Chapter 8: The Hydra System

At the same moment the president delivered his fiery speech, every computer screen across the globe began scrolling wildly with data and images. The first to appear: the location of the enemy attackers. Then came real-time military mobilization reports from nations around the world—clearly listing over two thousand strategic missile coordinates.

A collective gasp rippled through the command center. This was nuclear war. The end of days was upon them. Some military personnel couldn’t take the pressure—mental breakdowns erupted. One man screamed uncontrollably, another smashed his console in a frenzy, another bolted out of the room, babbling prayers to God. Chaos spread fast. Within minutes, armed guards restored order.

Arthur stared at the endless stream of data, swallowing hard, his throat working like a dry pump. His eyes bulged, veins standing out on his forehead. His face twisted into something monstrous—like a demon clawing its way out of hell.

Meanwhile, deep beneath the capital district, in a secure bunker, the floor was littered with bodies. Among them: the president himself, still mid-video address, his face purple and bloated—suffocated. In the center of the room, a massive screen displayed a progress bar slowly crawling forward:
**"Hydra System cracking... Progress: 12%..."**

Backtrack three hours earlier—White Eagle Nation, 3:05 PM local time, 37.3°N, 145.6°E. Twenty meters below the ocean surface, a White Eagle conventional nuclear-powered submarine hovered silently in the dark. Inside the control room, the captain and crew stood frozen. Only the communications officer kept shouting into the radio, voice cracking—no response came back.

At 2:55 PM, they’d received an order from the capital district: an enemy had launched a long-range strike on the capital. Their mission: launch a nuclear counterattack against the hostile target. After verification, they fired three ballistic missiles.

But seconds after launch, the missile trajectories were altered—manually locked, impossible to override. All three warheads had been redirected… straight into the capital district itself.

Pallid faces turned ashen. No one understood what had happened.

Then, three minutes later—the control room erupted in alarms. A torpedo lock. Their systems were unresponsive. Seconds passed. The sea above exploded in a violent geyser.

The attacker? Another conventional submarine. Radar confirmed it had destroyed the opposing reconnaissance sub. Truth, once again, sank without a trace into the abyss.

At dawn in Sky Realm, 5:30 AM—Wang Xiaoqiang was speeding down the highway toward Dian’an City. He had to pass through the city center before turning north another forty kilometers to reach his parents’ home.

By 6:30 AM, history would remember this day. As world leaders convened via video conference to assess White Eagle’s crisis, suddenly, every nation’s military satellites lit up with alerts. Countless ballistic missile launches detected—deep within White Eagle territory.

In the capital’s underground bunker, screens flashed:
**"Hydra System successfully cracked. Overwriting Hydra. Target reassignment complete. Launch sequence initiated."**

Confusion gripped the room. What in God’s name was happening?

Without warning, White Eagle unleashed nearly all of its tactical and strategic weapons. Blinding flashes shot skyward, trailing thick plumes of smoke—like arrows loosed from a thousand bows.

Now, every leader in the world asked the same question: *Where are these intercontinental missiles headed?*

Two minutes. That’s all it took. Satellite analysis flooded in. The targets? Everywhere. Military installations. Major population centers. All over the globe.

As disbelief turned to dread, panic set in—then came the second alert.

This time, it wasn’t White Eagle launching anymore.

Other nations were striking back.

When you know your own soil will be the next target, no one sits idle.

One by one, countries responded. Counterattacks. Interceptions. Across the planet, countless bright white flashes erupted—twinning into towering smoke columns that stretched into space. From above, the world looked like a cage built from fire and smoke—walls of flame encircling humanity, trapping them inside.

Suddenly, everywhere—air-raid sirens wailed, piercing and relentless.

On the highway, Xiaoqiang heard the distant shriek of alarms from nearby towns. Before he could react, mountains all around him erupted. Ballistic missiles and anti-aircraft defenses shot upward in streaks of fire, trailing black smoke into the sky. His scalp prickled. Every hair stood on end. His heart clenched so tight he could barely breathe. Lips trembling, he whispered, “It’s over.”

Moments later, thunderous explosions rocked the horizon.

In Happy Town Orphanage, the siren never stopped. Outside, missiles fired one after another from the hills. Old Wang’s eyes widened, fixed on the sky. After a pause, he rushed to push a cart full of supplies into the shelter. Li Director stepped out.

“Is it really happening? So much noise…”

“Just stay safe,” Old Wang said. “Are the kids settled?”

“Yeah. All downstairs.”

Just then, Xiaoqiang’s mom returned, arms loaded with three heavy bags of medicine, sweat dripping down her face. “Did Xiaoqiang call? Where is he? Should we try calling?”

Xiaoqiang’s dad, hauling boxes into the basement, replied, “Don’t bother. He’s probably more worried than we are. Driving’s dangerous—don’t stress him. Good thing he called early. This is the last load. When I left the store, it was empty. Let’s bring our clothes and bedding over.” He turned and walked back home. Ten minutes later, he returned with armfuls of stuff, dumping everything at the orphanage.

At that moment, a girl approached the gate—her hair messy, shirt buttons mismatched, trembling slightly.

“Uncle Wang… Is Xiaoqiang here?” Old Wang turned.

“Oh, Yingzi. He hasn’t come back yet. Where are you going?”

“I… I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m alone. I’m scared… Can I stay here for a while?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

Xiaoqiang’s mom rushed over, gently pulling her inside. “Don’t cry. Uncle and Aunt are here. Nothing’s too bad to handle. Come on in. You’ve been through enough—your parents aren’t even here.”

She pulled the girl into the shelter. Old Wang glanced outside—no one else around. He shut the gate, chained it tight, then started stringing up wire mesh across the entrance.

Her name was Cheng Ying—known online as “Toe-Picker Guy” in their group chat. Her parents worked as laborers in Korea, leaving her behind in Sky Realm. Loud and bold on the internet, she was actually terrified of everything. Once inside the basement, she huddled among the children like a chick pressed close to its siblings. She often bought candy for them—so the kids didn’t mind her at all.

Back on the highway in Sky Realm, Xiaoqiang’s car now hit 220 km/h. The engine roared under his foot. All he thought about was getting home—fast. He was less than thirty kilometers from Dian’an City now.