Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 1021 (First Update)

The war correspondents, reeking of vomit, staggered out of the cabin, only to be met with a long tunnel. Three rows of bright white fluorescent lights, one on the gray-black alloy ceiling and the other on the floor, stretched from the entrance into the interior. A heavy airlock remained tightly shut, completely separating them from the cold vacuum. However, this protective measure was inadequate; the pressurized and heated artificial air was filled with the ozone odor emitted by the sterilizer. But after an hour of extreme turbulence, all the war correspondents agreed that this was far better than the acrid, pungent air inside the cabin.

All war correspondents are used to traveling around the world in aircraft, but this time, riding in a windowless aircraft was a completely different experience: initially, they were all pinned to their seats by the aircraft's speed, unable to move, and then the violent ascent made everyone's hearts leap into their throats. The abrupt climb was unbearable for everyone, and as they floated off their seats, some began to vomit violently. This was followed by a chain reaction; even with the aircraft's pressure maintenance and air circulation systems working hard, they couldn't completely eliminate the sour smell.

Some people were so embarrassed by this situation that they cried.

When they slumped back into their seats due to gravity, everyone looked utterly wretched, like a disheveled stray dog ​​in the rain, reeking of garbage. Some viewed the journey as humiliation, much like the resistance's treatment of war correspondents, a deliberate act; others believed they had discovered the truth, as the gravity at their destination, reached after the hour-long journey, seemed slightly lower than Earth's, allowing them to walk briskly down the ramp after their physical ordeal (not all left voluntarily; some journalists only disembarked when escorting soldiers had guns pointed at their heads).

Five soldiers in black bulletproof armor, gas masks, and crimson goggles awaited them outside the aircraft ramp. The war correspondents noticed these soldiers carrying high-tech laser weapons they had seen in the hands of rebel soldiers. All their common sense seemed to be useless against the Latvian rebels; as they approached the answer, their preconceived notions kept them further away—no fanatical religious superstition, no racial or linguistic barriers; everything seemed to suggest a highly modern organization, vastly different from the CIA-backed groups in the Middle East or Afghanistan. One of the soldiers in black armor spoke first to the escorting soldiers; his voice, muffled by his fully enclosed mask, sounded almost inhuman, yet his tone was surprisingly lively—an oddity that was quite unsettling. "Sergeant Fabian, did you fight a stray cat in the garbage dump?" he said. "You know, you don't need to be a homeless person to get enough to eat."

"Shut up, these guys are yours!" The escorting soldier's face was grim, whether from his friend's sarcasm or from his own ordeal with the aircraft was unclear. Even so, he completed the handover procedures. "Get two people to help clean the cabin. If ground logistics sees what's inside, they might kill me."

"Good luck, brother. But don't get too excited. After we refill their stomachs, they might share with the cabin again, and I'm sure you'll get a share. Come with me, you bunch of curious, filthy drowned dogs." The leading black-armored soldier beckoned the stinking war correspondents to follow. The other four soldiers slowed their pace and lagged behind, silently surrounding the war correspondents. Even the most oblivious person understood what was happening; panic quietly spread among the war correspondents, but some remained calm, which pleased the black-armored soldiers.

"Don't worry, your lives are worthless to us. Your purpose is to help our Lord convey His word to the world. But before that, please hand over your camera equipment. We are not interested in the footage you capture, but we still need to disinfect your outdated equipment. As you can see, we are now in outer space. Yes, obedience is loyalty. Follow me, and you will see what you want to see, whatever it may be."

How should we address you?

"I completely forgot to introduce myself!" The black-armored soldier's tone was full of feigned surprise. "But I don't mind answering your first question. Children always need encouragement to grow up, don't they? I am Sergeant Luis Salvador of the First Assault Squad, Third Company, First Secret Regiment of the Fimbulwinter, and I am also your guide for this visit."

"We're on a space station now, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Ramesh," Luis Salvador said as he walked away without turning back.

"You're not actually the Latvian rebels, are you? I mean, you're not entirely a local rebel group. No other anti-government armed group in the world possesses this level of technology and wealth, not even those countries have the capability to fly from Earth to space in a single aircraft. Who are you, and what do you want?"

Ramesh Diaz's barrage of questions seemed somewhat aggressive, and some war correspondents, while filled with curiosity, began to worry that he might be killed on the spot. However, Luis Salvador seemed to have endless patience, saying, "Patience, patience. Go take a shower, change your clothes, and have a good meal. You have time to find out what you want to know, but only if you have the energy to keep up. My Lord doesn't want you to starve to death here."

"Your master?"

"Yes, yes, our master. You and your boss, you and the bank that took out a loan to buy your house, are all in a master-servant relationship, aren't you? Our master won't try to drain every drop of blood from you like your master does. To your master, you're just a cow that can continuously produce wealth. All our master wants is our loyalty. He wants us to give everything for his grand ideals, nothing more. And we are willing to give it all because we don't want anyone else in this world to be able to extract wealth from people like you, because we want everyone to be able to realize their own potential." "Value, taking on one's own social responsibility—dedicating everything to the survival of the human race, forging everyone into steel, instead of indulging in false freedom amidst fake news and mindless entertainment." Luis Salvador stopped in the curved corridor. "Take your access cards, one room per person. You have thirty minutes to wash and change. My soldiers will take you to fill your stomachs and then bring you to me. Don't be so curious; burning corpses in space is not a pleasant experience. Don't cause us any trouble."

"Why did you let those war correspondents know so much?" Hammurabi asked, tilting his head. Opposite him, the monarch of the Immortal City, along with his royal guards, sat in seats designed to fit their sizes, unbuckled, their power armor's steel boots' magnetic motors securing them firmly to the cabin floor. "Don't you think revealing too many secrets at once will give the enemy a better understanding of us?"

The assault transport ship jolted. "Even if we could instantly eliminate their command center, Latveria couldn't afford the cost." Unlike his confident demeanor during his speech, Salomon inside the assault transport ship seemed more like an ordinary person. Victor von Doom, sitting beside him, nodded and continued Salomon's words.

"We need deterrence, and informational deterrence is just as important as military deterrence," he said. "When that deterrence is realized after we begin our strikes, its effect will be multiplied. That's why we're heading to the northern front lines now; we're going to launch an attack on NATO after the press conference. Our insiders on the Council on Foreign Relations will help us determine the timing of the attack, and the U.S. military will provide us with all of NATO's military movements. The initiative in this war is in our hands, and nothing demonstrates the righteousness of our cause more than a crushing victory."

Please vote for me!

(End of this chapter)