msmithbooks Chapter 70 America! The City on the Mountain Top!
Chapter 70 America! The City on the Mountain Top!
Chapter 70 America! The City on the Mountain Top!
In the divine realm, Luo Huan looked at the milk dragon through the pink bead.
Inside the bead, a press conference from the Black Palace is being broadcast live.
The Milk Dragon sat inside the Black Palace, with the Stars and Stripes and the coat of arms of America behind him.
Sitting to the side was Wan Xinru, while a large group of reporters were pointing their cameras at Nai Long.
It's a press conference.
"Great job, Milk Dragon!"
Luo Huan grinned, her whole body bounced in the void, and her long silver-white hair swung out.
"Let's give this world a real shock!"
Luo Huan's eyes shone with an astonishing brightness.
She could see deep within the beads, the data streams flowing globally along with the live broadcast signal: clicks, reposts, arguments in the comments section...
Emergency statements from government spokespeople around the world.
Its influence is exploding.
"Since that's the case, then we have no choice but to reward you!"
She extended her index finger and touched the surface of the bead with the tip.
There was no light, no sound.
But the power had already been poured in.
Like opening a floodgate, like injecting water under high pressure.
The surging energy rushed violently through the established connection between the [Art of Music] pathway and the Milk Dragon.
The barrier between the divine kingdom and the world hummed under the force of this power, and fine cracks spread on unseen levels.
"Oh dog go buy"
Luo Huan let out a short, pleasant inhale.
"As expected, only this kind can be infused with more energy!"
She felt resistance.
The milk dragon's body resembles an old bucket, with limited capacity and rough inner walls.
But this time the amount injected far exceeded that of the past, almost overflowing.
The power was forcibly suppressed before it overflowed.
The barrel walls were stretched.
Black Palace, press conference room.
"—This is an act of justice, an act to nip evil in the bud, an act to protect the peace of our backyard!"
Nailong sat in a high-backed chair, leaning slightly forward.
He was wearing a dark blue suit, a red tie, and a national flag pin on his left lapel today.
Wan Xinru sat to his side, her hands clasped together at her crotch, a standard, precisely curved smile on her face, her eyeliner perfectly applied. More than forty reporters sat below the stage, their cameras and microphones set up in the aisle.
Signs for CNN, FOX, BBC, Reuters, and Xinhua News Agency were lined up in front of the seats.
The live broadcast is being streamed globally.
"Mr. President."
A reporter sitting in the third row raised his hand; it was from the BBC.
He stood up without waiting for roll call and spoke rapidly: "According to international law, how would you respond to this accusation?"
The question was raised, and the hall fell silent for a moment.
Milk Dragon's smile remained unchanged, but his eyes turned colder.
"Cough cough—"
—
Wan Xinru stood up, her voice soft but clear: "You haven't said thank you yet. President Milk Dragon took enormous political risks and made a courageous decision for the sake of America's national security and the stability of the entire Western Hemisphere."
He paused, his gaze falling on the reporter's face: "Before questioning, perhaps we should first be grateful for this sense of responsibility."
The reporter opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something.
But at that very moment...
The dragon's body froze.
A surge of heat burst forth from deep within his lower abdomen without warning; it wasn't pain, but a more primal, scalding heat, like magma surging up from the base of his spine.
Next comes power.
A massive, almost tyrannical force washed over his blood vessels, muscles, and bones like a tsunami.
This feeling is very familiar.
Not long ago, after that private party in New York, Lucien Alden tapped his shoulder with his finger.
There was heat and a sense of power then, but compared to that, it was like a stream, while this time it's a flood.
"Lord—"
Milk Dragon murmured.
The sound was very soft, but the microphone clipped to his collar picked it up.
The reporters in the audience looked up.
Milk Dragon ignored them.
He lowered his head and looked at his hands.
The age spots that were originally very noticeable on the back of my hand are fading and disappearing at a rate visible to the naked eye.
