Whoosh—a ripple of invisible space swept across the Earth again, but this time, things were different. The twenty-five-meter-tall giant vanished in the blink of an eye, yet that spatial surge couldn't penetrate the Black Death Emperor's domain. It was as if the Black Death Emperor's very presence suppressed all dimensional chaos. Standing beside him, Jill Young was also untouched by the wave.
"Eh? That's awesome!" A cartoon lightbulb popped up above Jill Young's head as she suddenly had a bright idea. "Hey, Old Black, how about you come with me to ultraspace? If you come, I'll treat you to something delicious!" She conjured a pearl-like treasure in her hand, trying to tempt the god in front of her: "You've been sleeping for nearly two thousand years—aren't you hungry? Have a genuine Meat Pill! Meat Pill, wipes out hunger and helps you be yourself again."
If I can trick this big guy into leaving, then the world is my oyster—if I want to fly, I’ll fly; if I want to get swole, I’ll get swole. Nature cult leader? More like cumin cult leader! Mage? Come on, let this totally ordinary little sprite trainer show you a thing or two.
Black Death Emperor, get in my Master Ball!
But the trainer dream was instantly shattered.
The Black Death Emperor glanced at the Meat Pill, then turned away expressionlessly. He seemed uninterested in talking to Jill Young any further and floated off, continuing toward the New Eastern Continent.
"Whoa, that speed! Hey, don’t go! If you don’t like the taste, I can whip up a different flavor. We could even do hot pot Meat Pills!" Jill Young was about to try again when—whoosh—the second spatial surge swept through. In a flash, Jill Young vanished, sucked into the depths of space just like the giant. The big bosses were gone, leaving all the underlings behind on the Pacific battlefield.
Meanwhile, in the distant aircraft carrier command center, the bearded commander stared at the radar’s calculated speed, his face ashen.
"Get me the President."
The highest-level secure encrypted line was connected, and the President of the United States appeared on the screen.
The President's face was stone cold. "I want to hear some good news."
"Mr. President, I'm afraid there's nothing good. The Black Death Emperor has officially launched an attack on our forces. And he's speeding up. At his current rate, he'll be on United States soil in twenty minutes." The general yanked off his cap, looking like a dead man. "I have to admit, our conventional weapons are useless against him. If I can't protect the United States, I'll take full responsibility for this defeat."
"Enough with the useless talk!" The President on screen was livid, suddenly whipping his head to shout off-camera, "Get that hearing started—results in three minutes! Stop debating whether to use it, start debating how to use it! We spent a fortune developing the ultimate weapon, and it's not just going to sit in a warehouse collecting dust! The United States is the strongest nation on Earth, the brightest beacon of human civilization. We will never surrender. We will fight to the end!"
Thirty seconds later, General Ross and Parvis at the hearing received instructions from the White House, along with confirmation that the Black Death Emperor had officially attacked the US.
"We're in crisis mode now. It may sound like something a dictator would do, but there's no time for bureaucracy—vote now!" The Defense Secretary, chairing the hearing, spoke sternly: "Raise your hand if you agree to use the ultimate weapon."
The room was silent. General Ross was the first to raise his hand.
His hand, spotted with age, was raised high—steady, unwavering, stubbornly firm.
One hand led to another. People glanced around, then one by one, hands went up.
And finally, the big boss at the front—the Secretary of the Army—slowly raised his hand too.
"Good. At least the Joint Chiefs are unified. This decision will go straight to the White House, and if anything goes wrong, I'll take the fall first." The Defense Secretary was rock-solid: "Now, let's figure out how to use this ultimate weapon. Get some experts in here—we're running out of time."
[Choice]
Destiny comes from choices.
America made its choice, and that will shape its destiny.
Destiny acts on choices.
The reason the United States made this choice is tied to its history, culture, character, policies, and ways of thinking.
If history could be rewritten, would the United States make a different choice right now?
Nobody knows. Absolutely nobody.
But sometimes, a choice isn’t random. No matter how many times you rerun it, it’s nearly impossible to change. That kind of unstoppable force is called the tide of the times. The tide sweeps up everything, and for big, important things—especially the ones with massive momentum—the outcome is pretty much set in stone.
That’s the scariest, most irresistible kind of destiny.
If destiny is all just natural evolution, then fine—whatever happens, happens.
But the real nightmare is when, behind all these world-shaking waves, there’s someone pulling the strings.
China. Mount Emei. Golden Summit.
In a quiet, remote little temple, Quentin Koon was gnawing on his fingers nonstop.
Crunch, crunch—the nails were chewed jagged. At this altitude, Golden Summit is freezing, and since it’s the dead of winter, no amount of down jackets or coats helps; you’ll still be shivering. But Quentin was sweating buckets, steaming like a sauna.
In front of him, on a battered square table, sat forty-nine big-screen smartphones, lined up perfectly. There was no fancy wiring, but somehow they all worked together like a mega monitor wall. A massive, never-before-seen divination was running on those forty-nine screens; the phones were shaking like crazy, as if they might jump right off the table any second—even though there wasn’t an earthquake.
Staring at the divination on the screens, Quentin Koon held back and held back, but finally couldn’t help yelling toward the back room: "Hey, hey, hey! This looks seriously bad! You still not coming out? If we team up, maybe we can fix this!"
But the back room was dead silent. Not only was there no answer, there wasn’t even a hint of a living soul.
"Alright, alright, ignoring me, huh? You’ve got your reasons, I’ll keep my cool, I’ll keep my cool... Who am I kidding? Like I could possibly keep my cool! Whether I can save my master, whether I can save the world—it all comes down to today!" Quentin rummaged through his travel bag and suddenly whipped out a giant tablet.
The tablet showed the same divination, still morphing and shifting. Quentin kept comparing the two sets of symbols, muttering nervously: "We can make it, we should make it—looks like there’s still a sliver of hope. Girl, I’m giving you the Patchwork Map, so I’m betting everything on you. You’ve gotta make it, you just have to."
Deep in hyperspace, Tiberius Laboratory, second tier, in the Conjecture Lane—Dream Monroe suddenly looked up, as if sensing something.
Time is running out.