RBCT Chapter 110 was utterly boring.
Chapter 110 was utterly boring.
Chapter 110 was utterly boring.
Havana, Revolution Square.
A white marble statue of José Martí stands in the center of the square, facing the sea, with his arms raised and pointing into the distance.
Lucien was spinning around beneath the statue.
He was naked.
My body is shaking.
It wasn't a cold shiver, but a high-frequency, spasmodic shiver that seemed to seep from the very bones.
Each time you turn around, your foot makes a dull thud as it lands on the granite floor.
"Oh ho ho ho ho one"
He tilted his head back, the veins on his neck bulging like twisted earthworms.
The sound was squeezed out from deep in his throat; it wasn't a shout, but a howl, with a tearing quality.
"It hurts so much—it's so hot—"
'
He continued turning.
Arms outstretched, fingers curled.
But he didn't stop.
He wasn't the only one in the square.
There are still many people.
Many, many people.
The elderly, children, women, people in military uniforms, people in suits, people in tattered vests.
They lay on the ground, not in neat rows, but in various positions: on their sides, curled up, on their backs, and prone.
The common point is that they are all in motion.
It wasn't a conscious movement; it was the final twitch of the nerve endings.
Like a frog that has been electrocuted.
"ah"
"Well"
"Mother----"
The sounds mingled together—deep, sharp, and indistinct.
All human bodies are red.
It wasn't the red of sunburn; it was a sickly, almost purplish red that peeked out from under the skin.
The Muratos are of mixed race; their skin, originally brown, has now turned a deep, ripe lobster color.
Some people started scratching their skin.
I scratched myself with my finger, leaving a bloody mark, but I didn't feel any pain.
Because the greater pain is inside the body.
Lucien is still spinning.
Suddenly, the first person to stop convulsing appeared.
It was an old Gundam model, lying next to a bench at the edge of the square.
He suddenly stopped moving.
The arm remained in the upward grasping position, but the fingers loosened.
Eyes open, pupils dilated, reflecting the blue sky of Havana.
The red color hasn't faded.
It's just that I'm cold.
Lucien didn't look at it.
He kept his eyes closed and continued to spin.
The second, the third, the tenth, the hundredth.
The convulsions stopped.
The wailing subsided.
The square gradually quieted down.
Only his voice continued.
"Oh my god—it's so hot—it's burning—"
He stopped.
It didn't stop on its own; my legs went weak, my knees buckled, and I fell forward.
His face hit the ground.
But he didn't feel anything.
Or rather, it felt like being overwhelmed by something bigger.
He lay face down, his body curled up, his hands covering his head.
But he was still smiling.
It wasn't a normal laugh; it was a gasp squeezed out from deep in the throat, intermittent and phlegmy.
"Uh...hehe...heh..."
The perspective is elevated.
Revolution Square became a tiny dot.
Havana has become a colorful map.
Then there's the whole island of Cuba.
From Pinardrio in the west to Guantanamo in the east.
Cities, towns, farmland, beaches, hills.
There were people lying in every place.
On the highway, a car is stopped in the middle of the road with the door open and the driver slumped over the steering wheel.
In the hospital, a patient rolled off the bed, and a nurse collapsed at the entrance of the pharmacy.
At school, children are slumped over their desks, and teachers are leaning against the blackboard.
On the beach, tourists lay under parasols, their drinks spilling out and seeping into the sand.
Everyone remained in their final pose.
Everyone looked as red as if they'd been boiled.
Everyone fell silent.
There were no gunshots, no explosions, no fires, and no floods.
It was just quiet.
A complete, utter, deathly silence.
The wind rustled through the palm trees.
The waves crashed against the rocks with a loud splash.
But the human voice disappeared.
The voices of ten million people vanished in the same instant.
Lucien lay on the ground, panting.
He was panting for a long time.
Then he slowly got up, sat up straight, and leaned against the base of the José Martí statue.
He looked up at the sky.
The sky was blue, the clouds were white, and the sun was directly overhead, its light dazzling.
