Super Rich: Starting the game by going back ten years to buy Bitcoin

pain.

This was the first signal Li Yichen received after regaining consciousness.

It wasn't the kind of pain from a bump or knock; it was the dull, aching pain of broken bones rubbing against each other. It felt like someone had stuffed a piece of red-hot iron into my chest, and every breath felt like a dull knife cutting into my flesh.

He lay at the bottom of the sandpit, his mouth filled with the taste of blood.

The blue light of the HUD restarting flashed twice before his eyes, and Ling'er's holographic projection popped up. He had never seen the expression on the little girl's face before. It wasn't her usual playfulness, nor her calmness during battle; it was a panic that she was desperately trying to suppress after being frightened.

"Brother! Don't move! The armor is performing a self-check—your ribs…" Her voice trailed off, "Three are broken. Two more are still intact, but they're cracked."

Li Yichen coughed.

The metallic taste rising in my throat became even stronger.

"As expected."

He could sense it himself. The gene-optimized serum boosted his physical abilities to more than ten times that of an average person, but the shockwave from ten cluster bombs detonating simultaneously within ten meters would have turned anyone else into mincemeat long ago.

He had three broken ribs and two fractured ribs.

Okay.

You won't die.

"What do you mean, 'as expected'!" Ling'er exclaimed anxiously, her voice rising several decibels. "Do you know that the peak pressure of the shockwave just now exceeded—"

"Ling'er," Li Yichen interrupted her, "How much damage has been done to your armor?"

The little girl bit her lip—if she had lips.

"Twenty percent. The left shoulder armor is cracked, the back pylon is detached, and the chest armor is dented. The weapon system is intact, and the flight system is intact." She paused. "It won't significantly affect your overall combat capability."

That's enough.

Li Yichen raised his head.

Five kilometers away, five F-35Cs were turning their noses around.

In the night sky, their navigation lights flashed, their formation loosened, and their speed decreased to subsonic as they flew toward the coordinates where he had crashed.

It flew very slowly. Very low.

They looked like they were coming over to inspect the body.

In the cockpit of the F-35C lead aircraft, Hound 2—now the captain—pressed the communication button.

"Carrier control room, this is Hound II. Target has been hit head-on by cluster munitions and crashed at coordinates A7-12. Repeat, target destroyed." His voice carried a sense of relieved exhaustion. "That steel monster is finished."

There was a half-second silence on the other end of the communication.

Then it exploded.

It wasn't an explosion, it was cheers.

Inside the CIC, a dozen or so people simultaneously slammed their fists on the table, shook hands, and someone ripped off their headset, tilting their head back and letting out a deep breath. Fifteen F-35Cs, ten destroyed, ten pilots killed. The cost was fucking devastating.

But it's worth it.

The value of that suit of armor far exceeds that of fifteen fifth-generation fighter jets.

Major General Jeffrey switched the secure phone to his left hand, wiping sweat from his trouser seam with his right. "Hound Two, target destroyed. Repeat, target destroyed. You remain in position, maintaining low-altitude observation. Do not allow anyone to approach the wreckage. We will send ground troops to take it over immediately."

"Received. Circling in place."

Hound 2 cut off communications and positioned the fighter jet directly above the target.

The thrust vectoring nozzles deflect downwards, and the mid-section lift fan activates. The F-35B's unique hovering capability allows this 20-ton steel behemoth to precisely stop at an altitude of 120 meters.

Hound 2 tilted its head and looked down through the helmet-mounted sights.

A three-meter-deep crater was blasted into the sand, and at the bottom lay the silver-gray armor. Limbs outstretched, motionless, a section of the breastplate dented, and a crack in the left shoulder armor. There was no light around it—all indicator lights were off, the thrusters were shut down, and it was no different from a piece of scrap metal.

The hunter stares at his prey.

The prey was dead.

