Chapter 315: U.S. Forces Deploy

Ai Lin's eardrum was suddenly flooded with the morning prayers of three hundred languages. When she realized she could actually distinguish each dialect, Juan Ce Long's vertical pupils reflected the neural pulses on her retina.

"Skip the ridiculous translation ceremony." "The dragon's sound waves are directly etched into the temporal cortex, and the recorder in Dan's hand sparks," "I am the ferryman of the torrent of knowledge; you should be grateful for this blessing."

Ai Lin's military manual slipped from her pocket, and the confidentiality clause on the yellowed pages was automatically translating into Phoenician letters. She pressed her temples to resist the information flood: "What do you need?"

Juan Ce Long's violet double eyes flickered with a cold hue: "Seek the forgotten one's final cage." The dragon's claw lightly tapped the void, and the façades of five city blocks simultaneously projected holographic terrains: a nuclear bunker, a Maya pyramid, and a Soviet‑style tube apartment, flashing in turn.

Dan's press badge suddenly seeped ink, turning into a real‑time updating world map; Ai Lin understood that the creature was searching for a location whose characteristics it itself did not even know.

Three hundred red dots were randomly leaping across the North American continent. As Ai Lin repeated the information over an encrypted satellite phone, she heard the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs' breathing change: "Ask it. Ask that thing—what can the United States gain?"

In the airflow stirred by the dragon's wings, Ai Lin's hair fluttered; she swallowed, feeling her heartbeat racing.

"Sir, humanity needs something more concrete."

"Choice?" Juan Ce Long's snort triggered an EMP shockwave, and the instrument panels of all armored vehicles displayed garbled code.

"When an anthill faces a flood, the ones that need to think are never the ants."

Ai Lin's retina suddenly burned with pain, and she saw twelve futures split before her eyes: the President signing a loyalty pact in a White House bunker, the Pentagon turning into an emerald library, and the geysers of Yellowstone erupting in unison.

"Tell your master—" The dragon's claw pierced the plaza tiles, and the Manhattan power grid's current wove an apocalyptic clock among countless wires in the fissure. "The first nation to locate the cage will earn the honor of choosing the shackles' material."

Then, the sky‑blocking monster rose into the air, flying toward Nevada.

The air in the Pentagon's underground operations room smelled of Cuban cigar tar, and General Wei Lian Ke Lao Fu De's alligator‑skin boots hammered heavily on the nuclear‑button briefcase. A holographic projection spread Nevada's desert terrain into a deep‑blue light carpet, and the slowly drifting red dot resembled a blood droplet seeping into rice paper.

"Gentlemen, it's time to let this lizard know who wields the sword of truth," the general's knuckles tapped the satellite feed, and Juan Ce Long's twin wings cast shadows over the outskirts of Area 51. "Three armored divisions, two hundred of the latest F‑16s, plus the units summoned from Greenland—"

"Polaris missiles." CIA Director Luo Bo Te Kai En interjected abruptly, the Pentagon insignia on his collar glinting coldly. "Are you sure you want to employ tactical nuclear weapons?"

"Facing this unknown creature, we must be cautious," another senior official said at that moment. "I think we cannot simply kill it."

"We haven't even identified its origin; is it an extraterrestrial unknown, or a product of those FBI investigations—uh, a fictional game?"

"If it's the latter," most faces in the conference grew solemn, "what does this actually signify?"

"Is a virtual plot from a game turning into reality? If so, is this dragon merely the beginning, with more similar entities to follow?"

"If not, could the so‑called Wargaming company be a product of alien infiltration? If that were true, who knows how many of us have already been infiltrated!"

CIA Director Luo Bo Te's expression darkened: "Regardless of the hypothesis, they're all absurd! Moreover, if those alien civilizations truly exist, why would they expend effort to promote a game?" A folklore professor spoke slowly: "I think, instead of pondering ideas that contradict biological motives, we should consider whether this could actually be a paranormal incident."

Several senior officials exchanged glances, hesitation flashing in their eyes. They, of course, knew the information unknown to ordinary people.

Whether it's a super‑power experiment or the so‑called "Reverse World" linked to Earth, this indicates that supernatural abilities do exist.

But if that is truly the case, facing a mythic dragon, do they really have the power to resist?

"Humanity must avenge its shame!" General Wei Lian Ke Lao Fu De unfurled the operation plan, and a yellowed copy of the "Declaration of Independence" slipped from the binder. "Operation Gray Eagle will prove that even mythic beings must submit to us."

The alarm blared, tearing the air, and the red dot on the holographic projection erupted in a dazzling glare. A technician screamed as they pulled up a live feed: Juan Ce Long was writing ancient Hebrew across the desert with its tail fin, each character the size of a Boeing 747, its scorching scales appearing in the night‑vision lens like a molten galaxy.

"It's mocking us," CIA Director Luo Bo Te Kai En stared at the gradually forming sentence.

"Proverbs 16:18 — Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall."

When two hundred F‑16s swept over Nevada's sky, Naimi Xisi had already taken notice of the uninvited guests.

"The United States' arrogance is truly laughable," Naimi Xisi sneered at the dark silhouette on the horizon.

You think you can use these toys against him?

He gently lifted his phantom dragon claw, the elegant draconic form assuming an arcane posture in the air, softly chanting a spell that would tear reality.

Eight‑Ring Evocation divine spell — Solar Flare Blast!

!

Endless magic tore the strings of the Magic Net, and Nevada's desert was being suffused with a radiance beyond sunlight.

Juan Ce Long's blue Arcane markings on its body suddenly erupted into star‑like flashes; gaps between its scales emitted high‑frequency oscillating white light particles, and the ionized air formed an iridescent film—an omen of the Solar Flare Blast's birth. A pure white sphere, two kilometers in diameter, coalesced above the desert, resembling a moon shattered by a deity.

On the Pentagon's electronic sand table, the screen depicting Nevada's test range was dyed blood‑red. General Wei Lian Ke Lao Fu De swept a laser pen across the massive projection: "Two hundred F‑16s, three armored divisions, plus the plasma weapons activated from Area 51, sufficient—"

His boast was cut short by the flash of the Solar Flare Blast. In the live satellite feed, a miniature sun was slowly rising from the ground.

"Vulture Squadron, evade!" The motorized unit leader's roar was drowned in white noise. Imprinted on his retina was the final scene of his life: twenty‑four F‑16s surged toward the light sphere like moths to a flame, their wings vaporizing into silver steam in the blinding light. As the shockwave passed, the depleted‑uranium armor of an M1 Abrams glowed crimson, and droplets of molten metal solidified on the sand into mirror‑like quartz crystals.

The Pentagon's surveillance feed was instantly overexposed; when the image recovered, technicians found a five‑kilometer‑wide glass plain on the desert surface. The silicate material reshaped by the Solar Flare Blast formed perfect fractal patterns, each geometric junction calibrated to millisecond‑level radians.

(End of Chapter)