The passages of the battle fortress stretched in all directions, just like the tunnels dug to fight off invaders during the war. Jonathan Black led John Yang and Charlie through these underground corridors. At first glance, the place seemed deserted, echoing with a chilly, sinister air. But as a seasoned veteran, Charlie instantly sensed the lurking danger in the atmosphere—a killing intent, held at bay but ready to strike.
Something terrifying was hidden deep within these tunnels. If the power lurking down there ever erupted, it could shake the whole world.
"Has the situation really gotten this bad?" Charlie asked bluntly.
"It really has," Jonathan Black replied. "The Queen has gathered every bit of fighting power she could and stationed it here. Time was short, but a lot of thought went into the setup. If anyone dares attack, they’ll be facing the collective elite forces of Eternal Night Holdings Group."
The collective elite forces of Eternal Night Holdings Group?
John Yang frowned. He didn’t know exactly what kind of power that meant, but he was sure it was something serious. If even his daughter—usually so casual—had pulled out every available team, things were clearly worse than he’d imagined. Now he finally understood why she was so worked up. Feeling a bit guilty, he asked, "So what’s really going on? Weren’t things fine back when you were in London and Dubai?"
"That was then, this is now. Back then, it felt like a vacation. But you probably don’t know—the world’s on the edge of a cliff now." Jonathan Black lowered his voice and said, "America just opened fire on the Black Death Emperor."
Black Death Emperor? Who’s that? John Yang’s eyes wandered—clearly, he didn’t know much. But Charlie’s eyes narrowed sharply, and his usually stoic face suddenly collapsed into shock. He blurted out, "What?! The US military fired at the Black Death Emperor?!"
That’s like Mars colliding with Earth!
To Charlie, this was earth-shattering news—like the end of the world. How had he not heard a single whisper about it?
The US military locked down the news, and every country in the world played along—nobody’s leaked a word to the media. But our Eternal Night Holdings Group intel network? Already on it. Four days ago, we got a tip, and four hours later, hard evidence. Five days back, the US President signed off: the Navy was ordered to open fire on the Black Death Emperor. Eight minutes later, the first official strike went down." Jonathan handed them a tablet. "Check it out."
Charlie snatched the tablet and hit play, while John Yang leaned in, curious to see what kind of monster this Black Death Emperor really was.
As soon as the video started, John Yang’s pupils shrank—just like Charlie’s earlier. Both of them were totally caught off guard.
You could tell the camera gear was top-shelf—zoomed in from way off and still got a clear shot. But it was obviously shot on the sly, shaky as heck, and the footage was chopped up like crazy. All the prep and orders were gone; from the first second, it was pure chaos.
Autocannons, all blazing away at once.
Eight destroyers circled the target from afar, fire control locked in. Multi-barrel guns poked out from armored shields, spinning up hard. All together, thirty-two ship-mounted autocannons zeroed in on a blurry shadow on the water. The shadow didn’t care—didn’t dodge, didn’t fight back—just let the mortals line up their shots.
At the commander’s order, all thirty-two autocannons opened fire at once.
The noise was unreal—like a hundred jackhammers going off at once. Bullets poured in from thirty-two directions, swallowing up the shadow. The ocean around it even dipped from the force. If those rounds were water, it’d be like thirty-two fire hoses blasting one spot. The attack density was insane. Every second, almost five hundred kilos of bullets slammed into that patch of sea—a kind of overkill you’d never see in basic tactics, just pure, reckless saturation.
Look closer and it’s wild—endless metal streaks toward one figure, covering the shadow in seconds. The first fragments hadn’t even hit the water before the next wave of bullets slammed them right back in. The energy brought crazy heat—special armor-piercing rounds softened from the insane temps, even though they were built to handle it.
Then came the spectacle: around the shadow, a shell formed from all the flattened, shattered bullets, thickening, glowing red, and melting in just a few heartbeats. Armor-piercing rounds gave off wisps of yellow smoke that shot skyward like a signal flare, while the ocean hissed and steamed. The mix of steam and smoke quickly blocked everything out, leaving only splashes of molten red light bursting like fireworks that never stopped.
