Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

"New York is not located on a seismic tectonic plate!"

"what is that?"

Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Someone peeked out but saw nothing.

Over in the trading area, an analyst who was on the phone said "Wait a minute" into the microphone, then stood up, walked to the window, and looked out.

On the street below, several pedestrians stopped and looked up.

What are they looking at?

No one answered.

The fluorescent light tubes overhead flickered, went out, and then came back on.

The glass door to the conference room slid open and closed by itself.

The fund manager, seated at the head of the table, put down the documents in his hand and frowned: "Call Blackstone."

The assistant paused for a moment, then got up and walked out.

Just as I reached the door—

the third time.

boom.

The entire building suddenly tilted in one direction—not too serious, only a dozen centimeters, but at a height of over thirty stories, this degree of tilt was enough to cause everything to veer off its original position.

The office chair slid off by itself and crashed into the partition.

The loosely secured folder flew off the table.

One after another, the hardcover books on the top shelf fell down, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

A gasp of surprise rippled through the trading area.

Some people instinctively grabbed the edge of the table, some squatted down, and one person—the young trader who had just taken off his headphones—slid off the chair and lay flat on the floor, his eyes wide open.

"Go downstairs!!"

I don't know who shouted the first word.

Then came the second tone, the third tone, and countless other tones.

"Downstairs!! Everyone downstairs!!"

The corridor instantly filled with people. High heels were lost in the rush, no one picked them up; coffee was spilled on the floor, no one cared; phones were smashed, but no one looked back. Everyone was running, pushing, and jostling.

Someone bumped into a corner of the wall, but ignoring the pain, got up and kept running.

Someone fell at the bottom of the stairs, and the person behind almost stepped on it, but was pulled up by a colleague next to them.

Some people were crying, some were shouting, and some kept their mouths open the whole time, unable to utter a single word.

The elevator has stopped.

The moment the emergency exit door was pushed open, all that could be heard inside was the sound of footsteps—the footsteps of hundreds of people echoing in the concrete stairwell, like a rout.

People who were discussing the Q3 financial report just three minutes ago are now crowding the stairs and rushing down.

People who were chatting and drinking coffee five minutes ago are now pulling each other's clothes and running down the street.

Ten minutes ago, they were arguing over a deal worth millions; now, no one was looking at anyone else, and they all had only one thought—

Get out.

Run out.

The farther the better.

In the stairwell, a middle-aged man ran while shouting back, "Is anyone behind me?!"

The person behind shouted, panting, "I don't know!"

……

Berlin, Charlottenburg district.

Hans was awakened by the loud banging on the door.

That kind of slamming wasn't knocking—it was like swinging your fist at the door, one blow after another, making the whole door shake.

He sprang out of bed, his mind still fogged up, but his body was already in a state of stress.

What time is it?

The curtains were drawn, and the room was dimly lit.

The door is still being smashed.

"Hans! Damn Hans!" Matthias's voice boomed through the door, cracking, "The Jews have launched missiles at your house!"

what?

Before Hans's brain could even process the sentence, his hand had already reached for the doorknob.

He yanked the door open.

Two people stood outside the door—Matthias and Luca, both wearing the same clothes as yesterday, both panting heavily, their eyes wide open.

"My phone is on silent," Hans said apologetically, "I fell asleep."

"Quick!" Without a single complaint or question, Matthias grabbed his arm. "Come and see!"

Hans ran behind, his feet sinking into the cold floor.

Two minutes later.

Hans stood in front of the screen in the studio, mouth agape, unable to utter a single word.

The left screen shows a BBC recording, with the timestamp showing it was 15 minutes ago.

In the video, a blurry figure is running wildly through the streets of Manhattan, with cars moving normally alongside. The speed contrast is so obvious that no explanation is needed.

The right screen shows the live stream.

WABC's news helicopter was still flying overhead, its camera focused on a 30-plus-story office building—no, it focused on the street below that building.

The streets were packed with people, all looking up.

On the upper right side of the right screen, a looping clip is always displayed.

The whole building is leaning!

An Asian young man single-handedly lifted a skyscraper that was over thirty stories high!

Against the neat Manhattan skyline, that slight tilt is as glaring as a scar.

"It's true..." Hans murmured after being stunned for at least ten seconds.

Two minutes later, the special feature urgently produced by "The Edge of Reality" went online!

120 km/h is nothing!

350 km/h, this is the daily life of a high-speed rail hero!

What's so special about jumping over eight meters in a straight line from a ramp onto an overpass?

Soaring 75 meters into the air! Staying suspended for more than 5 seconds, gliding across an entire river – this is the daily life of a high-speed rail hero!

……

Just as Hans was concentrating intently and giving it his all, Matthias, who was in charge of monitoring the information flow, suddenly shouted: "The police have arrived!"

Matthias's shout startled both Hans and Luca.

