Tychus leaned against the temporary shed at the back of the press conference venue, a Cigar dangling from his mouth, looking at the group of excited, flushed reporters in front of him, and thought to himself that this " Garden World " was probably really sick!
Upon learning that the "out-of-control" rocket was about to crash into the " Governor's Office," they felt not fear, but rather unusual excitement.
Are all mortals in this world Khorne Cultist?
Fu Haoran's face showed no emotion. "Whether it's fear or excitement, as long as they spread the news, that's fine."
"I need the media to spread this news for me, the farther the better, and the faster the better."
"Panic is the best form of revenge, and it's free."
Fu Haoran said to the air, " JARVIS, let's begin according to our plan. We'll draw today's US stock candlestick chart."
Washington, D. C.
The area outside the White House.
Jamal Williams crouched in his tiny, eight-square-meter shared apartment room, the only light coming from his phone screen.
The light source.
There were three instant noodle containers piled up in the corner, and the utility bills on the table were already stacked up.
He stared at the text message his landlord had just sent him on his phone screen. "If you don't pay the rent by noon tomorrow, I'll throw your things out on the street."
Below is the bank's payment reminder; the red "overdue" word stung his eyes.
Suddenly, the piercing sound of an air raid siren came from outside the window.
Jamal curiously pushed open the window and found the street in complete chaos, with car horns blaring, people screaming, and others running frantically.
The Black woman next door rushed out of the building carrying two suitcases, yelling at everyone, "Run! A rocket is going to bomb the White House! What are you all standing there for?!"
Jamal took out his phone and, sure enough, saw the push notification.
"A fully fueled rocket has gone out of control and is hurtling towards the White House, potentially affecting an area within a 20-kilometer radius?!"
Jamal's first reaction was the same as everyone else's: to run.
The place he was in was only 15 kilometers away from the White House as the crow flies.
Jamal rushed downstairs without even putting on his shoes properly, joining the crowd flowing out of the city.
After running a few meters, he suddenly slowed down and then stopped completely.
People surged past him on both sides; some bumped into his shoulder, others cursed him for blocking their way, but he paid no attention.
"What are you running for? Where are you running to? Tomorrow at noon, I'll have to get out of that tiny eight-square-meter rented room."
"I'm so broke from student loans and credit card debt that I can barely afford instant noodles this month."
Where will we sleep tonight? Under a bridge or in a shelter?
Jamal stood in the middle of the chaotic crowd, took out his phone, and opened YouTube.
His account only had seven followers, all of whom were his high school classmates and his ex-girlfriend who had blocked him long ago.
The last street basketball video I posted only got double-digit views.
He leaned against the wall, slowly squatted down, and watched the seven fan avatars remain motionless on the screen.
Jamal stared at the screen, a crazy idea suddenly popping into his head: If he went to the White House right now and livestreamed a rocket crash, how many followers would he gain? How much money would he make?
He gritted his teeth, made up his mind, and opened his YouTube live stream.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Jamal, you can also call me Passerby Bro." His voice was halting, and the camera was shaky.
"I need to go to the White House to broadcast the rocket crash live, but I don't have the money for the fare. It would cost at least tens of dollars to take a taxi from here to the White House."
"If you want to see how the Rockets smash the White House, you can first scrape together some travel expenses for me, and I'll broadcast it live for you."
Jamal had given up on himself. Since he had no money anyway, if no one gave him a tip, he could only slowly walk over, and maybe he wouldn't have to take the risk.
Of course, if someone actually gives a tip, it means it's God's arrangement, and you have to go whether you want to or not.
A few scattered comments floated across the live stream chat. "Is this kid crazy? Is he risking his life for views?"
"Go ahead, bro, I'll send you a little gift."
Then a golden bullet screen appeared.
User "Stir Up Trouble" donated $50!
Jamal stared at the donation notification on the screen and rubbed his eyes hard.
Fifty dollars? They just gave it to me like that?
He checked again; it was true.
Immediately afterwards, " Stir Up Trouble " tipped another $100.
[ Stir Up Trouble: Stop dawdling, hurry up, or you'll miss it.]
Jamal nearly dropped his phone.
Unbeknownst to him, at the same time, backstage at the Gobi press conference, Fu Haoran was watching his live stream, tapping the screen and sending out another $5,000.
"Boss, are you calling yourself GG?" Tychus leaned over and glanced at his account ID—" Stir Up Trouble ".
