Chapter 5: Is Putin Finally Standing Tall?

Every thought during the day finds its way into dreams at night—and Xiao Qiang’s dream that evening was of his ex-girlfriend. Her skin was smooth and pale, soft as water beneath his touch, her body slick and intoxicating, pulling him under like a current.

They clung to each other, kissing fiercely, desperate to merge their bodies into one. Clothes peeled away slowly, then suddenly—she shoved him hard onto the bed. Just as she leaned forward, ready to straddle him, a loud *moo-moo* shattered the moment.

Xiao Qiang froze. His mind short-circuited. In his dazed vision, a massive yellow bull was charging straight toward him. He jolted upright with a yelp, flinging himself off the seat—*thud!* His head cracked against the roof. Sweat poured down his forehead instantly.

Back in reality, his eyes were bloodshot, rage pulsing through his veins. He scanned the car wildly until he spotted it—the phone still buzzing on the passenger seat, emitting that damn *buzz-zzzz*. He lunged for it, ready to hurl it out the window. He swung it three or four times—but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “No way,” he muttered. “That thing cost over two thousand bucks. I’ll just…忍. I’ll忍.”

With gritted teeth, Xiao Qiang swiped open the screen. 3:14 AM. His paid subscription alert had just pinged. The first message: At 2:30 AM, White Eagle Nation held an emergency hearing. With AI development spiraling beyond control, a majority vote passed to activate the AI Emergency Brake Protocol—effective immediately.

The second message: CyberCorp’s CEO expressed deep disappointment, arguing AI could achieve far more, and halting progress now would be like throwing away the future because of a single stumble.

Both stories were already over half an hour old. Then came the third—flashing red, urgent, impossible to ignore. A reporter’s video interview.

“Sky Dome Nation, 3 AM. White Eagle time: 3 PM. Remote missile strikes hit White Eagle’s homeland. Surveillance footage from suburban roads captured dozens of dark specks plummeting from the sky at incredible speed. Just before impact, space seemed to collapse violently—silence for a heartbeat—then dozens of fireballs erupted simultaneously. Black smoke roared into the air. Each explosion released a transparent, bubble-like membrane that expanded rapidly into a sphere before vanishing. Screen went black. A foreign male journalist continued: This footage was obtained via remote surveillance. Multiple strategic weapons have struck White Eagle’s territory. Coverage spans the entire special zone. Casualty figures remain unknown. Latest update: White Eagle has entered full combat readiness. We will continue reporting. This is Free News. I’m reporter Viren.”

“Holy—” Xiao Qiang shot up again, skull slamming the roof once more. “Ow! Jesus Christ, my head!” He stared blankly ahead. “Who the hell dares take on the world’s cop? Could it be Giant Bear Nation?”

His body trembled with excitement. Was it the thrill of chaos? Or something deeper—some primal urge buried in his DNA? Maybe everyone carried that itch to break things.

But only seconds later, cold sweat poured down his back. His heart clenched tight. A wave of dread washed over him.

“This isn’t just a skirmish,” he whispered. “Massive missile strike on White Eagle’s mainland—the strongest military power on Earth? This isn’t regional conflict. This is World War One-level escalation. What the hell are they thinking? Geopolitics, power grabs—y’all’ve turned the whole planet into your game board. Go ahead, play your little war games. But now you’re smashing the kitchen stove? That’s not a fight—it’s a full-on table flip. And when big wars happen, ordinary people always pay the price. History’s been clear: civilians die in droves. Hundreds of millions. No exceptions.”

He gripped the steering wheel, voice cracking. “No, no—calm down. Must stay calm.”

Alone in the car, he muttered to himself, his trembling finally subsiding.

Fake news? Impossible. He paid for this. Spreading lies like this? Not just legal trouble—they’d lose every subscriber. You don’t build trust by faking disasters. Besides, most of these alerts were factual, neutral, never political. That’s why Xiao Qiang kept renewing. The credibility was solid.

And he wasn’t just some passive consumer—he’d spent years soaking up information from every source. Now, threads of logic collided in his mind. Suddenly, he snatched the phone, dialed home.

*Beep… beep… beep… beep…*

Each ring stretched longer than the last. His legs started shaking. “Pick up. Pick up, damn it.”

After about thirty seconds, the line clicked.

“Xiao Qiang? It’s late—what’s wrong?” His mother’s voice, sleepy but sharp.

Xiao Qiang tightened his grip on the wheel. “Mom, listen—don’t interrupt. Turn on speakerphone. Wake Dad.”

A pause. Then her voice called out: “Honey, it’s Xiao Qiang!”

A few seconds later, his father’s gruff tone: “What? Is it Strong Boy?”

“Dad, Mom,” Xiao Qiang said urgently, “I just got news—White Eagle’s homeland was hit by a massive missile attack. War might be starting. Dad, go to the 24-hour supermarket nearby. Buy salt, sugar, rice, flour, cooking oil, ham sausages, instant noodles, bottled water. Use the pushcart from the orphanage next door. There’s a basement there—store everything there. Tell the headmaster to get all the kids down into the shelter. Mom, go to the pharmacy. Get medicine—iodine tablets, cephalexin, azithromycin, emergency heart and brain meds, cold medicine, diarrhea relief, vitamins—buy as much as you can.”

“My small iron box under the bed—there’s over forty thousand yuan in dowry money. Spend it all. Don’t save a penny. This time, listen to me. No hesitation.”

He took a breath. Ten seconds passed.

Then his dad’s voice: “Are you sick? What kind of nonsense is this? If real war breaks out, the state will announce it on TV.”

Xiao Qiang snapped. “Old Man! This time, you *listen* to me. If nothing happens, I’ll donate it all to the orphanage. But if you don’t follow my orders, I won’t support you in your old age!”

“You—you—” The phone crackled with his father’s fury. His mother stepped in quickly: “Honey, I think Xiao Qiang’s serious. We’ve seen so many reports about wars overseas. Neighbors talk about them nonstop, like it’s entertainment. What if it comes here?”

His parents were simple country folk—honest, quiet, hardworking. They’d had Xiao Qiang late in life, only after moving from the village to town when he was young, both working in a factory nearby. They’d never fought back, often taking abuse from neighbors. Xiao Qiang couldn’t stand the disrespect—had clashed with those neighbors more than once.

But over the years, Xiao Qiang had earned five or six thousand a year driving, becoming the family’s main income. He’d paid off old debts, lifted the family out of hardship. Money changed everything. Slowly, he became the decision-maker. As the only son, his word carried weight. And usually, they listened.