"Is this worth it? How will we respond if Evans asks about this?"
Shen Yufei watched as Pan Han was hung upon a cross and doused with gasoline. Following the hymns of the Jihadists, he roared in agony amidst the rising flames. Her face was pale, and her body trembled involuntarily as she questioned the local representative of the Trisolarans.
"Evans won't care about the life or death of an insignificant person like Pan Han," the European white man replied.
He stared at Pan Han's struggling form in the fire. As the flames burned down, a charred corpse was taken down by the Arabs and placed before him. When the European raised his palm toward the sun, the local natives, without exception, showed a look of religious fervor and began chanting slogans.
"Your missionary activities seem quite successful here."
Shen Yufei looked at those fanatical faces. This was a far cry from the "rational worship" of a higher civilization she had imagined. Regarding the "Lord" spoken of by the Trisolaris Organization, these people seemed to treat it merely as a variant of the "Lord" they had once believed in within their own culture—perhaps just a slight difference in title.
The only difference was that the Lord believed in by the native culture was merely a collection of beautiful hopes from an ancient civilization, whereas the Trisolaran Lord possessed actual, tangible power.
"Because we stand on the right side."
The European man, Owen, indifferently patted the foreheads of the armed warriors kneeling before him, signaling them to find a place to dump the body. When Owen's hand touched an Arab's forehead, some warriors even wept with excitement.
"Money and violence are the foundations of all organizations. Coincidentally, by the Lord's grace, the most powerful violence is in our hands—not to mention the Lord possesses 'omniscient and omnipotent' power that exists only in legends," Owen said.
As he said, since the arrival of the Sophons at the beginning of the year, in less than six months, he had gained control over the most powerful Jihadist force in the entire Arab world. Undoubtedly, the Sophons had played a major role in this.
"I don't think this is a good thing, Owen. Hurriedly assembling an armed force will only needlessly increase the possibility of the Lord's plan being exposed." Shen Yufei shook her head, disagreeing with Owen's words.
"Continue communicating in Japanese, Shen Yufei."
When Shen Yufei turned her head due to the gaze of a nearby Arab, Owen's voice came from the side. "Your homeland is now a country powerful enough to determine the fate of the world and holds significant weight."
Owen continued in Japanese, "Many of them understand the language of that great Eastern nation."
"..." Shen Yufei fell silent. She didn't quite know how to react to this reality she had just realized.
"Humanity cannot resist the Lord's will, Shen Yufei."
The European man gazed at the horizon. He recognized the figures of several militants who had just been ordered to dump Pan Han's body running back toward them in a panic. "What if the human governments find out? So what if they don't? As long as the Lord descends to Earth four hundred years from now, who will be able to defy my Lord's will?"
Owen narrowed his eyes. He vaguely sensed an emotion called panic in those approaching Arabs. This caused a hint of doubt to rise in his heart, but he instinctively judged the situation based on his experience dealing with the surrounding armed groups and governments.
Recently, due to UN intervention, several large armed organizations and countries in the area had declared a temporary ceasefire. Therefore, he didn't think anything major would happen. Most importantly, his "Lord" had not given him any warning. Thus, he felt at ease.
"But for us, we must do our utmost to fulfill the Lord's mission and save humanity from the hands of tyrants and autocrats," Owen said calmly.
The militants were getting closer. Owen could even see the fear and shock in their eyes. He looked up, following the direction of the Arab militants' gaze, and he could no longer maintain his composure.
That was—
A fighter formation consisting of two J-20s and three American F-35s escorted a string of aerial fortresses. Nylon parachutes bearing the Russian Cross of Saint George filled the sky—covering the earth! Those were Russian paratroopers!
"I am not afraid of death!"
Owen snatched a rifle from a nearby Arab—an AK-series rifle left behind by the Russians during their hurried withdrawal from Afghanistan in 1989. Looking at the still-bright rifling and the stock emitting a faint scent of wood, Owen raised the rifle, attempting a final stand.
However, just as his finger touched the trigger, a dull shot from an M14 rifle rang out from the village entrance. A 7.62mm bullet pierced straight through his shoulder. He could hear his scapula being shattered by the bullet. The surrounding Jihadists fired wildly in all directions after seeing their leader attacked, but every bullet from the American snipers disguised as villagers precisely harvested the lives of these Arab militants.
"Lord! Why have you forsaken us!"
Owen stared in disbelief at the dense, towering fires among the surrounding mountains. Without a doubt, those were the marks left by the joint China-US air task force after conducting precision strikes on the Jihadist strongholds along the border.
Russian bullets swept ruthlessly through the militants beside him. Under the effect of temporary cavitation, the militants hit by the large-caliber rounds were left in pieces. Within a few minutes, Russia's elite paratrooper units had already rushed to his side.
Both of Owen's arms were shredded. Beside him, Shen Yufei crouched on the ground, holding her head, before being dragged away by Eastern military police wearing UN armbands. These people had a clear goal: they were here for him and Shen Yufei.
In minutes, the entire village turned into a horrific human slaughterhouse. The surviving Arab soldiers were bound hand and foot and stuffed into trucks. Most people trembled before the human war machine, praying for their "Lord's" protection.
But unfortunately, until now, Trisolaris had offered no response.
"Stop his bleeding! So you are Owen, the cult leader the Arab nations reported to the UN, demanding responsibility for the recent village massacres?"
Owen felt himself being hauled up by two Eastern soldiers and brought before a middle-aged man with yellowed fingers and a cigarette in his mouth. Beside the man was a youth who looked exceptionally young—no more than twenty years old—also wearing a UN armband.
Owen looked coldly at these UN lackeys. Even as the young man tightly cinched the bandage around his arm to stop the bleeding, Owen remained silent.