Fate's Choice: Livestream at the Start Summoning Billions of Ravens

West Point Military Academy, New York State.

In the combat training arena, the smell of sweat and hormones mingled in the air.

Army Captain Evan Cross locked a cadet's arm behind his back, the joints making a soft cracking sound as if they were about to break under the strain. His movements were clean, efficient, and without a single wasted effort.

"Remember, the core of joint locks is not strength, but the lever principle. Find the fulcrum, and even the weakest soldier can subdue the strongest enemy."

Cross released his grip, and the student clutched his arm and retreated repeatedly.

Just then, a huge roar came from afar, tearing apart the tranquility of the training ground.

A black UH-60 "Black Hawk" helicopter, without any prior notice, landed directly on the lawn in the center of the training field with a strong sense of oppression.

The wind whipped up by the rotors stirred up dust and sand, and the trainees instinctively raised their hands to shield themselves.

Training was forced to stop.

The cabin door slid open, and a brigadier general wearing the badge of the Secretary of Defense's office jumped off the plane. Ignoring the astonished cadets around him, he walked straight toward Cross.

The brigadier's leather boots stomped heavily on the grass as he approached Cross and took a document from his pocket.

The red "Top Secret" stamp on the document bag was glaringly obvious.

He didn't open the file; he simply showed it to Cross at a glance.

"Captain Cross, pursuant to Section 702 of the National Security Act, you are hereby conscripted indefinitely for Operation Obelisk, effective immediately." The brigadier general's tone was devoid of any emotion, purely a delivery of orders.

Evan Cross did not ask why, nor what the action was.

He simply turned around and gave instructions to the students behind him who were still in a daze.

"Dismissed. Today's training is over."

Then, he handed over the work at the training ground to his adjutant beside him, and without saying a word, followed the brigadier general onto the still-roaring Black Hawk helicopter.

The hatch closed, isolating it from all outside sounds.

The cabin was not empty.

Defense Secretary Mark Thompson was seated in a large chair, with a top-secret file on Evan Cross on the table in front of him.

Next to the file was a tablet computer that was already turned on.

Thompson gestured for Cross to sit down opposite him.

Cross sat upright with his hands on his knees, awaiting orders.

Thompson didn't say anything, but simply pushed the tablet computer in front of Cross.

On the screen, a video began to play automatically.

Hiroshima, the dome of the atomic bomb blast site.

A man clad in red armor effortlessly deflected a barrage of missiles with a single hand.

The scene shifts to a massive, burning meteorite, over thirty meters in diameter, arriving from outer space and hovering above the city.

Cross's breathing remained unchanged, but his pupils contracted silently.

Video switching.

Under the same sky, a golden pillar of light descended, and a girl holding a holy flag appeared.

She unfurled a golden shield of light that covered the entire city, catching the falling meteorite.

The video finished playing and the screen went dark.

The cabin was deathly silent.

"We call them 'Servants'," Thompson finally spoke, breaking the silence, "Heroes from history or mythology, extraordinary beings summoned to the modern era by an unknown force."

"...Those who sign contracts with them are called 'Masters,' and Masters can issue three absolute commands to their Servants."

Thompson tapped his fingertips lightly on the table.

"America also has such a being, a Servant."

"Franklin Delano Roosevelt, you should have heard of him."

"So an evaluation team composed of the military, the CIA, and the White House selected you from tens of thousands of candidates," Thompson continued. "You were chosen to be President Roosevelt's chief of staff."

Thompson picked up the file on the table and spread it out in front of Cross.

"A perfect combat record, a West Point honors graduate, a former Delta Force tactical commander, and a recipient of the Medal of Honor."

"Most importantly," Thompson pointed to a line in the file, "you defied command's order to 'eliminate the threat' in Afghanistan, choosing instead to prioritize rescuing the thirty-four trapped civilians. This proves that you possess independent moral judgment that transcends orders."

"Your background is clean. Your ancestors for three generations were ordinary middle-class people, and you have no vested interests with Wall Street, Capitol Hill, or the major military-industrial complexes."

"We need a loyal, controllable hero who also has his own judgment."

Thompson turned off the tablet.

The helicopter tilted slightly and began to descend.

Through the porthole, you can see the spire of the Washington Monument below.

"Your mission, Captain Cross," Thompson said, each word carrying undeniable weight, "is to become his master and anchor his power entirely to America's national interests."

...

The helicopter landed on a temporary helipad next to the Washington Monument.

The entire National Mall has been completely sealed off by the military, with armored vehicles and fully armed soldiers everywhere.

Cross changed into a crisp Army Class A uniform, the gold sash and medals on his chest gleaming in the sunlight.

Escorted by two squads of heavily armed Delta Force soldiers, he crossed the blockade and headed toward the Lincoln Memorial in the distance.

The soldiers stopped at the foot of the memorial hall steps, forming a human defensive line.

Evan Cross took a deep breath and walked alone up the long steps.

His military boots clattered on the white marble, producing a crisp, lonely sound.

Inside the memorial, beneath the enormous seated statue of Lincoln, a man sits in a wheelchair.

He was dressed in a 1930s-style suit, his posture upright, quietly gazing up at the huge stone statue, as if having a silent conversation with an old friend.

It was Archer, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Roosevelt heard footsteps and slowly turned his wheelchair to face Cross, who was walking towards him step by step.

The two stood ten meters apart, silently gazing at each other.

One is an elite soldier of modern America.

One was the legendary president who led America out of the Great Depression and World War II.

Cross stopped at the designated distance, stood ramrod straight, and gave Roosevelt a standard military salute.

"Army Captain Evan Cross reporting for duty."

Roosevelt did not return the gift.

He simply looked quietly at the young man before him, and after a moment, asked the first question in a gentle yet penetrating voice.

"Captain, they told you your mission is to control me. Do you think you can do it?"

Evan Cross lowered his hand holding the bow without the slightest hesitation.

"No, sir, my task is not to control, but to guide."

"Make sure your strength serves the people of this country, just as you have done before."

Roosevelt's face showed no change in emotion.

He then asked a second question.

"The file says you disobeyed orders in Afghanistan. If one day my orders contradict your principles, what will you do?"

This question is even more pointed than the first one.

Kroos's answer remained swift and firm.

"I will take the one that saves more innocent people."

"My loyalty belongs first to the people of America, and only second to orders."

A brief silence fell over the memorial hall.

After a moment, a smile finally appeared on Roosevelt's face.

He pointed to the empty seat next to him.

"Then sit down and tell me, Captain."

"What is your understanding of 'America'?"

Cross did not sit down; he remained standing ramrod straight.

He did not talk about grand concepts such as freedom, democracy, or constitution.

He talked about his family, his father a car mechanic and his mother a community nurse, and about the community where he grew up, where neighbors would mow the lawn and have barbecue parties together on weekends.

Finally, the story recounts the sacrifice of a comrade-in-arms in Afghanistan who died protecting him—a young man from Texas who always carried photos of his family with him.

Roosevelt listened quietly, his smile never fading.

When Cross finished telling the last story, Roosevelt nodded.

He extended his right hand and said to Cross.

I accept your answer.

"Now, let us form a contract, Master."

Evan Cross stepped forward and knelt on one knee.

He placed his right hand over his heart, his voice solemn and dignified.

"I, Evan Cross, hereby swear an oath."

"I will fight to the death for the unity, freedom and prosperity of America."

The instant his last word fell.

A burning sensation suddenly came from his bare right hand.

Three intricate red patterns, composed of eagle wings and stars, were as if branded deeply onto the back of his hand with a red-hot iron.