lcionline Chapter 85 is currently being drawn from the card pool.
Chapter 85 is currently being drawn from the card pool.
Chapter 85 is currently being drawn from the card pool.
Aaron Blakeverly stood in an old warehouse in River Harbor, now known as New Canaan.
The warehouse had a high ceiling, and several emergency lights hung from the steel beams, casting a white light that made people's faces look bloodless.
He is 69 years old and has an old injury to his left knee, which he sustained while in Vietnam.
Since last year, I need to lean against the wall for a minute to recover every morning when I get out of bed.
But now he stands very straight.
It's not just the legs.
The sticky feeling that had been in my lungs for years disappeared, and my breathing became as smooth as when I was thirty.
My vision is so clear that I can see the peeling paint lines on the opposite wall.
The most obvious change is in the hands; the age spots are still there, but the blood vessels under the skin are no longer as clearly visible, and you can feel the force when you clench your fist.
"Is this a miracle?"
He spoke softly, looking up at the man standing in front of him.
Carl Jensen, or rather, Saint, was wearing that olive-green field shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He looked thinner than when he gave his last public speech, with deep-set eyes, but his eyes were bright, like burning charcoal.
Karl did not answer Aaron's question.
He nodded, then turned and walked toward the next person.
He was a 78-year-old man named Frank Miller, a former Army Ranger who had been to Korea and Vietnam.
Frank held a metal cross pendant tightly in his right hand, his knuckles turning white.
Carl reached out and grasped Frank's wrist.
There were no ceremonies, no chanting.
Just hold on tight.
yah~
A faint sound, like flesh pressed against hot iron.
Frank stiffened for a moment, but didn't pull his hand away.
He stared at the back of his hand, where the skin flushed red, then swelled up, forming a new scar:
A cross, slightly smaller than the one in Karl's hand, with clearly defined edges.
"This is----"
Frank's voice trembled as a surge of power coursed through his body.
He looked up at Karl, and tears welled up unexpectedly, streaming down the deep wrinkles on his face.
"Saint, sir."
He said his voice was hoarse.
Karl released his hand, nodded, and moved on to the next person.
There were twenty-three people standing in the warehouse.
They were all men, ranging in age from their early thirties to nearly eighty.
What they had in common was that they either had been involved in gangs after being discharged from the military and had blood on their hands;
They were either veterans from the same era as Karl or even earlier, legends on the battlefield, but now, for various reasons, they had all been killed or were about to be killed.
They were selected.
From the huge crowd that flocked to his live stream.
Now these twenty-three people are kneeling in the warehouse, watching Karl bestow blessings one after another.
The process is the same.
Carl grasps the other person's hand or presses on their shoulder, the contact lasting about five seconds.
During the process, the recipient will feel a noticeable burning sensation in various locations, but will eventually be left with a cross-shaped scar on the skin.
After a scar forms, the body's condition will improve to varying degrees: pain from old injuries will lessen, sensory acuity will increase, and physical strength will recover.
And, you will gain the power of [Hunting Dog].
Aaron closed his eyes, then opened them again.
There were some more things in my field of vision.
The line, the red line, points to the enemy he must face.
"Lord."
A man in his fifties standing next to him said in a low voice.
This man is called Rafael, a former Marine who, after retiring, spent time in gangs in Los Angeles and was stabbed twice in the back.
"I really saw it."
However, they did not stop and soon blessed everyone present.
He then turned around, walked to the central cross, and sat down on the folding chair in front of it.
He doesn't look well.
His face was pale, his breathing was rapid, and his forehead was covered in fine sweat.
The cross scar on the back of my right hand is redder than usual, as if it had just been burned.
Close your eyes for about a minute.
The warehouse was quiet.
Only the sounds of panting and the faint sounds of vehicle dispatching could be heard from outside.
Then Carl opened his eyes and stood up.
Her complexion had recovered, but the fatigue was still evident in her eyes.
"Everyone."
He spoke, his voice steady, but slightly hoarse.
"I have shared the Lord's gifts with you."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across everyone's faces.
"This gift is not a present, but a responsibility. What you can see and feel now is so that you may survive the battles to come, so that you may clear the way for the Lord."
He raised his right hand, the cross on the back of his hand facing the light.
