I created the Old Gods and Outer Gods in America.

It's not just Martin's villa.

St. Mary's Hospital, Emergency Room.

A middle-aged man was being wheeled into the examination room by a nurse, still cursing and complaining that he had developed a rash and demanding that the attending physician come quickly, as he had paid a lot of money for a VIP ward.

Before he finished speaking, the red lump of flesh that was initially only the size of a coin began to spread on his bare forearm. The nurse screamed and knocked over the instrument tray, scattering metal instruments all over the floor.

A VIP ward on the third floor of a private hospital.

A well-known Hollywood director had just completed a full-body checkup. The attending physician was telling him, holding the test results, that it might just be an allergic reaction. The next second, the sound of fabric tearing came from the hospital bed. The real estate developer's hospital uniform was ripped open from the inside, and dark red muscle tissue crawled out from his back like vines, spreading along the spine to both sides.

Three nurses fainted on the spot.

Almost simultaneously, the same symptoms broke out in multiple locations. Dark red flesh grew from inside the human body, devouring the host and eventually turning a living person into a lump of flesh and blood without features or expression.

"What a pity."

On the top of a building, countless maggots swarmed together, eventually forming a human shape – that was Jon.

"We were too poor before and completely forgot about this. These rich people are so obsessed with their health. They rush to the hospital at the slightest ailment, either to a private hospital or to a private doctor who caters specifically to them. Fuck."

Yorn cursed under his breath. He had thought that he could spread the virus over a large area with this group of people, but it turned out that these guys just liked to run to places with fewer people.

When I get sick, I immediately stop socializing, start getting treatment, don't go back to the hospital to queue, don't squeeze into the lobby with crowds, and don't come into contact with many ordinary people.

It's only because the virus was so virulent, coupled with the simultaneous outbreaks in multiple locations, that it truly couldn't have spread.

"Learn from this lesson, be more careful next time. Those rich bastards, I'll kill them all when I have the chance!"

......

Washington City Hall, third floor, mayor's office.

Bernard Klein, 54, has been in politics for 26 years and has experienced three economic crises, two hurricanes, and a port workers' strike. He believes that nothing can make his blood pressure go out of control anymore.

But now he knows he was wrong.

"Say it again?" Bernard took off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose hard.

Secretary Wilson stood at his desk, holding a tablet computer. On the screen was a progress report from the construction team: "Mayor, the renovation project on Seventh Street... is 87 percent complete."

"Eighty-seven percent."

"Yes, sir, it is expected to be completed within a week."

Bernard's temple throbbed twice.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the street in the distance, under the streetlights, where the battle had destroyed the area. The scaffolding was still there, but most of it had been dismantled, and the brand-new exterior walls reflected the streetlights.

Fake!

It's been repaired really well.

It was fixed really quickly.

These guys are usually so good at slacking off, but this time they're surprisingly enthusiastic?

He grabbed the phone on the table: "Connect me to the construction team leader."

After three rings, the call was answered.

"Patrick, have you lost your mind?"

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone: "...Mayor?"

"Working overtime in the middle of the night instead of sleeping? Don't your workers need rest? Don't you need rest? Doesn't your dog need you to walk it? It's so late, why aren't you home with your wife?"

"But Mayor, didn't you say you wanted to speed things up..."

"I spoke to the media, did I tell you? When did I tell you to speed things up? Show me your email records, did I fucking tell you to speed things up?"

Patrick was completely dumbfounded.

Bernard hung up the phone and sat back in his chair.

He opened the drawer, took out a bottle of blood pressure medication, poured out two pills, and swallowed them dry.

In the neighboring Columbia District, the streets damaged by the last fishman attack are still not even a tenth of the way back. The mayor there complains about being broke on social media every day, but he has the smile of a fox who has stolen a chicken on his face.

Why?

Because of the traces left by those fishmen, even though the authorities removed those corals to conceal the existence of the fishmen, the traces left by the battle could not be covered up, especially the traces left by the big fish when it left.

Because these are all truly extraordinary relics!

It's not comparable to those blurry photos and third-rate documentaries about the Loch Ness Monster.

Tourists fly in from all over the world to take photos, hotel prices have tripled, and souvenir shops in the area are even more popular than those at Disneyland. Even the vendors selling keychains there have earned enough to buy a house in just six months.

Bernard's eyes turned red as he looked at the GDP data next door.

He finally had a supernatural event, and the crowd of onlookers was just starting to flock over, but you sent Trick to fix the scene for me.

What's the point of people looking at it once it's fixed?

If they don't come, how will the GDP grow? How can I get promoted faster?

Before he could even catch his breath, Wilson pushed the door open and came in again.

"Mayor, a protest has broken out in the city center."

Which union?

"It's not a union, it's... two groups of people."

Wilson's expression was like that of someone who had eaten a sour lemon: "Women's rights organizations and Black rights groups."

Bernard's hand paused on the blood pressure medication bottle, somewhat puzzled. What's wrong with this group that thinks about protests and marches the moment they open their eyes every day?

"...Have any new policies been introduced recently?"

"no."

"Are there any controversial incidents?"

"No, not at all."

"So what are they protesting about?"

Wilson swallowed hard. "The feminist organizations are demanding...why are all the publicly known superhumans currently identified as men? They believe this is systemic sexism."

"Black rights groups are demanding...why are all the publicly known superhumans white? They believe this is a continuation of racial oppression."

The office was silent for five seconds.

Bernard's face went from red to white, and then from white to red again.

He slammed his hand on the table, and the blood pressure medication bottle bounced up and rolled to the ground.

"Faking Shet!! I can control supernatural abilities?!"

He stood up, and the chair slid back half a meter, bumping into the cabinet.

"If I could decide who has superpowers, would I be sitting here?! If I could control superpowers, would tractors be parading through the streets? If I could control superpowers, all these things would be worth back to the 18th century! Fuck!"

Wilson took a step back.

Bernard took a few deep breaths, leaned on the table to sit back down, and closed his eyes.

Just then, the landline phone on the table rang.

Red indicator light.

Only three people have numbers on this line.

Bernard answered the call and listened for ten seconds.

His expression first showed impatience, then confusion, and finally, the confusion was crushed, leaving only an emotion he had never shown in his 26 years in politics.

He slowly put down the phone and looked at Wilson.

"A mutation has occurred within the city."