Chapter 6: You kill the black, I kill the white, until my eyes turn red
"It's incredible that in the eyes of San Francisco police officers, as long as a person's skin is slightly darker, they are a threat to their lives!"
Human rights lawyer Ben Collenson spoke passionately at the press conference. Facing the cameras and the flashing lights, he felt every cell in his body vibrating with excitement. This was the kind of political theater he lived for.
"I learned from Mr. Fortson's neighbors that the San Francisco police were dispatched because Ellen, the middle-aged woman next door, saw smoke in the kitchen and called the police in a panic."
"But she didn't expect that the police wouldn't call the fire department at all—they came armed! Tell me, what did they plan to do? Shoot the flames out?"
"The most outrageous part—those two police officers went to the wrong house!"
At this, Ben slammed the table dramatically, face twisted in righteous fury. "Can you believe it? The police mistook an Air Force pilot's home for an arsonist's and opened fire even after he identified himself!"
"Tell me, who in America will dare call the police after this?"
The white reporters present exchanged subtle glances, some rolling their eyes, but kept clicking their cameras. Their hypocrisy was well-practiced—if selling compassion boosted viewership, they'd call God a minority for ratings.
The case had turned into a wildfire. The Air Force's hard stance and the involvement of a black pilot turned the story into national outrage. Congress members preparing for the upcoming elections stepped in, each eager to perform empathy for votes.
Demonstrations swept across the country. In San Francisco, black communities and civil rights groups gathered in the thousands outside the Police Department, shouting for justice and waving banners of "Equal Lives, Equal Law!" The city trembled under the weight of collective fury.
Will Fortson's act was working perfectly. Following Lin Hao's whisper—"Let the fire spread before the harvest"—he had become both martyr and symbol. His next plan was to formally request a public hearing before the City Council, demanding that the officers involved appear in person.
His goal? To provoke Jack Bryan, force him to expose his racist nature, and then "defend himself" in front of the cameras. In Will's naive imagination, this was the climax of a Hollywood film—him standing tall before the world, the righteous avenger of injustice.
But neither Will nor the Air Force officers supporting him truly grasped the forces at play. The generals backing him only saw a political opportunity to strengthen their influence against domestic agencies. To them, the hearing was a formality, a way to calm public anger. Jack Bryan would be dismissed, nothing more.
No one imagined that Lin Hao's demonic hand was still stirring the storm.
After signing the Infernal Pact, Jack Bryan's soul was already corrupted. The artificial devil fruit Lin Hao had created from Vegapunk's perfected formula fused into Jack's blood, awakening a feral hunger for carnage.
On a blindingly sunny morning, Jack appeared at the San Francisco Police Department gate, still wearing his police uniform—stained, torn, and radiating malice. He walked straight toward the protesting crowd.
At the entrance, black and white stood divided like opposing armies.
The black demonstrators were chanting for justice; the white officers stood tense, shields up, ordered not to provoke. Headquarters had forbidden live ammunition today—optics mattered more than safety. A single gunshot could spark a civil war.
"Hey, Jack!" shouted George, his former partner. "What the hell are you doing here?!"
Jack ignored him and kept walking.
"Isn't that the cop who shot Fortson?" "Yeah! What's he doing here?" "He's mocking us! Get him!" "Kill that bastard!"
As Lin Hao had predicted, anger overrode reason. The mob surged forward, surrounding Jack like a tidal wave.
"Oh my God," George gasped. "Is Jack trying to die?"
"Forget it," another officer muttered. "He's finished anyway. Maybe he's just making a statement before they fire him."
For a full minute, Jack let them beat and shove him. Then, his twisted grin split wide, and he shouted, "George! Under U.S. law, I have the right to self-defense now, don't I?!"
George froze—then, realizing the body cam was live, shouted back, "Yes! It's on record!"
That was all Lin Hao's puppet needed.
Jack's body convulsed. His bones cracked, his uniform tore, and a blinding white light burst from beneath his skin.
The crowd fell silent.
Then came the growl—low, guttural, inhuman.
Jack Bryan stood towering at 2.5 meters, his flesh covered in thick white fur, his face elongated into the head of a Great Pyrenees hound, his hands now massive paws dripping with black ichor.
Artificial Devil Fruit — Dog-Dog Fruit: Great Pyrenees Model.
Developed by Lin Hao using Vegapunk's perfected formula with fragments of Mephisto's infernal essence, the transformation granted brutal power at the cost of sanity. Jack's pupils burned red as the demonic sigil of the Shenlei Bureau glowed faintly on his chest.
He roared, a sound that shook the square.
"YOU KILL THE BLACK—"
Jack's claws swept across, flinging protesters into the air like rag dolls.
"I KILL THE WHITE—"
He turned, leaping toward the officers behind the barricade.
"UNTIL MY EYES TURN RED!"
Panic exploded. Reporters screamed. Cameras shook as live broadcasts captured the impossible—
A man turned beast, tearing through both sides without discrimination, drenched in blood and hatred.
And above the chaos, unseen in the crimson mist, Lin Hao smiled faintly in the Ring Fortress, eyes glowing through the mirror of hellfire.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured. "Let America taste the devil's balance."