He blinked, and tears streamed down his face—not from crying, but from a physiological reaction.
"call--"
He exhaled a long breath, his voice trembling.
"Lord—"
He said in a low voice.
"That was so exciting!"
The feelings of ten million people.
Load simultaneously.
The feeling of a nuclear explosion is stretched, prolonged, and refined.
【Extreme Wave】Push the target quantity to the maximum limit.
[Symphony of Fate] transformed all the medical descriptions, physical processes, and survivor interviews about "nuclear explosion deaths" that he saw and recorded in the database into neural signals.
It's not a simulation.
It is a true, neural-level reproduction.
High temperature, shock wave, radiation, burning, carbonization, gasification.
Each step is experienced physically.
Time is distorted.
A second stretched into a year.
"This feeling—"
He raised his hand and looked at his palm.
My hands were shaking, but they quickly regained their balance.
The redness on the skin surface begins to fade, returning to its normal brown tone.
A surge of power welled up from deep within his body.
It's not external, it's internal, like well water gushing from the ground, filling every cell.
Muscle fibers tighten, bone density increases, and nerve conduction speed surges.
He stood up.
The movements were light and quick, like a cat's.
The soles of the feet leave the ground and then land silently.
He looked down at his own shadow.
The shadow was directly below, short and solid.
He knew he had made a breakthrough.
Although it's only Silver Tier 1, it's indeed a breakthrough.
He clenched his fist, released it, and then clenched it again.
The sense of power is very clear.
If you send him to a nuclear explosion site, he can run out of the kill radius before the shockwave catches up to him, just like that redneck.
but----
"Is that all the improvement?"
He frowned.
The Lord's attention was not on this.
Or rather, it landed a little bit, but was quickly moved away.
It's like gently touching the surface of water with your finger; the ripples spread out and then disappear.
"So, Milk Dragon wasn't wrong after all."
He was talking to himself.
"America truly is a city on a hill."
The same performance could earn a breakthrough to Silver-level power in Utah, but in Cuba it could only barely elevate one level to Silver.
The Lord's gaze is more inclined toward that land.
He shrugged and stopped thinking about it.
He bent down and picked up his shirt and trousers from the ground.
He took his phone out of his pants pocket.
He dialed the number.
The first phone call was to home.
Two beeps, then the call is connected.
"Feed?"
The voice on the other end was male.
"It's over."
Lucien said in a flat tone, as if he were saying, "Dinner is ready."
"Bring some people over to clean it up."
"all?"
"all."
"clear."
The phone hangs up.
Lucien knew that within the next forty-eight hours, the family's ships, planes, and convoys would arrive one after another.
Take over ports, airports, banks, mines, and plantations.
Cuba is a big piece of meat.
Although he's a bit thin, he's still fleshy.
He dialed the second number.
This time it rang three times.
connected.
There was no sound from the other end, only the sound of breathing.
"It's done."
Lucien said.
"You can begin your performance now."
silence.
two seconds.
Then the dragon's voice came over.
"Oh, thank you for your hard work. I'll go get ready now."
The phone hangs up.
Lucien put his phone back in his pocket, turned around, and walked out of the square.
He paused as he passed the bodies lying there.
Look down.
The most recent one is a young Gundam.
His eyes were open, his pupils were dilated, and his face still held a painful, distorted expression.
But my body was already cold.
"Life is so fragile~"
He spoke softly, as if sighing, or perhaps stating a fact.
Then I stepped over her and kept walking.
The footsteps on the granite floor made a soft clattering sound.
The sunlight stretched his shadow long, casting it upon those red, quiet bodies.
Like a black crack, cutting through the entire red.
The wind blew in from the direction of the sea, carrying salt and heat.
The wind couldn't move the corpse on the ground.
It could only rustle the hem of his clothes.
He walked out of the square and turned into a small alley.
The alley is lined with old colonial-era buildings, with clothes hanging on balconies and potted plants under the porches.
But there was no one.
All the doors were open, and all the windows were closed.
Quiet.
"Boring, time to go home."
"
>