I created the Old Gods and Outer Gods in America.

Douglas looked at the numbers on his phone and counted them over and over again.

Five hundred thousand US dollars.

He sat on the edge of the bed in that dilapidated rented room, the light from his phone screen reflecting on his face, his lips trembling uncontrollably—not out of fear, but out of excitement.

The cleaning team leader earns a monthly salary of 4,200.

A bottle of dark green liquid, less than ten milliliters, costs 500,000.

He had never seen so many zeros in his life.

So when the battle between superhumans broke out at Blue Shield Insurance Company, while everyone else was running in the opposite direction, Douglas rushed forward.

Persistence pays off, and he actually found a bullet with Lucas's blood on it.

He didn't care at all whether this thing was useful or not; all he knew was that it was extremely valuable!

After bringing the bullet home, he meticulously collected all the bloodstains on it into a small bottle.

Looking at the liquid in the small bottle, Douglas felt his breathing become rapid.

"The quantity is much smaller this time, but it doesn't matter, we can still earn 300,000."

After calming his excitement, Douglas began thinking about the next buyer.

He's already thinking about who to sell it to.

That bodybuilding buyer from last time, what was his name again... Northel Mundo? Yes, Northel!

That guy never contacted him again after making the purchase. What does that mean?

This proves his idea is correct; he doesn't need to worry about any after-sales issues when selling to the bodybuilding industry!

This time, I'll find someone in the bodybuilding industry, cash on delivery, buy it, use it, and then it's gone. We'll be complete strangers.

However, before he could open his contacts, his phone rang.

Caller ID: Northel.

Upon seeing the name, Douglas's mind went blank for a moment. Could it be that he hadn't been stabbed to death and was now seeking after-sales service?

After thinking for a few seconds, Douglas answered the phone.

"Hey Doug, it's Arnold. Do you still have that kind of drug from last time?"

The voice on the other end of the phone was full of energy, sounding unusually good.

"After I got the injection, my condition was absolutely amazing. I doubled my training volume and didn't feel tired at all. My recovery speed was frighteningly fast. Even the side effects of the injections I used to have were gone. I have already swept the champion of the natural group."

Douglas's Adam's apple bobbed.

They hit them!

He really did hit him!

Suddenly, fragments of conversation I'd overheard while cleaning up the site flashed through my mind—the words those people in white coats were saying in hushed tones: "dilution injection," "rejection reaction," "all the test subjects died."

All died.

To be on the safe side, the authorities injected them with diluted blood, and none of them survived.

This guy used the same kind of stuff, undiluted, and poured it directly into his body, and he's still alive?

At that moment, Douglas felt a sense of absurdity, as if he were talking to a dead man.

"You...you hit all the ones I gave you?" His voice trembled slightly.

"How could that be? I do all-natural fitness; I don't even take protein powder."

"What about the medicine I gave you?"

"I hit him."

Douglas fell silent.

Is this what top-tier bodybuilding talent looks like?

"So, is there anything else? The price is negotiable." Northel's tone was urgent.

"have."

Douglas swallowed hard, his greed growing rapidly.

"But this time the price has increased."

......

The fifth day after the Blue Shield incident.

The official announcement confirmed the existence of two "special collaborators".

Instead of using the term "superhuman," they used a very official description: "federal employees with special law enforcement capabilities."

Morrison's codename: Punisher Bird.

Corbyn's codename: Big Bird.

The official propaganda machine was in full swing. The footage of Morrison punching open the entrance during the Blue Shield incident was edited into a promotional video, accompanied by the Stars and Stripes and rousing background music, and played on a loop on major mainstream media outlets.

Corbyn's story is even more dramatic; the authorities even created a poster for him, featuring a man in a bodysuit standing on ruins against a backdrop of a burning city skyline, with the caption: "Justice is never absent."

On social media, topics related to "punishment bird" and "big bird" surged to the top of the trending search list across all platforms within 48 hours.

Whether it's X or TikTok, the first video you see when you enter the platform is almost always related to them.

But public opinion is never in only one direction.

The previous gambling was too big, with a total turnover of hundreds of billions of dollars. Some people became rich overnight, while others lost everything.

Those who win the bet naturally sing praises, but what about those who lose? They need a scapegoat.

The online flame war has been raging for three days and three nights on various forums and social media platforms, with no sign of abating.

[That scene where the Punishing Bird punched Lucas into the ceiling was really cool; I watched it twenty times.]

[Cool my foot! Without those annoying helicopters, Lucas would have torn him to shreds long ago.]

[Stop talking about the big bird. This guy held off Eddie for three minutes by himself. He didn't win, but he didn't die either.]

[Didn't win? He didn't even scratch the other guy! This guy calls himself a superhero? That's hilarious!]

[I bet $50,000 on the Retribution Bird to get the first kill. This bastard has been fighting for ages and can't even kill a single person. Just die already!]

[Without the Retribution Bird causing trouble, Lucas would have wiped out everyone at Blue Shield Insurance Company long ago! My money! Fuck!]

Amidst this chaos, one ID stands out for its remarkably high frequency of appearance.

He cursed Morrison, Corbyn, Lucas, Eddie, the FBI, insurance companies, everyone.

Every reply was filled with the purest malice, devoid of any stance or logic, only anger.

Finally, someone couldn't help but reply to him:

Hey bro, why are you insulting everyone? I've seen your ID several times. What are you betting on that allows you to attack everyone indiscriminately?

I bet your mother!

Jon sneezed as he huddled under a highway overpass in southeast Washington.

The night wind blew in through the bridge arch, carrying the damp, rotten smell of garbage.

He was lying on two layers of cardboard, and covered with a blanket he had gotten from the relief station, but the blanket was too thin to keep out the cold.

His left eye socket was still bruised; it was from a homeless man who beat him up three days ago. The reason for the beating was simple: he had taken someone else's spot.

Even underpasses have their own territory.

He didn't know this rule, so he got beaten.

Jon held the phone up to his eyes; the screen's light illuminated his haggard face. The battery was down to nine percent, and the signal was intermittent.

His Chevrolet Cruze, along with his apartment with a 30-year mortgage, were reduced to ruins that day, and the insurance company was also wiped out.

Even if you lose the house, the bank loan won't disappear. If you can't repay the loan, your credit will collapse.

My credit score collapsed, I failed the company's background check, and I was fired during my probation period.

I lost my job, my car, my house, and my savings.

Just a month ago, he felt that his life was full of hope.

"Fuck you!"

Yorn turned off his phone, clenched his fist in the darkness, and slammed it hard against the bridge pier.

The cement surface scratched his knuckles, and blood seeped out, but he didn't feel it.

He hammered it again.

Another one.

"Dog shit superhuman..."

"Dog shit insurance company..."

"Bullshit superheroes..."

His voice echoed in the empty bridge arch, but no one answered.

Yorn finally stopped, his knuckles covered in blood, and slid down to the ground against the bridge pier, the back of his head against the cold cement.

He was really tired.

He closed his eyes.

Sleepiness came quickly, like a tide, overwhelming him without warning.

In the last instant before his consciousness sank into darkness, a strange voice appeared in his ear.

No, it's not sound, because sound is heard through the ears.

The sound bypassed his ears and appeared directly deep within his brain.

It was a very strange whisper.