The other four F-35Cs were spread out around, maintaining a low altitude of fifty to eighty meters and a speed of just over two hundred kilometers per hour. They were moving as slowly as if they were taking a stroll in their own backyard.

They're not in a hurry.

The spoils are lying in the pit; they can't escape.

Someone whistled in the chat. "How much is this thing worth? Will it get me a promotion?"

"A promotion?" another person chimed in. "You've earned at least a Congressional Medal for shooting this thing. You won't need to fly for the rest of your life; you can go straight to a military academy as an instructor, sitting in an air-conditioned office."

"Then I have to treat you."

"You fucking have to invite him."

Laughter. Relaxed, relieved, and slightly exhilarated laughter.

Hound Two didn't laugh. He stared at the suit of armor at the bottom of the pit, feeling that something was off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He'd witnessed the shockwave of the explosion firsthand—a cluster munition, forty bullets, the flames covering half the screen in that instant. What could possibly survive that kind of firepower?

Nothing can survive.

He was relieved.

The bottom of the sandpit.

Li Yichen looked up at the sky, peering through the HUD at the hovering F-35B overhead.

One hundred and twenty meters.

It's fucking close.

It was so close that you could see the low-visibility flying wing logo painted on the air intake.

"Ling'er, has the armor finished its self-check?"

"Power system self-test complete. Weapon system self-test complete. Flight control system self-test complete." Ling'er finished reciting the list, her voice still strained. "Brother, your ribs—"

"I'll take care of it when we get back." Li Yichen slowly clenched his right hand.

The palm pulse cannon's firing port glowed with a faint blue light, casting a small, cool-colored halo around the bottom of the sandpit.

He stared at the fighter jet overhead.

With the thrust vectoring nozzles pointing downwards and the mid-section lift fan activated, the entire F-35B is in its most vulnerable state in order to maintain hovering—all thrust is used to counteract gravity, leaving zero maneuverability.

And it flew so low.

So slow.

So—unscrupulous.

Li Yichen's lips twitched slightly.

If you're looking for trouble, then don't blame me.

"Ling'er, eject." He squeezed out the two words from his back teeth.

The vectoring nozzles on the back of the armor ignited instantly. White and blue flames exploded at the bottom of the crater, sending sand flying dozens of meters high. The entire armor was launched from the three-meter-deep sand pit like a silver arrow shot from the ground.

Sonic boom.

0.8 seconds.

Hound No. 2's pupils hadn't even had time to contract.

He saw it. He saw it the instant the blue light appeared at the bottom of the crater. His hand instinctively reached for the control stick. But in the F-35B's hovering position, the thrust vectoring nozzles require 1.2 seconds to complete the angle switch.

One and a half seconds is enough to kill you three times at Mach 2.

The silver metallic outline on his windshield swelled from a tiny sesame seed to cover the entire glass surface.

He was so close that he could see the blue-glowing round hole in the palm of the armor.

He was so close that he could see the T-shaped cold light slit on the visor.

That gap—there's someone's eye inside.

Live.

The first palm-sized pulse cannon shot pierced the cockpit at point-blank range. The beam of light entered from the nose and exited from the tail, vaporizing the pilot along with it. The F-35B disintegrated in mid-air, and before the debris even hit the ground, Li Yichen had already changed direction.

The pilots of the other four F-35Cs heard the half-scream over the lead aircraft's channel.

And that was it.

Immediately afterwards, the silver signal on the radar screen, which had been marked "destroyed" five seconds earlier, lit up again and was approaching at Mach 3.

"He—he's still alive!"

Hound No. 4's throat cracked. This wasn't fear; it was the instinctive scream of someone whose worldview had been utterly shattered.

A cluster munition. Forty bullets. A direct hit. He's still alive.

They pulled on the lever with all their might. The engine roared. But it was no use. Just now, in order to observe and wait, they had reduced their speed to subsonic and their altitude to below 100 meters. Accelerating from subsonic to supersonic speed takes time, and gaining altitude also takes time.

