Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

"Continue!" Jim yelled into the headset. "Public system view is here! Three, two, one, cut!"

The scene changes again.

This time it's the surveillance cameras in the public transportation system.

It offers a wide view, overlooking the entire street.

In the image, a tiny black dot is moving on the street.

That's too fast.

It's so fast that even the monitor's frame rate can't keep up—every few frames, the black dot jumps forward a lot, like the video is choppy.

However, the cars driving normally next to them moved smoothly.

Only that black dot is jumping.

“Speed—” Tom from the data analysis team had already started muttering to himself, “Reference point—that white Ford—about 45 miles per hour—it moved between two frames—fuck—fuck—”

"Say!"

"74 miles per hour! 119 kilometers per hour!"

The live stream was silent for a full two seconds.

Brian heard the voice from the control room through his headset. This time it wasn't Jim, but another staff member yelling at someone: "Isn't the fuck number two ready? Hurry up! Where's the helicopter footage?! When can we switch to it?!"

"Still linked! Still linked!"

"It should have arrived three seconds ago!"

"I know! But that—that fucking scene—fuck—never mind, see for yourself—"

The monitor in front of Brian flickered.

Finally, the helicopter footage has arrived.

The camera takes a bird's-eye view of Queens.

The streets stretched like gray ribbons, the vehicles like moving toys, and the slanting sunlight cast long shadows of the buildings.

The camera pans by.

"We've found him!" came the helicopter reporter's voice, trembling with excitement, "Three o'clock! Near Long Island Expressway! He's running! He's still running!"

The camera zooms in.

In the video, a small figure is moving down the street.

From high above, he looks as small as a speck of dust.

But the speed of his movement—it was too obvious. The traffic beside him moved at a normal speed, and he weaved through it, like—

What does it look like?

Brian couldn't think of a metaphor.

"He's heading towards Manhattan!" the helicopter reporter shouted. "My God—he just crossed the Long Island Expressway—there's an interchange—he went straight—he cut right off the ramp—he didn't slow down—"

Brian finally found his tongue again:

“Dear viewers, BBC News is broadcasting live for you—we don’t know what this is either—but you are witnessing—witnessing something that has never happened before in human history. A man—a gentleman—is traveling through Queens, New York at over 70 miles per hour—no, over 75 miles per hour.”

"The direction is Manhattan."

"What is the specific destination? We don't know yet."

"Who is he? We don't know yet either."

"But you are witnessing..."

"The birth of a myth."

In the video, the tiny figure continues to move forward.

The helicopter was in pursuit, but the distance was increasing.

"He's accelerating!" the helicopter reporter shouted. "My God, he's accelerating! He wasn't even using his full power yet!"

In Brian's earpiece, the control room was in complete chaos:

"Where's the footage from camera number three?! From the roadside! Which shop captured it?"

"It's still circulating!"

"CNN's phones are ringing off the hook! They're asking if we'll sell our footage!"

"Not for sale! Let them bid on it themselves!"

"FOX played too!"

"Tell them we're live! Let them watch the live stream!"

"Mayor's office phone number!"

"I won't answer!"

"FBI—Fuck—FBI phone call!"

"……catch."

In the picture, the small figure gets farther and farther away.

The helicopter couldn't catch up.

"He's in Manhattan!" the helicopter reporter's voice came through the headset, tinged with a strange—awe. "He ran across the Queens Bridge—my God, he didn't even use the driveway—he cut up the side of the bridge—and now he's in Manhattan—heading north on Second Avenue—"

In the footage, that small figure weaves through the gaps between the buildings.

"He's turning left—42nd Street—he's heading east—his speed hasn't decreased—he's even accelerating—"

The helicopter frantically adjusted its course, trying to keep up.

"Third Avenue—47th Street—51st Street—he's there—he stopped!"

The camera zooms in.

In the video, the man is standing in front of a building with a dark glass curtain wall.

The building is over thirty stories high, with a small awning at the entrance and a flagpole next to it, where the Stars and Stripes flutter gently in the morning breeze.

The bronze plaque in front of the building is engraved with the words: 875.Third.A.venue.

--------

That's right, vulture funds.

Zhang Qiliang looked him over and nodded.

It would be bad if, after making such a long trip, people still didn't know the reason two or three days later.

Okay, let me say hello first.

Thinking this, Zhang Qiliang walked to the corner of the building and pressed his hands against the walls on both sides.

With a gentle lift.

The next moment, 875.Third.A.venue, the entire building from the ground floor to the top floor, suddenly shook upwards.

88 I understand

When the building manager rushed out, the first thing he saw was the young Asian man.

There was simply no way to avoid seeing it.

The entire building tilted in that direction, and looking in that direction, the young man stood in the corner with his hands on the wall—the entire building was lifted by at least ten centimeters.

The administrator had worked in New York for twenty-three years and had seen all sorts of strange things.

People jump off buildings, people carry guns, homeless people defecate in the lobby, and drunkards use fire hydrants as urinals. But now this—

He stood there with his mouth agape, forgetting to run.

“Sir,” his voice was weak, “what are you doing?”

The young man turned his head and glanced at him.

"This building is quite beautiful. I like it very much and I'm going to take it with me. I'll try it out first."

This...this...!

The administrator stared blankly, unable to utter a word for a long time.

"...This is Blackstone Group's property."

"Is that so?" The young man nodded calmly. "But now I've taken a liking to him."

The administrator's brain has given up.

All the rhetoric, all the experience in dealing with emergencies, and all the skills on "how to deal with madmen" that he had accumulated over his 23-year career became useless at this moment.

The last thing that came out of his mouth was a sentence he himself didn't expect: "You... aren't you violating the property law?"

God...

He himself didn't know what he was saying.

The young man tilted his head as if trying to understand the words.

When it comes to legal terminology, the young people's American English isn't as fluent.

“Perhaps,” he said, “but don’t the gentlemen upstairs always just take whatever they like?”

The administrator's mouth dropped open once again.

Before he could reply, the young man offered his advice:

"Go and inform the people in the building. Tell them that if they don't leave within half an hour, they should just leave with the building."

After saying that, he put the building down.

boom.

The Third A.venue building... no, the whole street jumped!

The administrator replied without hesitation—"Are you kidding me? Of course I can't go back to the building!!!"

He turned and ran, running dozens of meters in one breath until he reached the side of another building across the street, a spot where he was absolutely out of the way of being hit.

Then he pulled out a walkie-talkie, his fingers trembling so much he almost missed pressing the call button:

"Fire! Fire! Everyone evacuate! Emergency! Most urgent! Everyone! Evacuate immediately!"

……

To be honest, this is a bit unnecessary.

……

The building shook three times.

The first time was very light.

The candlestick chart on the computer screen swayed slightly, causing ripples to spread across the surface of the coffee in the cup before returning to calm.

The analyst, who was on the phone, paused, looked down at the ground, then looked up at the ceiling, and said into the microphone, "It's nothing, maybe something upstairs collapsed."

The middle-aged woman sitting by the window organizing documents frowned and glanced out the window.

The street downstairs was normal; traffic and pedestrians were as usual. She shrugged and continued flipping through the documents in her hand.

Over at the trading floor, a young trader looked up, took off one of his earphones, and asked his colleague, "What was that just now?"

My colleague, staring at the three screens without turning his head, asked, "What? What?"

"It wobbled a little."

"Really? I didn't feel anything."

Less than ten seconds later, the second time.

The entire floor shook noticeably, computer screens swayed wildly, and folders slid off the desktops, clattering and crashing all over the floor.

Someone stood up from the chair.

"what's the situation?"

"earthquake?"