Midway Island Operation, The First Shot of the Storm (Part Two)

The Black Death Emperor doesn’t react at all to anything happening around him? Watching this, everyone—from General Ross miles away to the assault squad right in front of him—couldn’t help but feel a ridiculous sense of shock.

If we’d known this wave-skipping, godlike guy was just a sleepwalker, we wouldn’t have bothered with all that trouble, right?

But now’s not the time to think about that. No matter what the Chosen Ones working for the U.S. military say, the top brass—like General Ross—never thought catching the Black Death Emperor would be hard because of him. Building the cage is just the tiniest first step; the real show is only just beginning.

Boom! In the distance, gunboats open fire, explosions of thunder and water erupt all around. The U.S. Navy springs into action, each ship on the perimeter responding in its own way—some block with firepower, some shield with their hulls, all out to protect the Black Death Emperor. These massive war machines go full throttle, tracing straight and curved lines. For their size, they’re surprisingly nimble.

Meanwhile, the electronic warfare teams are already duking it out. America’s world-class hacker squad is pulling out all the stops to jam enemy radar locks. If the radar can’t lock on, there’s no way to land a precision strike in today’s war zone.

At the same time, the eight-person Chosen One assault squad doesn’t hesitate either. They move fast, pulling out a bunch of one-meter-square alloy panels from their storage space and snapping them onto the cage with a clang. Whether for protection or capture, these super-alloy panels are a must-have.

“This is supposed to be the world champ?” One of the Chosen Ones squints at the guy in the cage. “He’s just standing there—dead as a doornail.”

Honestly, their strength is nowhere near that level—they can’t even touch it. But those empty eyes make your skin crawl, so after a nervous shiver, they snap all the locks shut, sealing the Black Death Emperor in the box. Four of them underwater press a button on the lower panel, and with a hiss, a bunch of airbags inflate to keep the alloy cage from sinking.

Suddenly, the squad leader snaps to attention, ducks low, and hollers, "Heads up! Evasive maneuvers!"

A wave of murderous intent slashes through the air. It’s so intense, so razor-sharp, that the squad leader feels every hair on his body stand on end.

And it’s not just goosebumps—his teammates are caught up in the chaos too. Before anyone can even process what’s happening, one poor soul’s upper half goes kaboom, chunks flying everywhere like a bad action movie.

Rewind about ten seconds: just after four Chosen Ones burst out of the water, a shadowy figure takes position on the flagship of the Eastern fleet. Dressed in black with a hood hiding their face, all you see is a three-meter-long, ridiculously oversized sniper rifle. The sniper’s gaze slices across the sea. They take a deep breath, steadying themselves for the shot.

Distance: eighteen kilometers.

Conditions: rough waves, high winds.

Visibility: thick mist and rolling waves twist the light, warping everything you see.

Boom—one of the Chosen Ones gets blown to bits, meat confetti spraying almost two hundred meters. Talk about overkill.

“Aaaah!!” The unlucky ones get knocked into the drink by the spinning alloy box, throwing the U.S. squad into total disarray. It’s only after their splashdown that the whistling bullet finally catches up—talk about delayed sound effects.

The bullet flies.

Boom! A tongue of flame shoots five meters from the muzzle, shockwaves blast out in all directions, shaking the air into visible mist. If they hadn’t cleared out the civilians, even the gun’s aftershock would burst their eardrums. The big-caliber bullet rockets out like a mini artillery shell, sending out a shockwave the moment it leaves the barrel.

Eighteen kilometers—for warships, that’s like wrestling in close quarters, basically stabbing each other with knives. But for snipers? Even the best of the best, with top-tier rifles, are lucky to hit a target at two kilometers. Even if a bullet could magically keep its speed and not drop, by the time it crosses eighteen clicks, the party’s over—so nobody even thinks about sniping.

But this bullet? It’s going absolutely nuts, ripping through the air at ten times the speed of sound. The thick, wet sea air puts up a fight, but the massive round is melting, glowing red-hot, streaking like a tracer—like a laser beam straight into the distance. It leaves the sound way behind, crosses the blue ocean, slips through gaps in the U.S. Navy’s defenses, and heads straight for the target.