"For the Lord, for the path of redemption, we will surely triumph."
"The path to redemption. Undeterred by a hundred battles."
A brief silence.
Then Frank Miller knelt on the ground and shouted.
"The path to redemption. Undeterred by a hundred battles."
He said.
Then it was Aaron, then Raphael, one after another, and everyone in the warehouse knelt on the ground and shouted loudly.
The sounds overlapped, from uneven to orderly.
Carl stood at the foot of the cross, looking at them.
He nodded.
"Dismissed. Reconvene in the west of town in two hours. David Miller will assign you weapons and tasks."
People stood up and began to leave the warehouse.
Some people are still looking at the back of their hands or palms, while others are already whispering about their sensory experiences.
Outside is River Harbor Town, the main street of New Canaan.
It was nearly dusk, the clouds were thick, and the wind was blowing from the north, carrying the damp chill of the Canadian lakes.
The streets were packed with people and vehicles.
Pickups, modified civilian trucks, and even a few old school buses painted in camouflage.
The vehicle was piled with sandbags and mounted with machine guns, some of which were proper M2 heavy machine guns, while others were general-purpose machine guns that had been temporarily welded on.
People are loading supplies onto the truck: boxes of bullets, medical kits, fuel cans, and canned food.
David Miller stood on the back of a pickup truck, holding a megaphone and shouting, "Third team! Your zone is D-7! Repeat, D-7! Don't crowd into zone C!"
"Ammunition vehicles, stay close to the armored team! Don't fall behind!"
"Anyone with night vision goggles, register with me!"
The noise was deafening, with the roar of diesel engines and the constant clanging of metal.
But everyone's expression was the same:
He was tense, but his eyes shone with light.
Aaron tightened the collar of his jacket and walked toward the assembly point assigned to him.
The wind was cold, and it felt like knives cutting my face.
But his heart was warm.
That kind of heat is not a metaphor.
He could feel a faint, persistent heat source in the left side of his chest, slightly above his heart.
It's like a small piece of red-hot charcoal buried under the skin.
That's where the cross scar is.
He raised his left hand and looked at it.
The scar has turned dark red, with clear edges and a slight protrusion.
He touched it with his finger.
It's warm.
"Mr. Blakely?"
A young man's voice.
Aaron looked up.
He was a young man in his early twenties, wearing ill-fitting camouflage clothing and holding a tablet in his hand.
"I'm David Miller's assistant. You're assigned to the second assault team. Come with me to get your equipment."
"it is good."
Aaron followed him.
As he passed a pickup truck loaded with anti-tank rocket launchers, he couldn't help but take another look.
"That was seized from the National Guard."
The young man noticed his gaze and explained, "There are some good things, but not many. We'll have to get most of the equipment ourselves."
"What about Detroit?"
"According to reconnaissance, they have a lot of stock. But there are also many people, and it's chaotic."
The young man stopped behind a truck and lifted the tarpaulin.
It was filled with weapons:
AR-15, AK series modified guns, shotguns, and pistols.
There are also bulletproof vests, most of which are old-fashioned, and some still have traces of bullet hole repairs.
"Choose whichever suits you best. Plenty of bullets."
Aaron reached out and picked up a well-maintained M4 carbine. He inspected the barrel, trigger, and magazine release button.
It runs very smoothly.
He slung the gun over his shoulder, then took six magazines and stuffed them into his tactical vest. Finally, he chose a pistol and tucked it into his waistband.
"alright."
The young man handed him a walkie-talkie.
"The frequency has been tuned. Proceed on command in two hours."
"clear."
The young man turned to greet the next person.
Aaron stood still, adjusting the walkie-talkie.
There were intermittent communications on the channel, mostly location confirmations and resource allocation.
He looked up and gazed westward.
That's the direction of Detroit. The clouds are low, and the sky is darkening rapidly.
The wind was still blowing, and it was bitterly cold.
But the scars on his palms were warm.
He slung the walkie-talkie over his shoulder, pulled down his gun sling, and headed towards the assembly point for the second assault team.
More people are gathering on the street.
The sounds of engines, shouts, and metallic friction blended together to create a continuous low-frequency roar.
Like a war drum.
Aaron walked on, unconsciously touching the scar on his palm again.
Warm.
He quickened his pace.
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