The next day.
The front page of The Stars and Stripes featured a photo of unprecedented size.
The background of the photo was filled with towering Fire and collapsing mountains.
Soldier Boy stood alone atop the ruins.
The shield was held diagonally at his side, stained with the enemy's blood.
He stared indifferently into the camera lens.
That was not a posture a mortal should have.
That was a god surveying his own work.
The headline was also sensational—
[Ragnarok: The God of War Descends, Holy Light Purifies the HYDRA Lair!]
The writing style of the report was no longer the short, mysterious prose from before.
It was an epic, passionate, and filled with religious fervor!
Tom had perfectly executed every one of Lynn's instructions.
He had transformed that edited video content into a miracle through text.
"...Bullets bent before him, and artillery Fire offered him fireworks. He walked between explosions and death; mortal weapons could not harm him in the slightest..."
"...When he raised his shield, the eagle brought the end of despair. He tore steel apart with his fists and leveled fortresses with brute force; the HYDRA army was as fragile as a child's toy before him..."
"...Facing that demon mountain, entrenched in evil and madness, our God of War released the light of divine punishment stored within his chest!"
"A holy light, impossible to describe in words, pierced the heavens and the earth!"
"That light purified all sins, melted steel, and evaporated rock. When the light faded, that mountain, along with all the evil within it, had turned into nothingness!"
"He is not a hero, because heroes still remain among humans."
"He is the God of War walking upon the earth!"
Soldier Boy's reputation reached an unprecedented peak on this day.
It even surpassed Captain America.
He became a belief.
An ultimate belief that could directly bring victory!
People were no longer satisfied with buying war bonds.
They began flocking to churches.
This was to thank God for sending His messenger.
Fanatical believers even began spontaneously sculpting statues of Soldier Boy.
Washington, The Pentagon.
A military meeting was underway.
The atmosphere was oppressive to the extreme.
"We won."
A five-star general looked at the battle report, but felt no joy.
"But we also created a monster that we cannot control."
Another general slammed that copy of The Stars and Stripes onto the table.
"God of War? Holy Light? Look at what these damn reporters have written! What are they trying to do? Creating a god?"
"The problem is the public believes it."
"How do we command him now? Use military rank to order a god? Who do we send? The President to personally ask him to go to the battlefield?"
"What exactly is that thing on his chest? Why do we know nothing about him?"
A bone-chilling fear spread in the hearts of these big shots who decided the direction of the war.
They could command thousands of troops and mobilize countless resources.
But they discovered that they had lost all control over Soldier Boy, the soldier they had personally pushed onto the altar.
He had become an ultimate strategic weapon with self-awareness, worshipped by hundreds of millions of people.
Lynn Morris.
The author of this weapon's user manual was currently lying leisurely on a hospital bed at headquarters, enjoying an apple peeled by a Nurse.
A soldier knocked on the door respectfully and entered, handing over a telegram that had just been received.
Lynn took the telegram.
It contained only a short line of text.
[Phineas Horton has been found.]
Phineas Horton!
A genius scientist dedicated to android research, the madman who created the "original Human Torch."
He had found another piece of unpolished jade that could be carved!
Lynn suddenly thought of his system that had not appeared for a long time.
This thing was like a silent devil.
It only took responsibility for tempting, never explaining the rules.
It had shoved Soldier Boy to him.
But what about Steve?
He had participated in the whole process, even leading the birth of Captain America; did this count as his own work?
The system gave no hints.
Lynn did not like this ambiguity.
He needed to test and find the patterns.
This Phineas Horton was the best touchstone.
This time, he would create a "hero" that belonged only to him from scratch.
The door was knocked on gently.
Peggy Carter walked in, holding a new casualty report in her hand.
Peggy Carter's gaze fell on Lynn's packed luggage.
"You are leaving."
This was not a question.
"Yeah, my work in Europe is finished."
Lynn folded the telegram and put it into his inner pocket.
"What about you? Planning to go back to London for vacation?"
Peggy Carter shook her head.
She walked to the map and looked at the land scorched by war.
"No."
"HYDRA has not yet been eradicated; my work has just begun."
She turned around.
"Lynn, I apologize for my previous misunderstandings."
"But I also want to remind you that whether it is Soldier Boy or Steve, they are human, not pawns in your plan."
Lynn smiled without refuting.
"Take care, Peggy Carter."
He got up, ready to see Phillips.
"You too."
...
Phillips' office.
This battle-hardened colonel was fretting over a pile of reports.
Soldier Boy's battle record was brilliant.
But his logistics request form was more like a list of demands.
"One hundred cases of Scotch whiskey? Six masseuses found from Paris? Does he think this is a five-star hotel!"
Seeing Lynn walk in, Phillips slammed the document in his hand onto the table.
"I cannot manage a god! Lynn! You turned him into a god, and now you want to just walk away?"
Lynn pulled out a chair and sat down calmly.
"Colonel, why do you always want to manage him?"
"You don't need to command him, you don't even need to talk to him."
Lynn's finger traced across the map, pointing to an industrial area behind the German Army lines.
"Put the information for this place together with his favorite whiskey."
He then pointed to another secret HYDRA supply station.
"Send the defense deployment map of this place to him along with tomorrow's newspaper."
Phillips was stunned.
"What... what do you mean by this?"
Lynn leaned back in his chair.
"You just need to be responsible for telling him where the next stage is, and then enjoy his performance."
"This is not according to the rules! War is not a performance!"
Phillips roared.
"But to him, it is."
Lynn stood up and looked down at him.
"You have no other choice."
This sentence extinguished all of Phillips' anger.
Yes, he had no other choice.
Lynn boarded the plane returning to the United States.
He looked through the porthole, overlooking this devastated continent.
A domesticated god was harvesting reputation and fear for him here.
A future commercial empire was waiting for him to inject massive funds and technology on the other side of the ocean.
And now he was going to find his next work.
Lynn closed his eyes.
Phineas Horton.
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