Shen Feng couldn’t help but frown at the news coming from the television.
’Has the international situation deteriorated again...?’
The post-globalization era seemed incredibly convoluted, but the root cause was simple: the rising Eastern Power was challenging the hegemony of the Western North American Eagle Country.
All international relations were, at their core, Sino-American relations.
It seemed that the rise of extreme nationalism and conservatism in Western nations, which had led to the adoption of an "Eagle Country First" anti-globalization strategy, was now having a massive impact on the international situation.
And now, this capricious and random blame-shifting diplomacy was further increasing the likelihood of a violent conflict between the two global powers.
The Human World had moved beyond the post-World War II and Cold War order, stepping into a chaotic jungle.
The old international order had already crumbled, and human society was about to follow suit.
But for the current Shen Feng, this was the last thing he wanted to see.
While the politicians of Western society were dragging the entire world to the brink of war for their own selfish gains, a host of indescribable, unnamable horrors lurked in the darkness, eyeing Earth and human civilization hungrily.
The Whisperer, in particular, had always longed for spontaneous chaos from within human civilization.
The beginning of this chaos was playing right into its hands.
Listening to the news report and staring at the silent stone statue of the young girl before him, Shen Feng thought for a moment before turning to Jingwei and asking:
"How is the network infiltration of North America coming along? I’m talking about Washington’s entire network."
Jingwei walked into the study, reached out to pat the stone statue’s head, and said with a smile:
"You mean the internal network in the White Palace? That standalone internal security system built by the Pentagon that connects straight to the bunker? I took care of that thing on the twenty-seventh day after you brought me back to this world... Of course, I was still pretty weak back then... If you want, I can send you the blond boy’s bath photos right now."
Shen Feng shrugged.
"No need to harm our own comrade... Hmm, our future comrade... Since you’ve got it completely handled, that’s great. Next, we’ll prepare to execute the ’Head Transplantation Technique’ plan. Let’s make this world a little safer."
Hearing this, Jingwei’s eyes lit up, and she jumped up and down, cheering:
"Hooray! Our Xiaofeng has finally seen the light! I told you long ago, you have to be low-key when you need to be, but you also have to strike when the time is right. If you’d done this sooner, wouldn’t we have avoided all this trouble? Don’t worry, I’ll go into ’True Apocalypse Game’ 1.0 right now and find some suitable candidates to start our plan. This kind of thing is so much more interesting to me than any apocalypse mission... Speaking of which, if you wanted, forget President, you could be an Emperor! Or how about a king or something? The kind who lives in the desert, drills for oil, rides camels, and hangs out with beautiful women every day?"
Shen Feng: "...Book me a flight to Dubai immediately."
...
"Fake News! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
White House intern Lewinsky walked past the outside of the Oval Office, clutching a stack of files. Hearing the crazed, furious roars from within, she couldn’t help but quicken her pace, wanting to get away from here as fast as possible. She nearly collided with a fully-armed Special Service Bureau agent.
The Special Service Bureau agent whistled, gave Lewinsky a teasing look, and said in a low voice:
"Careful, sweetheart. Got any plans tonight? Remember me? I’m John. We ran into each other at the door last week."
Lewinsky’s bright eyes widened. She glanced at the agent, her palm brushing against his as she passed, and then she quickly hurried away.
Inside the Oval Office, the roaring continued unabated:
"Damned fake news! CNN! How dare they say that about me!? Bunker boy!? A Hua Country person hiding in the White House!? Traitor! Those Democratic Party bastards are all traitors! Don’t they know how much debt Obama left me? If I don’t go out and find money, if I don’t cut spending, our government and country will be crushed by debt!"
"Get the portraits of that awful Clinton and that stupid George W. Bush out of the White House hall! Replace them with our Republican Party presidents!"
"Damn Pelosi! Damn n****rs! Damn illegal immigrants! Damn fucking allies! They’re all a bunch of vampires! I’ve given everything to make the country great again! I haven’t played golf in three days! A bunch of fucking bastards!"
"Make Lopez from Mexico wait outside! I won’t talk to him unless he’s willing to pay to help us build the wall!"
"Oh, my dear Ivanka, baby, you’re my only comfort. You’re my Angel. I don’t know what I’d do without you... What? Nashku’s masks? Oh, honey, you know I love you and your husband, Nashku. He’s a good kid. It’s just selling a few masks, it’s a trivial little thing. It must be a scheme by the Democratic Party. Don’t worry, everything will be fine..."
"Nobody knows more about medicine than me. Actually, the idea of injecting disinfectant into the veins isn’t completely unfeasible, we just might need to dilute the dose. This is just a conspiracy by the Democratic Party Members. It’s all Obama’s fault, and Fauci... this is all Fauci’s responsibility! As the chief infectious disease expert, he failed to provide the necessary, useful advice at the earliest opportunity. It’s all his fault!"
"Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll post a few tweets talking about Fauci’s ’great achievements,’ and then hold a press conference to let our loyal voters hear the truth of the matter..."
"..."
The stream of curses coming from the Oval Office gradually subsided, as if the owner of the voice had found an outlet and achieved an emotional release.
This was followed by a flurry of whispers, clearly a group of aides offering advice and suggestions to the owner of that voice.
After a while, the voice from before spoke again:
"Alright, I’m going to watch some television now. Leave me alone."
The doors to the Oval Office were quickly opened, and a dozen or so people in suits and ties walked out.
The first few people at the front carried themselves with exceptional poise, chests puffed out. They were the President’s family members.
John, the Special Service Bureau agent on guard at the door, suddenly stood up straight. He knew that the people walking past him were, in fact, the core decision-making circle of the entire Eagle Country.
One could even say that the man sitting in the Oval Office was nothing more than a device for fulfilling the wishes of these few people.
A human wish-granting machine.
The ones controlling the entire Eagle Country were these few people closest to the President.
Toward the back of the crowd, a gray-haired man was walking out hurriedly, clutching a file.
It was Meadows, who had just recently taken over the position of White House Chief of Staff.
As an official who had been in the decision-making circle for just three months, having been brought in during a crisis to serve as Chief of Staff, Meadows had always been cautious and meticulous, trying his best not to lose this position.
Of course, what he had to do was also very simple: agree with any suggestion the President made.
This was, in fact, the most convenient strategy.
After all, everyone who had raised objections before had been fired and was now preparing to write a book.
Meadows quickly returned to his office, closed the door, sat down in his chair, and let out a long sigh of relief.
After all, having endured more than an hour of relentless verbal bombardment, his bangs were practically soaked with spittle.
Just then, his phone suddenly buzzed, and a crimson eye icon appeared on the screen.
Meadows didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he first looked around methodically, then poured himself a cup of coffee. After casually drawing the curtains, he finally picked up his phone with a seemingly nonchalant air.
His movements appeared calm and collected, but inside, his heart was pounding like a storm, and his breathing had become ragged.
He gently tapped the icon, and a message appeared before his eyes:
"Private Mark Meadows of the Salvation Army’s Third Brigade, this is a directive from the Commander."