"Should we go to war with the U.S. military? Hahaha!"
The sound of crazed laughter echoed through the hall. In a huge, luxurious conference room, a group of dignified people sat listening, their expressions anything but pleasant. The room was exquisitely decorated, from the table and chairs to the paintings on the walls—every detail full of meaning. The crowd, mostly middle-aged and older, were clearly worthy of such top-tier surroundings.
Some wore suits, some wore military uniforms; some were unknown, some were famous.
The famous ones would occasionally pop up on CCTV news broadcasts—though only ever in the corner of the frame, usually as followers of the main figures, and never mentioned by name. But put any of them in a slightly less central place, and they'd be treated like gods.
Almost everywhere else, these people were big shots, bosses, VIPs.
But here, their seats were all pushed to the side. Only the less-known ones got to sit in the center.
As a hearing, this meeting was shockingly high-level. The opinions formed here would be summarized and sent straight to the top, becoming crucial support for major national decisions.
And since it's a hearing, someone had to speak up. At the podium stood Cobra, the newly minted national hero and household name, flashing a slightly bizarre smile at the room full of big shots: "After hearing something this interesting, I just have to ask the opposition: Why exactly should we go to war with the U.S. military?"
"Who’s your opposition? Quit messing with me!" Of course, a hearing needs both sides to argue, while the big shots mostly just listened, forming their final opinions from both perspectives. So Cobra had an opponent—a middle-aged man in a military uniform, his chest covered in medals.
He seemed pretty unimpressed with debating Cobra, not even looking at him as he launched into a passionate speech: "The Shanghai Massacre—blood and tears, a stain that will mark history for centuries! Now the whole country is shaken, and the terrorists responsible are about to seek shelter in America. What should we do? For justice, we have to bring him back!"
"Good, good, good—nice use of idioms." Cobra exaggeratedly nodded, pursing his lips and gesturing: "But I think my opponent isn’t done yet, so I’ll graciously let you finish your point."
"Damn, this guy’s as disgusting as a clown!" The soldier clearly couldn’t stand Cobra’s antics. He grumbled loud enough to be heard, then continued: "Even if we don’t talk about justice, we have to talk about national interest. The value of the Black Death Emperor is something all you leaders already know. He’s reached Midway Island—one step further and he’s in Hawaii, right in the U.S. Navy’s power zone!"
"Go on." Cobra checked his watch, totally relaxed. "I’ll give you two more minutes if you need them."
"You—" The soldier, constantly provoked by Cobra, was furious. But he didn’t waste words and continued: "On this eastward journey, the multinational navies have clashed a lot, but because everyone’s holding each other back, no one’s really committed—most attacks are just probing. Testing America’s strength, testing the other countries’ intentions. Nobody’s showing their real hand. But now, this is the last chance—if we don’t act, it’ll be almost impossible to get the Black Death Emperor back! If America gets him, the consequences will be unimaginable!"
The big shots in the audience exchanged glances, silently trading thoughts. Some seemed a little tempted.
But at that moment, Cobra cut in: "You said it beautifully, but pardon my ignorance—I’d like to ask what exactly you mean by ‘get back’? Are you saying the Black Death Emperor used to belong to you, or to ‘us’?"
The soldier’s eyebrows shot up, ready to explode, but Cobra quickly interjected: "Don’t get mad, don’t get mad, no offense meant. As far as I know, you and your troops did a pretty good job."
Hearing that, the soldier calmed down a bit.
"You and your boys managed to get the Black Death Emperor out of the country, into the U.S. military’s sphere of influence, and made every other country think ‘we’ really wanted him back. That acting was top-notch! I don’t think I could pull it off even at sixty percent effort, so you did great, really great." Cobra clapped enthusiastically, shaking his head in admiration. "Absolutely breathtaking!"
"You!" The soldier slammed the table, about to leap up in anger, but one of the senior officials at the head of the table immediately stopped them. "No pointless arguments. Director Yan, just tell us what you think."
Cobra stood up, spreading his hands: "My view is simple: what we should be discussing today isn’t whether to go to war with America—because we don’t need to go to war at all. Get the Black Death Emperor back? Hahaha, that’s an even bigger joke—why bother? Sure, he’s valuable, but aside from that, has anyone noticed the danger? Want another round of Shanghai fog? We’ve still got three big cities left—Beijing, Guangzhou, Shenzhen—maybe we can have three more disasters for fun!"