Even weapons experts had never seen anything like this. No target should ever be hit with thirty-two autocannons at once, and nothing should survive that kind of pounding.
But that shadow—the Black Death Emperor—he did.
After three straight minutes of nonstop fire, all thirty-two autocannons finally went silent. In the swirling yellow smoke, the shadow calmly reappeared. Bits and pieces flaked off, sinking into the bottomless sea, but the Black Death Emperor—he didn’t even react.
Not even a mosquito bite—at least a mosquito would make you itch, maybe slap it away. The Black Death Emperor didn’t show a single sign he’d noticed. Those firehose-like bullets? Might as well have been a gentle breeze—couldn’t even make him blink.
[SKIPPED: Meta passage]
You couldn’t see much, but you could definitely hear the videographer let out a low, stunned gasp he just couldn’t hold back.
And then—bam—the video just cut off.
John Yang and Charlie were totally shell-shocked. Like, brains on pause.
"That was just the first wave the US military launched five days ago. Our intel says it was basically a test run—to see how the Black Death Emperor handled kinetic weapons. After that, America was all in. Over the last five days, they’ve thrown everything at him—railguns, sonic weapons, microwave beams, amplitude waves, lasers, even crazy stuff like close-contact super-high-voltage shocks. So far? Zilch. Nothing’s worked. America’s tried it all."
"This is practically a world war, except the other side isn’t fighting back. But that doesn’t make America feel any safer—the Black Death Emperor is still heading east, and after the attack, he’s even speeding up. It’s got everyone in Washington on edge."
"Today, in about two hours, the Black Death Emperor is expected to cross the Pacific and land on the US West Coast. If his route’s right, he’ll hit Los Angeles—America’s second biggest city. It’s like the whole country’s staring at a slow-motion guillotine: you can’t dodge, you can’t block it, you can’t even break it, all you can do is watch your head inch closer to the blade. The mental pressure is driving the US government nuts."
"And right at this critical moment, we gotta deal with the world’s scariest family syndicates, plus we’re officially enemies with at least one top-eight ranked super fighter. The Queen put out a mobilization order, and that’s why just about every heavy hitter we could muster is here. Except for Xiao Jingzhe, who’s off in another world and out of contact, every Chosen One you know is gathered." Jonathan pointed ahead. "Look, they’re all right there. Should be everyone."
The corridor ended up front, opening into a big, octagonal hall. Inside, shadows flickered everywhere. John Yang scanned the place and spotted a bunch of familiar faces—and plenty he didn’t know, busy polishing bizarre weapons or tweaking gear that looked straight out of a comic book. No doubt about it: these folks were all Chosen Ones.
"Master Yang, you’re here, come sit!" Rainy Luo was the first to greet him. She hadn’t been around for a few days, and she seemed sharper than ever. Her hardcore crew trailing behind her all radiated that elite, battle-ready vibe.
From a distance, there were at least a hundred people packed into the hall, with more weaving through the corridors. The air was thick with killer intent—every glance from these pros could send a regular person running for cover. The tension was so real you could almost taste it.
Right in the middle of the hall, the floor was etched with some wild patterns—no clue which mad geniuses made those, but at least three different styles were all tangled together. And there was Su Muhua, standing dead center, while a couple of female Chosen Ones helped her suit up in some seriously high-tech armor.
Su Muhua slipped on the gloves, flexed her fingers, stretched a bit, then nodded to the women helping her—she was good to go. She looked every bit the part: fierce, stylish, like a Yang family general leading the charge.
Watching his wife like this, John Yang felt like he barely recognized her.
"What’s that?"
"Oh, that? That’s custom armor for Mom." Maybe feeling a little guilty for roasting Dad earlier, Jill Young came over to explain: "The main piece is actually an old set of mech hunter pilot gear I used to have. It got shredded in a space-time storm ages ago, so I kept it as a souvenir. Turns out, it’s still usable, so I patched it up, modded it a bunch of times, and now it should be pretty handy."
"Modded?" More new words—John Yang felt like he was getting swept away by the tide of the times.