A day in heaven, a year on earth. If you use this phrase to describe the timelines of the myriad worlds, it’s not quite accurate—because the passage of time across worlds isn’t proportional or synchronized, but tangled and interwoven. Still, Earth is, so far, the slowest world discovered when it comes to the flow of time.
Since the reinforcements set out, more than a month has passed in Middle-earth. But on Earth, since the Black Death Emperor began his second eastward march, only three days have gone by. In these three days, murderous intent has erupted over the Pacific, and every country's general staff has piled their desks high with contingency plans. Flip through these plans and you’ll find some are cautious, some exaggerated, some downright insane, and some are just plain bizarre.
Phrases like "all-out war," "nuclear conflict," and "doomsday weapons" are everywhere—enough to make your skin crawl. Some of the evacuation plans even include wild ideas like "let the entire population hide in bomb shelters."
Are these plans just a bunch of worrywarts overreacting?
Maybe the people drafting these plans have gotten a bit neurotic in the suddenly extreme international climate, but that doesn’t mean the plans are completely ridiculous. This is a conflict that’s caught every country off guard—no one feels prepared, and no one thinks now is the perfect time for war.
Still, that doesn’t mean the fight won’t happen.
Right now, the world is at a turning point—global powers are about to get reshuffled. At a moment like this, no one dares to rush in, but no one’s backing down either. What stands between seven billion people and World War III is really just one simple calculation—
Is it worth it, or not?
It’s an eternal question—every decision-maker weighs it before making any choice. But as the times keep changing and technology keeps advancing, the ways and channels for announcing the results of those calculations have become more and more unpredictable.
In a world shrouded in chaos and obscurity, an altar floats in midair. There’s no roof, no walls—just a rocky ground carved with deep, intricate patterns. But the massive altar radiates a solemn, oppressive aura at all times, making any mortal who sets foot here instinctively bow down, unable to resist revering some supreme authority.
No front, no back, no left, no right—just a chaotic world with a circular rocky floor and towering black stone pillars all around. Twelve pillars in total, pitch-black and heavy, stretching up from the infinite depths of chaos, encircling The Altar like a gloomy jury.
Crack! A beam of heavenly light slices through the chaotic clouds above, falling from an unfathomable height and illuminating the top of one pillar. There, a lavish throne appears, and upon it sits a figure radiating authority. You can't quite make out the face, but the air of life-and-death power is unmistakable.
Crack-crack-crack! More beams of light shoot down from the chaos, spotlighting the tops of the pillars. In the end, seven pillars are bathed in light. Seven vague, shadowy figures sit on thrones, looking down at The Altar—and at the lone person standing on it.
The man is tall and muscular, a living Greek statue with every line carved to perfection. This is none other than Patrick Zade.
A voice booms from the void—who knows which of the seven is speaking, but it shakes the chaos with its magnitude: "Proposal 49071, after majority board discussion, is hereby resolved: Patrick Zade, for critical errors in judgment, wasting multiple bioweapons, and causing significant losses to the family and corporation. The Pantheon has concluded that Patrick Zade lacks the necessary competence. Regarding his application for the position of General Agent of the American Group, the decision is: Denied."
"Denied?! Something that should've been a done deal, and you clowns actually shot it down?" Patrick Zade grinds his steel teeth and clenches his fist, pointing rudely as he thunders, "Old Parker's kidneys have given out, he's done for! Look across the whole family—besides me, who else can take this job? Who else can handle those idiots in the US military and wrangle the Pentagon's pack of bastards?"
"This has nothing to do with your application—but since you asked, here's the scoop." The voice in the void turns playful, and the seven figures' eyes flash with mockery: "After thorough research by The Pantheon, the new General Agent for the American Group will be your sister—Phyllis Zade."
Whoosh—a beam of light drops from the void, landing on The Altar. As the glow fades, Phyllis stands there, her red hair drifting gently and her flame-like eyes utterly calm. She bows precisely to the twelve pillars, every movement robotic and flawless, like a well-oiled machine.
"What?! Phyllis?!" Patrick Zade shouts in disbelief. "You're letting her replace me? Of all the possible choices, you pick this... this thing to take my spot?"
Phyllis, the one being pointed at, remains unfazed. She continues her slow, flawless bow to the twelve stone pillars, never even glancing at him.
