Chapter 60 A Living Hell

Amidst a hazy, torrential downpour, the first sight to meet the eye was a vast expanse of floodwaters.

The colossal volume of water from the Moshuan Reservoir, upon entering the urban area of Kyoto and flowing for a long distance over increasingly widening terrain, seemed to have exhausted its initial tremendous momentum, growing gentler. Yet, due to its immense surface area, which had nearly submerged every corner of Kyoto City, the flood appeared increasingly boundless. It crept and spread among the towering skyscrapers, rising steadily and slowly.

The camera, constantly shifting its position and focal length, swept across the panoramic view of the vast region before slowly pushing forward, focusing on a patch of high ground not far away.

There, an entirely different scene unfolded.

At the center of the frame lay a massive area of ruins. Huge fragments of reinforced concrete were piled haphazardly on the ground, where the all-encompassing floodwaters crashed against them, making a splashing sound.

Bizarrely contorted corpses lay in disarray on the ground, bobbing and drifting in and out of view with the incessant surging of the flood.

Crimson foam continuously bubbled up on the water's surface, rippling outward in the current as it spread in all directions.

Countless heavy engineering vehicles, their glaring headlights piercing the gloom, roared and wailed incessantly. Amidst the sweeping deluge and over the ruins, they excavated and transported material.

Corpses stained with mud and blood—with severed arms, missing legs, decapitated heads, or even flattened entirely into bloody pancakes—were continually dug out and haphazardly loaded onto transport vehicles to be hauled away.

"Good God—"

Was this still that prosperous and peaceful Kyoto? This was a living hell!

Upon witnessing this scene, many people instantly let out gasps of horror, some even vomiting violently until the world spun and they nearly regurgitated their stomach bile.

"What you are now looking at is a previously abandoned residential compound in the western suburbs of Kyoto City." A figure appeared within the frame.

This person wore a red raincoat, and rainwater continuously lashed down from his head, forming a sheet of white spray that poured and beat against his face.

Many people instantly recognized the man's identity—Murayama Masamasa, the most senior and top-tier journalist for Asahi Sankei, the largest news organization in Nippon.

This elite reporter, whose every appearance over the past decade had brought shocking news, paid no heed to the violent rain lashing against him. With a heavy expression, he said, "More than an hour ago, the First and Second Companies of the 702nd Regiment of my 162nd Brigade, ordered to fall back and reinforce the Moshuan Reservoir, suffered a sudden and fatal ambush by the enemy right here... All two hundred and some officers and men died heroic deaths!"

An unbearable silence ensued. Everyone sat dumbfounded, staring at the tense and busy rescue scene on the screen.

"A survivor has been found!" A cry of pleasant surprise rang out from the rescue site, carrying through Murayama Masamasa's microphone to every illuminated television screen.

The camera quickly panned toward the source of the cheers.

Several rescue workers in striking orange gear directed a massive excavator, lifting away a huge concrete slab and cautiously carrying a person out from underneath.

The person's clothes were already stained with blood and filth, but one could still faintly discern that they belonged to the camouflage combat uniform of the Nippon Self-Defense Forces. Though the uniform was exceptionally tattered and soiled, the relatively intact twin silver pentagrams on the shoulders signified that this was a lieutenant.

The lieutenant's lower body had been reduced to an unrecognizably mangled pulp. His eyes were tightly closed, and only the weak rise and fall of his chest indicated that he had not yet breathed his last. The tragic nature of the situation and the bloody imagery left virtually all viewers in front of their televisions gasping for breath.

"Look at the tragic plight of our soldiers! The enemy has turned this once peaceful and tranquil region into a living hell. They have flooded the capital of our empire and brutally slaughtered our soldiers!" Amidst a chilling silence, an expression of extreme fury surfaced on Murayama Masamasa's face as he practically roared, "We must ask: precisely who orchestrated this inhumane massacre?"

No one could answer that question.

"Now, allow me to lead you to witness another place and see what has happened there!" The camera watched as the lieutenant was loaded onto an ambulance, while Murayama Masamasa's voice came from off-screen.

People stared blankly as Murayama Masamasa boarded a small helicopter, watched blankly as the aircraft lifted off the ground, and watched blankly as the camera climbed higher and higher, sweeping past towering skyscrapers amidst the torrential rain, passing over forests that revealed only pitch-black outlines against the boundless storm...

Suddenly, a blinding red glare stabbed into their eyes.

What was that? It was a fire—a raging inferno reaching the heavens!

An eight-story building had its roof and walls completely collapsed, leaving the ground in ruins with only its steel framework trembling and twisting in the blazing fire, emitting cracking sounds.

In the air, thick, dark-gray smoke billowed like a massive mushroom cloud, shrouding the rooftop and refusing to dissipate for a long time.

On the ground, the ruins were littered with charred, haphazardly twisted corpses.

Floods, flames, tragically shaped victims... Was this war? The end of the world? Or a punishment from the gods?

Anger burned within the people's hearts.

Murayama Masamasa's voice quickly rang out from off-screen, sounding hoarse and suppressed.

"This place was originally the headquarters of the Imperial Ministry of Defense's Intelligence Bureau, but what we see now is merely a slaughterhouse! After attacking our imperial army, the enemy brazenly launched an assault right here!" The camera turned to Murayama Masamasa in the front row of the helicopter. At this moment, his expression was grotesquely distorted as he waved his arms and shouted hoarsely, "Faced with this scene, we must ask: does the Nippon Empire and its hundreds of millions of people need a normal military capable of protecting us from harm and slaughter under any circumstances?"

The camera shifted once again to the ground, which resembled a living hell. The populace, dumbfounded by the hellish scene before their eyes, had their blood boiling and rushing straight to their heads under Murayama Masamasa's masterly guidance. After a momentary silence, passionate roars erupted fiercely in Kyoto City and across every corner of the Nippon Empire, piercing straight up to the clouds.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

No one knew that outside the lens, a trace of imperceptible smugness flashed across the corners of Murayama Masamasa's mouth, quickly reverting to a ferocious and indignant expression.

Nor did anyone know that this was merely a performance—a live melodrama performed on the spot according to a pre-arranged script.

Much less did anyone know how thrilled Murayama Masamasa had been when he received the personal assignment from Ono Sibu Dian: as long as he successfully swayed public opinion, countless riches, beautiful women, and political power awaited him to seize ahead.

What did the deaths of a few people matter? Being able to reap the greatest personal benefits was the only thing worth getting excited about.

Isn't that so?