hooklinebooks Chapter 1 The Death of a Good Family Man, the Wrath of Courage!
Chapter 1 The Death of a Good Family Man, the Wrath of Courage!
The Dearborn community in Michigan.
After a long day, Carl Jensen opened the door to his home with a stiff expression.
The money in his hand still carried the chill of the basement freezer; it was obtained by exchanging his daughter Erica Gundam from a party.
The phone screen automatically lit up in the dimly lit foyer, and a notification popped up: Your property valuation has increased, and your home asset has appreciated in value.
His already pale skin appeared even more ashen under the dim light of the screen, like a sheet of paper.
Property appreciation means property taxes will rise, which means next month's bill will be higher.
They might not even be able to pay back the 12-hour workday with overtime benefits.
"Sigh~"
He sighed helplessly.
However, the room was rather quiet.
"Mike?"
He called out, his voice hoarse.
no respond.
silence.
An ominous silence enveloped the house.
The door slammed shut, the click of the lock echoing sharply in the empty living room.
He was panting heavily as he walked step by step toward his son's room, his old military boots clicking on the floor.
They were so close, yet felt incredibly far apart.
The door was ajar.
As soon as he pushed his hand away, his somewhat confused pupils instantly contracted!
"Mike?!?"
Jason felt like he couldn't breathe.
His son, the taller, stronger son who had once said he would take over the family's burdens, was now lying in bed.
His pale face was staring wide-eyed at the faded ceiling, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints.
Those are the marks left by long-term blood selling and the use of enhancement drugs.
The deformed fingers were twisted and curled up, as if trying to grasp something at the last moment.
No breathing, no heartbeat, nothing at all.
Jason's muscles tensed instantly, then began to tremble violently the next second.
"No……"
A breathy sound was squeezed out of his throat.
He rushed to the bedside, his battlefield first aid knowledge learned in the army surging through his mind. He pressed his fingers on his son's cold neck and began to press on his already still chest in vain.
Push harder, and then push even harder.
The bones made a faint cracking sound under my hand.
Useless.
That young face, every stiff line proclaiming one fact:
His son became a very valuable Gundam.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto the cold wooden floor.
My spouse passed away while suffering from a serious illness.
Just now, my daughter's cold Gundam turned into warm US dollars.
Now, the Gundam that his son had gradually grown cold with is right in front of him.
It's empty. This house is completely empty.
"No, no, no, no, no, no! Lord! Why did you take even Mike away from me!"
His trembling hand reached for his neck, gripping the old, worn-out cross tightly, the metal edge digging into his flesh.
He stood up unsteadily, but his movements were unusually steady.
He picked up the old-fashioned revolver that was polished to a shine but had clearly not been used for many years, which was placed on the cabinet.
The cold touch of metal spread from my palms to my whole body.
He slowly pressed the gun barrel against his temple and closed his eyes.
The finger on the trigger applied a slight pressure.
Shit.
After taking several deep breaths, the gun barrel drooped limply, accompanied by tears.
I don't have the courage.
He is a coward.
Those who commit suicide will go to hell.
He can't go to hell; he still has questions to ask.
He knelt down again, his forehead pressed against the edge of the bed, the crucifix in his hand almost crushed.
"Lord..."
Her voice was hoarse, trembling with the sound of a broken sob.
"What...did I do wrong?"
For this country, he carried a gun, shed blood, and devoted most of his life to unwavering faith and diligent work.
But why?
My wife fell ill that damned winter, and the exorbitant medical bills were like a bottomless pit; in the end, I couldn't save her.
The son had to sell his blood plasma and even bone marrow, and work as a porter at the docks until late at night, all to save up for tuition. In the end, he survived on those deadly enhancement drugs until he died from overeating.
As for his daughter, he originally thought she had just gone astray, attended a deadly party, and died at a rave party.
At least he passed away happily.
But at this moment, as if by divine revelation, accompanied by an inner tremor, a blurry image suddenly crashed into my mind:
A dark room, a cold needle piercing skin, a daughter's face contorted in pain, and the mechanical, indifferent "Next item."
So her death wasn't an accident after all.
So, she died in such a painful way too?
asphyxia.
It felt as if an icy hand was gripping his throat, and his vision blurred.
Suddenly, a calm, deep voice resounded directly in the depths of his mind:
"You're not wrong, child."
Jason jolted awake and abruptly opened his eyes.
The cross in my hand seemed to be slightly warm.
"host……?"
With tears streaming down his face, he looked around blankly, his gaze finally settling on the image of a suffering person in his palm.
"You're not in the wrong."
The voice rang out again, and the mouth of the suffering figure in the palm of the hand moved as well.
"Then why...why?! Lord!"
He practically roared it out; all the pent-up pain, confusion, and grievances exploded in that roar.
In the end, it turned into endless weeping.
Tears streamed down his wrinkled face.
"Don't you understand perfectly, child?"
The moment the sound faded, countless images were no longer blurry flashbacks, but unfolded, reassembled, and connected into a line before his eyes, clear, cold, and inescapable.
His wife's hospital bed, his son's blood bag, his daughter's terrified eyes, the cold numbers on the bill, the never-ending cargo unloading at the dock, the grueling work on expensive pills...
Each scene is a piece of a puzzle, eventually piecing together a vast and grotesque web. At the center of this web lies his shattered home and his life, drained dry.
Jason felt like a fish caught in a net, unable to breathe even though he was in the air.
A suffocating feeling pressed down on his chest.
Suddenly, it felt as if a fire had been lit deep within my soul.
It was no longer the helplessness of drowning, but a burning anger that surged from the deepest part of the soul.
"Ugh—!!!"
A low, inhuman roar erupted from his chest.
The veins on the back of his hand, which was gripping the cross, were bulging, and his knuckles were clenched so tightly they were pale.
Those blue eyes, which had been tinged with despair, were now ignited by a terrifying light, and a pure and violent rage seemed about to erupt.
On the cross, the lips of the crucified figure seemed unmoved, yet the final words were branded deeply into his consciousness:
"They need to atone. Go, child, with your courage, carry out God's will."
Jansen, his body radiating heat, stared with bloodshot eyes.
He slowly stood up, panting heavily.
His back was ramrod straight, as if he had returned to the very front of the marching column, or like a demon who had already reached the gates of hell.
He took one last look at his son's body on the bed, his eyes no longer filled with confusion, but with a resolute anger.
The cross in his hand was so hot that it left a scar on his palm, but he held it tightly in his hand.
"Son, wait for me."
A hoarse voice rang out, and then he picked up the rifle beside him, turned around and left the exquisite but empty house.
……
"Tsk tsk tsk, is this still the human world? Life here is full of hardships, isn't it?"
In a divine kingdom with no visible boundaries, a white-haired girl looked at the colorful beads in front of her and shook her head.
"He swept through his fellow villagers for freedom. His wife died, his children died, and he was burdened with mortgage debt. If I hadn't come, he would have even been preparing to commit suicide. He truly has an iron will of patriotism."
Luo Huan reached out and looked at the images inside the beads in front of her, murmuring to herself.
Among them, Jensen was walking down the street under the cover of night, carrying a rifle on his back.
On Luo Huan's right, a panel was floating in the air.
[Believer]: Carl Jensen
[Rank]: Black Iron
[Sequence]: Wrath of Courage
[Powers]: Hunting Dog