The blood vessels under his skin bulged slightly, and the sound of blood rushing through his ears boomed.
The golden retriever, which had been somewhat dull, regained its brilliance.
Its strength is still growing.
The muscles were swollen, the joints made a soft popping sound, and all the old injuries that had accumulated with age were wiped away.
He instinctively took a deep breath.
His lungs expanded to a much greater extent than usual, and the speed and amount of air rushing in surprised even himself.
Are you watching me?
He didn't lower his voice when he said this.
The clear, trembling question echoed throughout the press conference hall through the sound system.
All the reporters stopped what they were doing.
The camera lens was fixed on the podium.
The milk dragon slowly raised its head.
His blue pupils, which had become slightly cloudy due to his age, were now surprisingly bright, as if light was shining from within.
The signature strand of blonde hair on her forehead seemed to regain a dazzling luster under the light.
Raise your right hand.
The movements were slow, but exceptionally stable.
Arms raised high, over the shoulders, and finally straightened, fists seemingly aimed at the ceiling.
"America!"
The sound exploded.
It wasn't a volume controlled by technique; it was a roar that burst forth purely from the chest.
"The City on the Mountain Top!"
He clenched his fists, the muscles in his arms clearly bulging beneath the sleeves of his suit.
"Fight! Divine gift! Chosen one!"
Each word felt like a hammer striking the air.
As the last word fell, the surging power within him finally broke through a certain critical point.
An invisible wave spread out from him as the center.
The ripples swept across the reporters in the front row.
The CNN reporter had just raised his hand, intending to continue asking questions, when he suddenly stopped.
The doubt, professional composure, and even the unconscious furrowing of his brow on his face vanished in an instant.
Instead, an expression of shock, awe, and a certain frenzied excitement appeared on his face.
He stared intently at Nailong on the podium, at the raised arm that seemed to be supporting some invisible weight, and at the face that looked exceptionally bright and even younger under the spotlight.
"Lord—"
He whispered, then abruptly turned to his cameraman, "Pull in! Close-up! Face, hands, flag background—everything!"
He wasn't the only one.
All journalists caught up in the turmoil, regardless of their media outlets or political stances, reacted similarly at this moment.
Their professional threshold was breached by violence.
It wasn't that they were pulled into the abyss of pleasure, but rather dragged into another extreme:
The ultimate desire to "witness history", "record miracles", and "capture the perfect moment".
The MSNBC reporter stood up abruptly, disregarding etiquette, and began recording with her phone.
Fox's senior commentator, his lips trembling, spoke rapidly into his headset, his eyes never leaving the podium.
The Reuters cameraman knelt on the ground, his lens tilted upwards towards the milk dragon, his finger rapidly rotating on the zoom ring.
"This kind of scene—"
An Associated Press reporter frantically snapped photos, muttering to himself, "Ribbit! To be able to capture this scene of the birth of a holy child, even if I die, it's worth the price of admission!"
The only sounds in the press conference room were the clicking of camera shutters, the whirring of camera motors, and hurried breathing.
No one asked any more questions.
Everyone is doing the same thing: recording.
Record the figure on the podium, the raised arm, the overly bright eyes, and the inexplicable changes taking place in front of the Stars and Stripes.
The live broadcast signal was not interrupted.
The footage was transmitted to the world in real time.
The scene that global audiences saw was: the US president standing under the flag, looking radiant, while reporters below frantically took photos as if on a pilgrimage.
The comments section is exploding.
"He looks ten years younger!"
"What kind of new advertising technology is this?"
"Those words he just shouted—'Chosen One'?"
"Why are those reporters acting like they've gone mad?"
Wan Xinru stood to the side, and for the first time, a slight crack appeared on the smile on her face.
He glanced at Nailong, then at the reporters below the stage, and finally at the live broadcast camera that was running.
He didn't speak.
Instead, she knelt down on one knee and opened her arms, holding the milk dragon as if on a pilgrimage.