"$100,000 for a global trending topic, and to fuel the panic to its fullest extent." Fu Haoran put away his phone. "Be greedy when others are fearful, and fearful when others are greedy."
Jamal finally managed to flag down a taxi and got in without saying a word.
"To the White House, quick."
"OK!" The driver was about to step on the gas when the car slammed on the brakes the next second.
"Huh? Where are you going?" The driver turned around abruptly.
"To the White House!" Jamal shouted, afraid that if he lowered his voice, he would regret it.
"Are you looking for death?!" The driver looked at Jamal as if he were a madman.
"I'm live streaming, preparing to show viewers the rocket crash. If you'd like to watch too, you can follow my live stream. My name is Passerby Bro." Jamal pointed his phone at the driver.
The driver glanced at the live chat, which was flooded with messages like "Go for it!", "Keep going!", and "The hope of the whole village!"
He grinned, revealing a set of teeth stained yellow by tobacco, then slammed on the gas.
The car sped off like a wild horse, Jamal's phone flew out of his hand, bounced twice on the seat, and the camera, pointing upwards, showed the live stream changing from Jamal's panicked face to a blur of gray car roof rushing past.
The road to the White House was exceptionally clear because everyone was running in the opposite direction.
Cars sped past on the street, honking their horns, while evacuation notices were repeated on car radios.
Jamal climbed up from the back seat, gripped his phone firmly again, and pointed the camera at the view outside the car window.
Flashing police lights were everywhere, and a policeman was shouting through a loudspeaker at pedestrians, "Leave this area immediately!"
A helicopter flew by overhead, the sound of its rotors vibrating so loudly that it made the walkie-talkie in the car ring.
The driver drove the taxi with the flair of a rally racer, flooring the accelerator and swerving the steering wheel like he was driving a go-kart.
As soon as the emergency broadcast on the radio read, "All citizens are advised to stay at least 10 kilometers away from the White House," he turned the volume knob all the way down and shut it off.
"My twenty years of driving experience have finally come in handy today!"
He slammed on the handbrake after a sharp turn, the rear of the car swung in a beautiful arc, the tires left two black tire marks on the ground, and the car slid sideways into the entrance to the pedestrian walkway in front of the White House.
Jamal's phone flew around again, and the live chat was flooded with comments like "Take me with you, veteran driver!" and "Even Bolt would offer you a cigarette after seeing this drift."
He pushed open the car door and rolled out, but his legs went weak the moment his feet touched the ground.
"Young man, this fare is on you, I hope you don't die!" The driver stuck his head out of the car window, gave a peace sign to the camera, then stepped on the gas and sped away.
Jamal stood in the empty plaza in front of the White House, the crowd around him having been dispersed to include only reporters and police.
Reporters, carrying cameras, looked up at the sky, and someone kept shouting into their phones, "Where's the rocket?" "How many minutes left?"
0
Jamal found a spot with the best view and propped his phone up on the edge of the flower bed.
He didn't know when the rocket would arrive, so he could only zoom in as far as possible, pointing at the distant sky.
The number of viewers in the live stream was skyrocketing: 100,000, 500,000, 1 million, 5 million—the chat was flooding in like a waterfall, and donation notifications kept popping up one after another.
"Dude, you're really awesome."
"The picture quality in this live stream is even clearer than CNN's."
Some people even started calling him "the last man in the White House ".
Suddenly, someone in the crowd shouted, "Look! A rocket is coming!"
Everyone looked up.
In the distant sky, a small fireball is moving rapidly, trailing a faint tail of flame, growing closer and clearer.
Jamal zoomed in on his phone to its maximum, and the outline of the rocket appeared on the screen.
Some people started running.
First a few, then dozens, then all the reporters.
Some people ran with cameras in their arms, some didn't even bother to pack up their tripods, and some screamed into their phones as they ran.
The chat exploded with messages like "Run!", "It's going to explode!", and "Run, bro!"
Jamal's legs and hands were shaking, but he forced himself to say to the camera, "If you give me a tip, I won't run away."
"One hundred dollars, I'll stay for one minute."
The live chat exploded instantly.
Tip notifications rained down on him like a storm, the numbers jumping so fast he couldn't even see them.
Then the " Stir Up Trouble " happened again.
Another $10,000.