A voice from the void, cold and mocking: "That's right, it's her."
"This is outrageous!" Patrick acts like he's been slapped in the face, turning beet red, hair practically standing on end. He snarls at Phyllis, teeth bared: "That—that's just a glorified sex doll! What, did she serve you so well you all shot your brains out?"
"Enough! Watch your mouth, Patrick Zade!" The void's voice explodes like a thunderstorm, rumbling through the chaos.
"Watch your dad's duodenum!" Patrick is on fire, totally losing it. "Don't think I won't punch both your mom's fallopian tubes at once!"
"That's it! Expel him!" Whoosh—a beam of heavenly light drops onto Patrick Zade, clearly someone has had enough of his trash talk.
[Skipped: Standard web novel continuation notice.]
"Oh, so you think you can just kick me out after humiliating me? Hiding behind your fancy pillars!" The expulsion takes a moment, so Patrick's voice still echoes, shaking the entire chaotic space: "You bunch of gutless cowards! If you ever show your faces, I'll shove my left fist down your throat and my right fist up your—well, you get the idea. Then I'll play your dirty insides like an accordion!"
Whoosh! The light shoots skyward, vanishing into the clouds of chaos, and Patrick Zade disappears in an instant. Right up to the last second, he's spewing curses at breakneck speed: "You freaks with your twisted kinks! You dog-faced bastards! You limp losers who can only play with dolls—!!"
His curses echo, ripple, and fade in the chaos. The seven figures' chests heave—despite the glowing halos, it's clear their faces look like they've just bitten into a lemon.
"A bastard is a bastard, no manners at all." "One day, he'll get what's coming to him." "Can't blame him—he fought so hard for so long, only to get cut off at the last second. Of course he's bitter." "But mouthing off in The Pantheon? That's a first. He needs to be taught a lesson!" The voices rise and fall in the void, the seven figures all chiming in.
They don't care that Phyllis is standing right there; it's like she's invisible as they all rant about Patrick Zade. Phyllis couldn't care less, either—after her bow, she stands perfectly still, not looking up or down, her red eyes as calm as a pond.
Eventually, someone voices concern: "Folks, Patrick Zade is still one of the top young guns. His spot in the succession line could keep rising, and who knows, he might end up on our level. The guy's famous for being reckless and hotheaded—are we sure he won't come back for revenge?"
"Every time we pass a resolution he doesn't like, he throws a fit. No worries—he's just barking like a stray mutt." One of them shrugs. "Besides, getting a seat at The Pantheon isn't so easy. If you don't know how to show respect, you'll never get ahead. We came first, he came later, so he'll always be under our boots—forever."
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh! Seven beams of light shoot up, vanishing into the clouds of chaos. Not a single one of them bothers to say a word to Phyllis. Silence falls, leaving only the swirling chaotic air and one woman who hasn't spoken a word. Her eyes burn red as fire, cold as ice—no one knows what she's thinking.
Meanwhile, in a spacious hall, the virtual reality scene dissolves into specks of light. Patrick Zade returns from the digital world to his own room. But the guy who was just red-faced and cursing up a storm now sits calmly, sipping his wine—no sign of rage anywhere.
Creak—the hall door opens, and the old butler walks in, bowing respectfully: "Sir, it looks like everything went just as you expected?"
"Yep, those old geezers did everything they could to block me and humiliate me. Which just proves they're scared." Patrick Zade's eyes flash cold steel: "They're old, they're rotten, they've forgotten what made the Zade family great. Scheming is just circus tricks. Real power—that's the crown of a true ruler!"
Crack! He squeezes his glass, shattering it in his hand. He leaps up, eyes burning with resolve—the family elders' decision has pushed him over the edge: "That guy, did he agree?"
"Sir, he's interested in working with you, but he wants to confirm one thing: Is your value high enough for what you want?"
"Ha! My value? What a joke!" Patrick Zade yanks open a cabinet, revealing seven test tubes lined up, each one glowing a different color of the rainbow. He grabs the red one, eyes wild: "Give him this, and he'll realize—there's no other choice but me."
The old butler bows: "Yes, sir."
"And what about him? How does he plan to prove his own worth?"
"He said you'll see soon enough."
—Meanwhile, over the Pacific, in the 'anti-terror military exercise' zone, a mysterious fog begins to gather...