Wu Heng stood before the main control console, facing more than five hundred pairs of eyes.
He did not speak immediately. Instead, he slowly swept his gaze around the room. Wherever his eyes passed, the quiet murmurs gradually faded, and the hall of three hundred people fell into absolute silence within three seconds.
"Thirty-one days ago," Wu Heng began, his voice steady and not deliberately raised, yet every word clearly reached everyone's ears, "angels fell to earth."
He paused.
"In thirty-one days, global deaths have exceeded one hundred million. Thirty core cities here have been reduced to ruins. Transportation, communications, and energy systems across three continents have collapsed. Medical supplies have been depleted. Food and water sources have been contaminated. Survivors are crammed into the darkness of basements and air-raid shelters, waiting for dawn."
Casualty figures were projected onto the screen.
That cold number, still slowly ticking upward, made the breathing in the conference room grow heavier.
"The angels have retreated to Africa and erected a Holy Light barrier," Wu Heng continued. "They think we're waiting for them to weaken. They're right—we are waiting. But waiting does not mean doing nothing."
He raised his left hand. The projection of the Puppet Wraith emerged behind him, casting an enormous shadow as a terrifying aura rose.
"Bartholomew still has eighteen thousand of his most elite angels. Their power is fading, but that takes time—three months, six months, a year. We can afford to wait. But the question is..." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "When they are weak enough to be killed in a single strike, what will we use to kill them?"
No one answered.
"Ordinary demon hunters can use borax bullets, rune blades, and enhancement potions to wipe out low-ranking angels and hunt high-ranking ones. But what about angel lords? What