them had gone mad.

But what's terrifying is that, faced with this destructive madness, Porter discovered that his long-dormant ambition was resonating with an irrepressible force—a desire to break the deadlock and an outlet for the frustrations of the past few months of fighting.

The Royal Air Force needs to retaliate!

He stopped thinking about the consequences. He stopped considering the risk assessments in his mind, leaving only the most primal instincts of a soldier: obey, and then execute. That was the reason he convinced himself.

"Understood, Prime Minister."

Porter turned to look at the operations staff who were waiting for orders. His hesitant gaze disappeared, and once the decision was made, the Royal Air Force's efficient war machine immediately began to operate efficiently.

"Pass down the order. Operation codename: Awakening."

"Operation codename: Telecom Fraud." He didn't understand its meaning; after all, in this day and age, scammers were still writing letters and using dial pads for phone calls.

But that doesn't matter. As long as Arthur Stlinkon keeps supplying magnesium-aluminum incendiary bombs, even if he codenames the operation "Alice in Wonderland," Porter will sign his name without hesitation.

"Assemble all Wellington bombers from the 3rd, 4th, and 5th Bomber Groups that are airworthy. Those lads are itching to get going. Target: Berlin. Loadout: Unload all conventional high-explosive bombs. Tonight we'll conduct a special combat test."

Porter looked up at the stark white light, then at Arthur, also quite excited about the Sterling family's new toy: "It uses a hybrid incendiary system. One half of the bomb bay carries the Mark-I high-energy magnesium-aluminum incendiary bomb developed by Sterling Chemicals; while the other half carries the latest experimental model, the X-2 napalm bomb."

Two new types of incendiary bombs—these are the new toys that Sterling Chemicals developed this month under the guidance of its own boss.

Arthur turned his gaze back to the RTS map, scanning the densely packed streets of Berlin as if he were looking not at a human settlement, but at a field of experimental material awaiting testing:

This viscous, gelatinous gasoline, which could adhere to any surface and burn continuously, was originally intended as his ultimate weapon for the inhabitants of the wooden island nations in the Pacific.

However, before large-scale mass production and deployment, Sterling Chemicals needs to collect sufficient real-world data to verify its adhesion damage effect.

Tonight, the Hans are fortunate to be among the first users to try it out.

Porter looked up at the stark white lights and said in a low voice, "Tonight, we're going to light up the Berlin night sky."

August 6, 1940, 1:45 AM, over Berlin, Germany.

The Berlin nights in August are cool and quiet. The Spree River, like a black ribbon, meanders through this sleeping city.

The streetlights were still on in the Imperial Chancellery and the official residences along Wilhelmstrasse.

Because Little Mustache firmly believed that the British were about to surrender, and because Göring had boasted that "if enemy planes fly over the Ruhr, I will change my name to Meyer," the blackout in Berlin was not enforced as strictly as in London, or rather, not at all.

In wartime, this was an extravagant luxury that bordered on arrogance.

Little Mustache hadn't rested yet.

In the oppressively grand office of the Reich Chancellor's Palace, he stood intently before a massive architectural blueprint. Beside him stood Joseph Goebbels, the small, slightly lame Minister of Propaganda.

"Those English gentlemen need to maintain their dignity, Joseph."

Pointing to the Kiel port plan on the blueprints, the man with the mustache spoke with the magnanimity and arrogance of a conqueror, appearing even more splendid than Frederick the Great.

"We can preserve the dignity of the monarchy in the treaty, allowing them to retain their governor's residence in India. But the main fleet of the Royal Navy must be reviewed at Kiel or Wilhelmshaven. This will be the most glorious moment in Aryan history, and I want you to arrange for the best photographers to record this moment—"

He hadn't finished speaking.

A strange, low humming sound faintly penetrated the heavy velvet curtains and bulletproof glass, entering the room that symbolized the supreme power of the Third Reich.

At first, the sound was faint, like the rumble of a freight train in the distance. But just a few seconds later, the sound grew louder and more intense, as if countless angry wasps were circling overhead in the night sky.

Goebbels looked up, puzzled, and listened intently: "Does the Air Force have any night training scheduled for tonight? Hermann didn't mention it to me—"

Karinhall, 60 kilometers north of Berlin.

The nights in Schörffheide Forest are quiet and cool, with the air filled with the fragrance of pine resin.

Inside that extravagantly luxurious hunting lodge—"Carin Palace"—built with plundered European art, the Imperial Marshal...

Hermann Göring, Commander-in-Chief of the German Air Force, was comfortably leaning against a Louis XIV-era swan statue, wearing his favorite white Field Marshal's uniform.

On the velvet sofa.