Li Yichen didn't give them time.

Mach 3.

First target. Caught up in three seconds.

The palm-sized pulse cannon fired two shots in quick succession. The first shot sliced ​​through the tail fin, sending the fighter jet tumbling through the air. The second shot pierced through the midsection of the fuselage. A fireball exploded.

The second target. Catch up in five seconds.

The pilot made a sharp turn. But the high G-force at low altitude and low speed caused the fighter jet to stall. The nose plunged down, crashing into the sand. Before he could pull up, a blue light shot down from above the cockpit canopy.

The third goal.

The fourth second.

At the fourth second, Hound 9 was the last surviving pilot on the team. He had reached Mach 1 and was desperately climbing. Mach 3 roared rapidly approaching from the rear hemisphere.

He pressed the call button. His voice was trembling, but his words were clear.

"He is the devil."

There was a brief silence on the channel, broken only by the noise of tearing air and his own breathing.

"We definitely hit him. Cluster munitions. Head-on hit." He swallowed hard. "He's not dead. He's flying towards me. I can't escape."

Behind him, Li Yichen's right palm was already raised. The blue light from the pulse cannon shone like a star in his palm.

Hound Nine turned on the channel. The entire recording was done.

"Let me apologize to my wife, I can't go back—"

The rest of the words were swallowed by light.

Five fireballs exploded in the night sky less than eight seconds apart. Fragments, trailing fiery tails, fell into the desert, burning to ashes along with the unfinished apology.

Ford CIC.

Fifteen green cursors. All gray.

The communication replay is still playing. One segment after another.

"Help--"

Then came the intermittent screams. "He's the devil... he's death... he's flying towards me... I can't escape..."

Finally, there's that last half-sentence.

"Let me apologize to my wife, I can't go back—"

Stopped.

Everything has stopped.

No one spoke in the command room. Major General Jeffrey's fingers gripped the edge of the control panel so tightly that his nails turned white. Lieutenant Colonel Burns, sitting next to him, removed his headphones and placed them on the table. The movement was very quiet, as if afraid of waking someone.

Ten seconds. Still no one spoke. Everyone in this command center was a seasoned veteran. The Gulf War, Afghanistan, Iraq. They had signed countless casualty reports. But from the moment fifteen F-35Cs took off until they were all killed, less than fifteen minutes had passed. The last five didn't even last eight seconds.

Total annihilation.

One person. One suit of armor.

Total annihilation.

Jeffrey picked up the red secure phone. His finger hovered over the dial pad, then he suddenly hesitated, unsure what to say after "Sir." He had prepared a "mission accomplished" report, a "spoils of war are on their way" report. But now he had to tell the Pentagon himself—the second wave of attacks, ten F-35Cs, including the first survivors, were all gone.

The call was connected.

"Headquarters, this is USS Ford CIC." His throat was parched. "The second wave of attacks on the Iron Man armor... all failed. We lost fifteen F-35Cs. Target confirmed alive."

There was a long silence on the other end.

In the Situation Room, three stories underground at the Pentagon, everyone was waiting for that call. After hearing the last sentence, no one asked the foolish question, "Should we send more planes?" If fifteen planes couldn't win, send twenty? Thirty? And then what? Total annihilation?

The National Security Advisor spoke first, his voice strained and distorted. "Withdraw all troops. That area—no flight."

At an altitude of 30,000 meters.

Li Yichen changed direction. On the HUD, the convoy's coordinates were changing. There were still more than fifty kilometers to go to their destination.

A dull ache throbbed in his chest. Each breath he took from the broken bone reminded him of this. He caught his breath and asked Ling'er, "How's the convoy?"

"All twelve vehicles are here. No one has fallen behind." Ling'er's voice was still tense. "Brother, your injury—"

"My injuries are nothing to worry about, I won't die. However, I'm not one to be taken advantage of so easily. Ling'er, find out the location of that aircraft carrier fleet."