[ Stir Up Trouble: Don't run! $50 per second, real-time settlement.]
Immediately afterwards, more large donations began flooding the screen, some for 500, some for 800, some for 3,000, and some for 5,000.
Jamal stared at the ever-increasing total donations on the screen, his voice trembling. "One hundred thousand! One hundred and fifty thousand! Two hundred thousand! Brothers, are you crazy? Three hundred thousand! Five hundred thousand! Seven hundred thousand!"
He excitedly turned his head, wanting to find a living person to share this good news with.
Then, to his horror, he discovered that the square was completely deserted.
Even the group of people carrying dozens of kilograms of video cameras have disappeared.
Several reporters who were taking pictures on the roof of the car in the distance can no longer even see the rear of the car.
He slowly raised his head.
That rocket—it's so big you don't need a phone screen to see it.
A huge shadow loomed over the entire square, and the air became scorching hot due to the high-speed friction.
Jamal froze on the spot, his mind blank, when a survival instinct surged from the soles of his feet all the way to the top of his head.
"Fuck you, Mahler!"
Jamal took off running.
Out of fear, he ran in a crooked and unsteady manner, howling like an old dog.
The number of viewers in the live stream has exceeded 30 million.
The screen was filled with comments like a blizzard, and the donation numbers kept jumping up. Some people donated a thousand US dollars, some donated two thousand, and some donated five thousand.
One netizen typed in the live chat. "We're raising money for his funeral."
Jamal didn't even bother to read the comments; all he knew was that his phone was still in his hand and the camera was still pointed at the sky.
The moment he fell, he saw the most terrifying sight of his life: a rocket hurtling towards his face.
He closed his eyes and let out the longest scream of his life.
"Mom! I was wrong!"
Immediately, a hurricane-like blast of air knocked him to the ground.
A miracle happened at that moment!
The rocket shot up sharply over the White House, accompanied by a piercing whistling sound that tore through the air.
Jamal's coat and trousers were mostly torn apart by the powerful airflow, passing over his head and flying further and further away.
The lawn was blown around like it had been shaved, and roadside trash cans were overturned dozens of meters away.
Jamal lay on the ground, his mouth full of dirt, his ears ringing, and it took him a long time to dare open his eyes.
His live stream viewership is approaching 40 million.
The total amount of donations has exceeded US$1.2 million.
Major media outlets around the world are using footage from his live broadcast, as it is the only footage that captures the entire rocket launch process up close.
Jamal scrambled to his feet, covered in dirt and his clothes torn to shreds by the gust of wind, but he frantically waved his hands at the camera, his voice cracking. "I'm not dead! I'm alive!"
"Oh, thank God, I'm still alive!"
On the Gobi, Fu Haoran turned off the live stream on his phone.
The bearish candlestick on the chart is bottoming out and rebounding, and a steep bullish candlestick suddenly rises from the bottom, almost perfectly synchronized with the trajectory of the rocket just now.
Short positions were all closed at the bottom of the panic, while long positions were entered simultaneously the moment the rocket took off. The rebound in the military sector pulled global indices up a bit.
"Sir," JARVIS's voice whispered in his ear, "The net profit from this financial operation is $3.17 billion."
Fu Hao put his phone back in his pocket and walked back to the podium.
The reporters in the audience, still reeling from the shock, stared at him with eyes filled with fear.
Curiosity and awe.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you have probably already received the news that our rocket has overcome the old obstacles, successfully lifted off, and arrived at its designated location."
"I hereby declare this rocket launch a complete success."
Bang bang bang!
Fireworks then went off, filling the air with a joyous atmosphere.
But everyone knows that just five minutes ago, the world was shrouded in a great deal of panic.
Just when everyone thought the press conference was over, Fu Haoran smiled and said, "Next, we will begin the second part of this press conference."
What? It's not over yet?
Shuaiyi frowned, muttering under his breath in dissatisfaction, "When will this ever end? They've caused such a huge international blunder, and instead of apologizing, they have the nerve to keep going."
She had expected her complaints to elicit agreement from the surrounding reporters, since, in her view, the press conference had turned into a complete farce.
But she waited half a step, and no one paid any attention to her.
What surprised her even more was that the reporters who had packed their things and were about to leave Yang all laughed and went back to their seats.
They all stood up straight, their eyes gleaming with fanaticism, staring intently at the man on the stage.
"What else is there to say at this press conference?"