The senior officials’ expressions shifted; each was deep in thought.
"Just like I said, our navy’s biggest achievement was fooling the whole world. War? Let whoever wants to fight, fight—this war is meaningless. Snatch the Black Death Emperor? Let whoever wants him, have him—he’s no hot commodity." Cobra stepped down from his seat, speaking like a seasoned orator: "I think what we need now is another performance."
One of the senior officials asked gravely, "What kind of performance?"
"A performance like—‘We absolutely have to get the Black Death Emperor back! Ah, the Americans stole him!’ ‘Give us back the Black Death Emperor, give us back our sovereignty! Give us back the Black Death Emperor, give us back our dignity!’ ‘China issues a stern statement, strongly condemning America’s shameless actions.’ ‘To address the growing anti-terror crisis, China and Russia will hold joint naval exercises in the East China Sea.’—and all sorts of nonsense like that. The name of this play? Operation Plague God."
Cobra pressed his palms together like a monk, glaring with his one good eye at all the senior officials, enunciating each word: "Let America be the fool who tries to use a summoning card on the Black Death Emperor. This god isn’t so easily sent away with a banishment card. If he wants to run east across the ocean, we should be burning incense and building temples to thank him—he’s done ‘us’ a huge favor."
"Utter nonsense!" The soldier was furious, slamming the table as he stood up. "I admit those so-called Chosen Ones have some tricks, but you’re just a coward, a scaredy-cat, a gutless mouse! So what if he’s an ancient with a few magic tricks? We’ve got plenty of weirdos in the army—if we’re prepared, how much trouble can he cause?"
"Oh, I knew I’d hear this kind of genius take: ‘The Black Death Emperor isn’t a big deal,’ ‘Chosen Ones are overrated,’ and so on. Just as I expected." Cobra retorted sarcastically, "If you don’t even understand how strong your enemy is, you call yourself an officer? Better go home, eat some crap, and fill that empty skull—don’t come out here and ruin the country."
"Screw you!" The hotheaded soldier couldn’t take it anymore, his anger boiling over as he rolled up his sleeves, ready to fight.
But the most senior official suddenly slammed the table with a bang, shouting, "Enough! This is a matter of national importance—no childish games!"
The white-haired old general roared, instantly restoring order. His authority was palpable as he turned to a screen and asked, "Major Sting, what do you think?"
On screen, Xiao Jingzhe appeared. He was silent for a moment, clearly weighing countless thoughts, but finally answered with steady conviction: "Black Death Emperor—he’s beyond us."
The big shots’ faces changed.
"America can’t handle him either."
The big shots’ faces changed again.
"Got it. You’re dismissed." The old general waved and turned off the screen, decision made: "Meeting adjourned!"
After the meeting, in a secret base, Cobra returned to his lair. An attendant handed him sour lemons, and Cobra casually munched on the ultra-sour fruit, looking completely relaxed and content: "Whew... gotta hold the line. Can’t let a world war break out—at least not a direct fight between China, America, and Russia."
He spun around in his swivel chair, arms behind his head, eyes closed, totally at ease: "Otherwise, when am I ever going to get that promotion and fortune?"
The attendant asked quietly, "Boss, China’s situation is manageable, but what about Russia, Japan, or North Korea? If America and Russia go to war, China can’t stay out of it, right? Whether we want to or not, we’ll get dragged in."
"That’s not our problem. We just need to make sure China doesn’t get mixed up in the mess. As for the other countries, let ‘other people’ handle it."
"Other people?" The attendant caught the loaded phrase. "Boss, do you mean... the Zade Family?"
Cobra’s gaze turned subtle. "Basically, yes."
The attendant was surprised. "They’re really that powerful? Able to influence decisions of top nations? Control the world’s wars and peace?"
"Influence the situation? Heh, the Zade Family is way more formidable than you think! But forget them for now—we don’t have to worry about the Zade Family yet. Old Zade’s got plenty of people who hate him. What we should be worried about is—" Cobra’s one good eye suddenly turned sharp and cold, like a snake ready to strike: "Our Major Sting."