Hans looked up from his screen and towards Matthias's monitor.

There are three screens over there as well.

The left screen shows a live aerial broadcast from the BBC.

A helicopter is circling over Midtown Manhattan, with the camera focused on 875 Third Avenue.

In the footage, the street below was completely paralyzed—police cars, fire trucks, and black federal vehicles filled every intersection, and red and blue police lights turned the afternoon sunlight into a chaotic, flickering mess. Three yellow police tapes were laid out, with the outermost one extending onto the opposite sidewalk.

The middle screen shows footage from a BBC ground reporter. A blonde female reporter stands outside the police cordon, with a chaotic crowd and flashing police lights behind her. She speaks rapidly into the camera, her voice trembling slightly with nervousness:

"...We just received information from the NYPD that the building shifted noticeably less than an hour ago—you can see the building behind me; it's now...righted, but structural damage is inevitable. There are no reports of injuries, but the entire building has been completely cordoned off. Police are declining to release any information..."

At this point, the reporter paused, as if he had heard something, and looked back.

The camera followed her gaze—in the frame, SWAT team members were jumping out of a black van, tactical vests, helmets, and rifles, their movements swift and precise. Some were gesturing to their teammates, some were speaking into their headsets, and others were jogging towards the alleyway to the side of the building.

"...SWAT has arrived at the scene," the female reporter's voice carried a distinct sense of urgency. "We don't yet know the nature of this incident, but the police deployment at the scene indicates that this is definitely not an ordinary construction accident—"

The right screen displays a completely different scene.

It was taken from the window of a nearby high-rise apartment building; the angle was slightly higher, offering a wide view.

In the image, inside the police cordon—which is the center of everything—is a young Asian man wearing a dark coat.

He was sitting in a white plastic chair.

The kind of plastic chair most commonly seen at street hot dog stands, white, a little dirty, with a store's logo on the back. He sat there, legs crossed, holding a cup of coffee—a standard New York street paper cup, blue body, white lid, steam still rising from the rim.

In the video, he is just bringing the cup to his lips, his head slightly lowered, and his expression is not clear, but his posture is as relaxed as if he were sunbathing in Central Park.

Ten meters behind him was the thirty-plus-story office building.

People inside the building were rushing out—traders, analysts, fund managers, and well-dressed elites were crammed into the stairwells, some running without even picking up their high heels, some still clutching phones they hadn't hung up, and some tripping at corners but being pulled up by those behind them to keep running. Emergency exits were being smashed open one after another, and the crowd surged out like a burst dam, overflowing everywhere.

Fifteen meters behind him were at least thirty fully armed police officers.

Some people were setting up a cordon, while others were shouting into walkie-talkies.

No officers drew their guns.

--------

Conrad Vanderbilt III, the NYPD's 17th Precinct Commander, received the call just ten seconds after the incident.

Conrad arrived at the scene in just half a minute. — This is the most prosperous region in the world, with police funding so abundant it could drown a whale.

Thus, Conrad had the privilege of witnessing the remarkable feat of young Asian Americans lifting a skyscraper.

In the next two minutes, Conrad immediately reported the incident to the deputy precinct chief, the South Manhattan Police Department chief, the NYPD director’s office, the FBI, and the Department of Homeland Security’s New York office.

No one questioned whether he was mentally ill—the BBC's live broadcast provided the strongest endorsement for Conrad.

For a full five minutes, no one gave Conrad any instructions.

Conrad couldn't hold back any longer and dialed his direct superior, the chief of the South Manhattan Police Department, for the second time.

The director instructed, "Okay, I understand."

89 camp

The entire nation was watching the live broadcast: a building was lifted up and put down again, surrounded by over thirty police officers, three helicopters, and more than twenty media outlets.

The director can say, "I understand."

If the mayor is no good—even if he doesn't expect votes in the next election, he should still think about whether a wild, mentally unstable gunman might sprout up on his lawn in the middle of the night.

The pressure then fell back on Vanderbilt in the 17th inning.

In the seventh minute, Vanderbilt crossed the police line and walked to the white plastic chair.

Five meters away, no closer.

“Sir,” Vanderbilt’s voice was steady, but at least two million people could see that the officer’s hand holding the walkie-talkie was trembling as he walked past at the most steady pace, “If you would like to know… how we should handle this matter?”

The young man looked up and glanced at him.

“I’m from China,” he said, “and I’m a hardworking food delivery rider.”

Vanderbilt paused for a moment.

The young man continued, "For the rest, you can ask the vulture fund."

"Thank you, sir."

Vanderbilt didn't even bother to ask for his name anymore.

Dude, I've tried my best, okay?!

Based on those two sentences just now, the Southern District Police Chief, the NYPD Director General's Office, the FBI, and the Department of Homeland Security... should all give themselves a pension!