Killing intent and the attack race together, and the force behind it is even faster than Mach 10. The sharpest Chosen Ones can sense this bone-chilling aura, but their reflexes are nowhere near fast enough to dodge.

Waves, air currents, gravity—everything works against the bullet, but the first impact lands right on the cage holding the Black Death Emperor.

BANG—!!! The super-alloy panel caves and cracks under the insane force, then spins like a wild top in the ocean.

The bullet shatters on impact, splintering into a cloud of metal fragments and molten alloy—like a supercharged shotgun blast at point-blank range. The second hit? That’s aimed right at the Chosen Ones who built the cage.

Boom—a Chosen One’s upper body explodes, flesh sprayed nearly two hundred meters away.

“Aaaah!!” The wounded get knocked into the sea by the spinning alloy box, stalling the U.S. operation. Only after the squad hits the water do they finally hear the endless, piercing whine—the bullet’s sound only now catching up.

“That’s Gaia Blackshot! Top 400 on the Heavenly Ranking—Gaia Blackshot! Can you believe they hired a big gun like that?” The squad leader’s face goes ghost-white. “All units, defensive stance! If Gaia Blackshot’s here, Gat Quickdraw’s probably lurking too!”

He barely gets the words out when a low whistle cuts through the chaos. The Chosen One with the scanner yells, “Torpedoes incoming!”

Dozens of torpedoes zip through the deep, heading straight for the alloy box. The U.S. fleet fires off interceptors—nimble and precise, meeting the torpedoes head-on. Underwater explosions erupt everywhere, sending waves sky-high. The ocean’s deep calm is history.

And now, tendrils of killing intent swirl around—enemy Chosen Ones for sure.

“Forget all that—grab the reinforced alloy wrap and slap it on, stat!” The U.S. Chosen Ones barely pause for breath before bursting out of the water again. The moment they surface, the sky erupts in explosions—interceptors and attackers blowing up mid-air, smoke everywhere.

“Quit sweating the small stuff!” General Ross barks at the fleet, “Step three—Cowboy Operation! Saddle up!”

The sea battle kicks off in a blink—cannons roaring, chaos everywhere. Enemy Chosen Ones pop out of the water, tossing every trick in the book. The U.S. ships jump in, machine guns rattling like popcorn. Some folks pop up, some bite the dust, some just hang on for dear life.

“Move it, move it!”

Any more assassination attempts on the Black Death Emperor won’t be so easy. On the flip side, if they ever want to blow him up, General Ross just has to hit the detonator and that alloy prison turns into a death can in a heartbeat.

At this point, the second phase of the operation is complete.

In the command room, Parfice’s brow furrows. “Gaia Blackshot didn’t use armor-piercing rounds, so they’re here to cause chaos, not carnage. But why did the box just spin in place instead of drifting away after being hit?”

“Forget the small stuff!” General Ross orders the distant fleet, “Step three—Cowboy Operation, go!”

With General Ross’s command, a U.S. assault ship suddenly surges forward, slicing through the waves. It’s small and light, but packed with power, wild speed, and serious agility. After a quick burst, it’s flying at over forty knots, and the special boom at the stern swings out, tossing a hook like a cowboy throwing a lasso.

“Move, move, move!”

Thud-thud-thud—three more U.S. Chosen Ones suddenly spring leaks, courtesy of mystery attacks. The rest pile in, risking life and limb. The squad leader launches himself through the air, wraps the heavy chain tight. The chain whacks him hard—he lets out a grunt, spits blood, but hey, that jump just saved the team fifteen minutes of hassle.

Click—the squad leader latches the hook onto the lock at the top of the box, then yells into the radio, “Let’s roll! Bring in the target—double time!”

The assault ship never lets up—now it’s like a race car with the pedal floored, tearing ahead at full throttle. Every sailor on board is ready to risk it all, charging east through a hail of fire. The ship slices the waves, carving a deep trench in the sea. Even if a dam stood in its path, it’d smash right through.