He held a glass of top-quality red wine from a Bordeaux winery in his hand, and wore a huge ruby ​​ring on his large, fleshy finger.

Across from him, several senior officers from the Air Force General Staff were respectfully reporting to him on the follow-up to "Operation Sea Lion," or rather, the preparations for the "Victory Parade."

"The leader is merciful."

Goring took a sip of red wine, his face slightly flushed. "Since the British have already submitted their surrender through Swedish channels—whatever they call it, a diplomatic memorandum—whatever they call it, those islanders have already knelt down. Therefore, my air force no longer needs to waste precious aviation fuel bombing those worthless bricks and tiles."

He stood up and walked to a huge oil painting that had just been "requisitioned" from the Louvre Museum in Paris, admiring it with great relish.

"Tell General Jeshnek to give the fighter wingmen a good rest. They've been working too hard these past few months. Also, inform the Berlin Air Defense Command that those piercing air raid siren tests can be stopped, so as not to disturb the Führer's peaceful dreams."

Goring turned around, opened his arms as if to embrace the whole world: "Do you remember my promise from back then? If any enemy plane could fly over the Ruhr industrial area, I would change my name to Meyer!"

Although the Dunkirk fog allowed those British rats to escape, that's irrelevant now. To hell with Jewish surnames; that stuff will never fall on my head. On the contrary, I, Hermann Göring, will be cleansed of all doubt and forever etched in the Germanic epic as the conqueror who strangled the British Empire with his own hands.

Just then, the direct line phone that was specifically connected to the Berlin air defense command center rang out abruptly and jarringly amidst the antiques in the room.

Goring frowned, somewhat displeased, and gestured for his adjutant to answer the call.

The adjutant picked up the receiver, listened for only two seconds, and his face turned as if he had seen a ghost.

He covered the microphone and reported to his superior in an almost groaning voice: "Your Excellency Marshal—Berlin Air Defense Command—Observation Post reports—a lot of engine noise—overhead—"

Goering's wine glass fell to the floor with a "clatter," and the red wine splattered like blood onto the expensive Persian carpet.

Royal Air Force 3rd Bomber Group, codenamed "The Undertaker," Wellington MK.IC medium bomber, over Berlin, at an altitude of 3500 meters.

Meter.

At an altitude of 3500 meters, the temperature drops to minus twenty degrees Celsius.

The Royal Air Force's No. 3 Bomber Group, like a group of silent black phantoms, flew through the thin clouds.

Inside the cockpit, Lieutenant Jack Miller gripped the control stick tightly, feeling every tremor of the massive Wellington bomber as it moved through the air currents.

The aircraft's fuselage uses the famous "geodesic construction" structure. Although it is only covered by a layer of painted fabric skin and looks as fragile as a lantern, it is one of the few long-legged aircraft in the Royal Air Force's possession that can drop bombs on Berlin and return alive. Its range is nearly 2000 kilometers, enough for a round trip between Berlin and London.

"My God—" the navigator's voice came through the intercom, sounding incredulous. "Jack, look down there!"

This—this is absolutely insane!

Lieutenant Miller lowered his head and looked down through the plexiglass canopy.

In that instant, the young pilot, who had prepared to die and had already written his will to his fiancée, felt his retina...

It stung terribly.

He originally thought he would see a deathly darkness, a forest of death composed of countless searchlight beams, and 88mm anti-aircraft shells exploding all over the sky.

But what he saw was a glorious city.

Berlin, the heart of the Third Reich, is brightly lit!

The streetlights along the Spree River shone like a necklace, the traffic on William Street converged into a red river of light, and even the neon lights of the stadium and opera house were shining unabashedly.

Without blackouts or air raid camouflage, the city lay beneath them, completely unguarded and exposed.

"These Germans have really gone home—"

The bombardier, hunched over Norton's sights, exclaimed with a mixture of absurdity and excitement, "They really thought we were going to surrender! They've practically stuck their necks to our blades!"

Miller took a deep breath of the icy, pure oxygen inside his mask, forcibly suppressing the wildly pounding heart in his chest.

He knew very well that this "relaxation" was deadly, because what was loaded in the bomb bay was not the familiar lumps of iron, but rather "pre-made dishes" specially prepared for hell by the group of madmen in white coats at Sterling Chemicals.

Before they set off, the group warned them: this thing is incredibly powerful.

What does "amazing power" mean? Could it be greater than a 500-pound general-purpose high-explosive bomb that can turn an entire building into dust?

"Open the bomb bay door." Miller had no time to think further. "This is a gift for Little Mustache, and also a test of Sterling Chemicals' new product. Let's see if this so-called X-2 napalm is really as amazing as they say."

On the belly of the aircraft, the massive bomb bay door slowly opened.

Instead of the usual black high-explosive shells, the racks were rows of special incendiary shells marked with red danger symbols.

Half of it is the thermite magnesium powder incendiary bomb codenamed "Mark-I", which is an old formula and is responsible for manufacturing the high-temperature core; the other half is the brand new, round Napalm (napalm bomb).

This toxic substance, developed by Sterling Laboratories, is a mixture of aluminum naphthenate and palmitic acid. Upon explosion, it doesn't burn up instantly like gasoline; instead, it transforms into a viscous, gelatinous fireball that clings to any surface—be it a tank, a carbuncle, or any other object.

Concrete, or a human body—burning for over ten minutes.

This is a gift Arthur has prepared for his unruly island acquaintances on the future Pacific battlefield.

But today, the citizens of Berlin will be the first "lucky" guinea pigs to experience this highest greeting from industrial civilization on behalf of Tokyoites. The average temperature will be high, and hopefully they will have an unforgettable night.

"I see it. That's the marked area east of Tiergarten Park, the boundary between the government district and the residential area." The bombardier's finger was on the red release button.

"Drop the bombs! Wake up the Hans!"

Berlin, Charlottenburg district.

Kleiman is a radar operator on the air defense tower at the Berlin Zoo.

At this moment, he was sitting in front of the radar screen, holding half a loaf of rye bread, his eyes unfocused as he stared at the machine in the "low" position.

Instruments in "Power Standby" mode.

Thanks to the Wehrmacht's brilliant victories on the Western Front, the spoils plundered from Paris and Brussels temporarily stabilized the country's precarious prices. He no longer needed to exchange carts full of millions of devalued Reichsmarks for a pittance of carbohydrates, as his father had done in the Weimar Republic.

Although this military-grade dark bread, mixed with sawdust, bran, and aged flour, still tasted like a sour cork when chewed, it was, after all, the rations of the "conquerors."

This electronic masterpiece, manufactured by Telefunken, was the most acute eye in the Third Reich's air defense system. Using a 53.6-centimeter wavelength, it could theoretically lock onto enemy aircraft's flight path from 30 kilometers away and guide 88mm anti-aircraft guns to tear them to shreds.

But for the past three months, this expensive machine has been nothing more than a pile of scrap metal that only wastes electricity.

On this green cathode ray tube screen, apart from the occasional static, there are only those annoying "friends"—whether it's a formation of returning He-111 bombers or Messerschmitt fighters training in the nearby airspace, the radar waves reflected back always carry the IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) signature of that "friendly force".

As for the British?

Ha, don't be ridiculous. Those rats hiding on the island wouldn't even dare to step across the English Channel, how could they possibly fly hundreds of kilometers to Berlin?

This daily game of "crying wolf" had long since worn away all his professional sensitivity as a radar operator. In his view, running this delicate vacuum tube radar at full power was purely unnecessary and would only shorten the lifespan of the vacuum tubes.

So, he comfortably turned the knob to "standby," chewing on the hard-to-swallow dark bread while calculating in his mind...

He wondered which bar to go to for a drink after his shift ended tonight. He never imagined that, in a few minutes, this screen, silent for three months, would become a nightmare that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"I heard the British have sent a special envoy to Sweden?" the loader next to him chatted idly while wiping the breechblock of the 88mm anti-aircraft gun. "The war is finally over."

"Who says otherwise?" Kleiman stretched, gazing at the brightly lit Berlin cityscape below the tower. "The Führer was a genius; he brought the British to their knees without firing a single shot. I can go home early tonight; my wife promised to make me roast pork knuckle—"

He didn't finish his sentence.

A deep, rumbling engine sound, unlike any other type of aircraft in the German Air Force, rolled across the clouds like muffled thunder.

At first, Kleiman thought it was a nighttime freight train. But the sound grew more and more intense, carrying a kind of "asynchronous vibration"—the distinctive sound signature of a multi-engine heavy bomber formation.

Kleiman lunged at the radar screen, casually tossing the rye bread onto the ground.

"Damn it! What is that?!"

"Enemy attack!! Enemy attack!!"

Kleiman frantically pressed the red alarm button, his hoarse roar booming through the communication channel: "British! Above us! Right above us!!"

But by then, the Royal Air Force was already overhead, and it was all too late.

The Prime Minister's Office, the Head of State's Office.

Goebbels looked up, puzzled, and listened intently: "Does the Air Force have any night training scheduled for tonight? Hermann didn't mention it to me—"

next second.

"Waaaaah!!"

A sharp, piercing, even slightly mournful air raid siren blared, extremely slowly and abruptly, over Berlin. The sound echoed through the silent night, sounding so absurd, as if mocking the city's arrogance and conceit.

Immediately following was the piercing whistle of an object tearing through the air. It was the death whistle of a heavy object ripping through the air as it fell from a height of three thousand meters.

"boom!!!"

The first heavy bomb did not land in the designated bombing area. Due to the error of nighttime bombing, it landed directly on the edge of Tiergarten Park, less than two kilometers from the Prime Minister's Office.

The loud explosion caused the crystal chandelier in the Prime Minister's Office to shake violently, and the glass made a squeaking sound.

But this is only the beginning.

In the night sky, dozens of Royal Air Force Wellington bombers opened their bomb bays. Countless Mark I incendiary bombs and X-2 napalm bombs, developed by Stirling Heavy Industries, were scattered like a deadly rain of metal by the clusterers.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

This series of muffled sounds was not the deafening explosion of a high-explosive bomb, but rather more like countless huge gasoline barrels being ignited simultaneously.

Sterling Chemicals’ “devilish product” began to show its power.

The gelatinous substance, filled with a mixture of special napalm, rubber, and magnesium powder, was hurled into countless burning fireballs in mid-air. They fell like raindrops, but were heavier and stickier than raindrops.

Unlike the fleeting orange flash of a conventional high-explosive shell.

These flames were thicker and more persistent.

Clumps of sickly yellow gelatinous substance undergo a violent oxidation reaction the moment they come into contact with air, and then evolve into a blinding white light that is impossible to look at directly.

Berlin's buildings are mostly heavy Prussian-style brick and stone structures. Compared to Tokyo, which is full of wood and paper, Berlin should have been a no-go zone for fire and not so suitable for fire attacks.

But Sterling Chemical's "X-2" napalm bomb ignored this material difference.

Instead of shattering the walls with shockwaves, it clung to the granite exterior walls, asphalt roads, and even the steel cladding of roadside trams like parasitic venomous snakes.

The core temperature of 1,200 degrees Celsius instantly caused granite to crack due to intense thermal stress and melted steel like wax. This flame has extremely strong adhesion; water cannot extinguish it, and sand cannot cover it. It flows and spreads along the surface of objects, burning all organic and inorganic matter it can touch into grayish-white residue.

"That's impossible!"

The red and blue pencil in the little mustache's hand fell onto the carpet and broke in two. He rushed to the window and ripped open the heavy curtains.

What came into his view was no longer the peaceful world awaiting his coronation, but a sea of ​​fire burning.

The streets in the distance were engulfed in flames, the fire shooting into the sky and turning Berlin's once-dark sky a blood-red hue. Thick smoke billowed and tumbled in the beams of searchlights, like a menacing black dragon.

Those Englishmen he regarded as "cowards about to surrender," "petty shopkeepers," and "lions on the verge of death" actually dared to launch an attack on Berlin?!

How dare they drop a bomb at the feet of him—the head of the Great Germanic Empire?!

The extreme humiliation of being deceived, mocked, and slapped hard in public instantly overwhelmed Little Mustache's reason.

That damned "diplomatic memorandum"! That damned "hint for peace talks"!

It's all deceptive!

The bearded man's face instantly flushed, turning purplish-red and contorted. He turned around, gripping the corner of the mahogany table tightly with both hands, his entire body trembling violently.

"This is a scam! This is a shameless betrayal!"

The little mustache roared hysterically, his voice shrill and piercing, spitting saliva onto the map on the table: "How dare they! Those beggars! Those rats hiding on the island! How dare they bomb my capital!!"

He stared intently at the eerie, viscous flames outside the window. In his eyes, it wasn't a bombing; it was a corrosive attack on his dignity.

Goebbels stood pale-faced to the side, watching the Führer descend into madness.

As the Minister of Propaganda, he knew better than anyone what this night meant: the myth of the Führer's invincibility, Göring's vow to "change his name to Meyer," was burned to ashes by the British's new incendiary bombs under the watchful eyes of the citizens of Berlin.

"Send the order to Göring!"

The man with the mustache suddenly raised his head, his eyes bloodshot, his voice hoarse like a curse from hell: "I will take revenge! Send out all the bombers! Day and night! I will raze London to the ground! I will sink that island in flames! I will make them pay with their blood for every spark tonight!"

He grabbed the prepared "draft peace agreement" from the table, a document that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had drafted over three sleepless nights, and tore it to shreds, throwing it forcefully into the air.

The white scraps of paper, illuminated by the firelight, resembled funeral paper money from a tragic funeral, slowly drifting down.

"Peace is over! Now comes destruction!"

This chapter is also called "Telecommunications Fraud". Please vote with monthly tickets, recommend, subscribe, and tip.