"Yeah... uh, yes..."
Perfect! Just as expected.
Jason suppressed a smile. Even Apple products had backdoors—how could Stark resist embedding one in his masterpiece?
The next steps unfolded smoothly. After spending a few minutes extracting detailed instructions on accessing this backdoor, Jason silently departed.
It wasn't that he didn't want to rescue Stark immediately. Ironically, the billionaire was probably safer in captivity for now. The world outside had descended into chaos, making this cave with its basic provisions seem almost peaceful by comparison.
Over subsequent nights, Jason continued his lethal game with American forces.
His relentless campaign dramatically accelerated the military's consolidation strategy. Numerous small and medium outposts were abandoned, their personnel relocated to Bagram base.
The "fat chicken" was growing plumper by his own design.
During this period, the U.S. military assembled specialized hunter-killer teams comprising elite Delta Force, Army Rangers, Green Berets, and even Navy SEALs.
They established elaborate traps, waiting patiently for the Death Devil to appear.
When Jason obliged them, they were utterly dumbfounded.
The entity proved impervious to water and fire, invulnerable to conventional weapons. It could tear apart a Humvee with bare hands and kick a tank as if it were a tin can.
The once-invincible American military received a severe education in humility.
Admiral Glenn, the ranking commander in Afghanistan, locked himself in his quarters, his hair reportedly turning white overnight.
He contemplated requesting presidential authorization for withdrawal, knowing such a move would permanently tarnish his legacy.
In desperation, he turned to the Vatican for assistance.
O great Christian Pope, merciful and loving shepherd, please save your lost lambs!
When Jason's surveillance revealed that senior military officials were seeking a Vatican priest to perform exorcisms, he recognized the moment had arrived.
Push too hard, and even a cornered dog will leap over a wall.
On a particularly dark, windswept night, he stealthily approached the weapons arsenal near the original test site.
This installation housed nearly a thousand personnel.
Based on established patterns, the U.S. military had deemed this location an unlikely target for the "Death Devil."
Furthermore, conventional wisdom held that the "devil" never employed weapons.
But that night, sentries at the arsenal witnessed a scene that froze their blood—
Through the darkness, the massive, twin-horned devil, radiating an aura of death, approached with measured steps.
In hands previously used only to tear flesh, it now carried a vehicle-mounted M2 Browning heavy machine gun!
A long ammunition belt trailed behind, connecting to an enormous steel ammunition box.
"Holy shit!"
The mere sight destroyed any impulse to resist among the guards on duty.
Their single collective prayer: Devil, please leave enough of our bodies for identification.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
The long-silent M2 erupted in thunderous fury. A stream of tracer fire cut through the night, bisecting both personnel and fortifications with mechanical precision.
The Death Devil had evolved.
At Bagram base, phones in the tactical operations center rang incessantly.
The communications officer, after answering the initial call, immediately ordered wake-up alerts for the Intelligence Director, Bureau Chief, and Base Commander.
The situation had escalated beyond containment.
When Admiral Glenn arrived, the room was already packed with anxious personnel.
"Where's the phone? What's happening? I want a direct report!"
Everyone stared at him in stunned silence.
The communications officer whispered, "The connection was severed minutes ago..."
Glenn froze momentarily before the officer played the recorded transmission.
"Help! Help! The devil is coming—" Gunfire erupts "—he's here!"
"Jesus Christ, he's got... a gun—" More gunfire "—oh God! Oh fuck fuck FUCK! He's coming—"
"Please remain calm. Where is your commanding officer?" The operator's voice remained professionally steady.
"Calm?! Sir? The commander just took a 12.7mm round through his skull! His brains are all over my uniform, and you want me to stay calm?!"
The operator maintained composure. "I've alerted both the local commander and base leadership. Describe the current situation."
"Gunfire intensifies It's... it's a slaughterhouse. Bodies everywhere... Send everything you've got! We can't stop him... Explosion The tanks can't even touch him... Oh God, I just made eye contact with—"
Transmission terminated
"Hello? Hello! Are you still there? Respond!"
The recording ended.
Admiral Glenn turned to Intelligence General Pulver, disbelief etched across his features. "Didn't your analysis indicate it wouldn't attack large base?"
Pulver's expression contorted in anguish, his lips trembling. "The universe... is fundamentally unpredictable."
He approached a computer terminal, connected his phone, and drew a steadying breath.
"One of my officers at the arsenal transmitted an image before he was killed. Let's examine it."
The photograph appeared on the massive wall display.
It showed the familiar Death Devil—but with a horrifying new dimension.
The entity carried an ammunition box on its back while cradling an M2 Browning heavy machine gun in its arms. Its face bore an unmistakable expression: a predatory grin as it unleashed destructive firepower.
Admiral Glenn's body visibly shook. "Demons can operate heavy weapons? You're telling me this NOW?"
Silence engulfed the tactical operations center.
Who could have anticipated that a demonic entity would demonstrate proficiency with modern military hardware?
The military had expedited authorization for surveillance satellite repositioning. Live imagery of the arsenal appeared on the central display.
Darkness shrouded the distant mountains, with only the arsenal itself illuminated by muzzle flashes and raging fires—a perversely beautiful tableau of destruction.
Admiral Glenn clenched his jaw, roaring furiously: "Where are our ready-alert pilots? Get them airborne immediately! Load the heaviest ordnance available—I want this thing obliterated!"
His eyes narrowed dangerously. "We have two GBU-43 thermobaric weapons in inventory, correct? Mount them on bombers NOW. I want that thing vaporized!"
Everyone present shifted uncomfortably, weighing the implications.
The GBU-43 "Massive Ordnance Air Blast"—colloquially known as the "Mother of All Bombs"—represented nearly the apex of conventional destructive capability, second only to nuclear weapons. With a lethal radius exceeding 600 meters, it would annihilate all life within its blast zone.
After deployment, recovery operations at the arsenal would be unnecessary—no survivors could possibly remain.
Pulver hesitated before speaking. "Sir, deploying thermobaric weapons might be excessive—"
Before he could finish, Glenn fixed him with a blood-shot glare of such intensity that Pulver immediately fell silent.
Seeing this exchange, others abandoned any thought of protest.
Glenn surveyed the room contemptuously. "I'll assume full personal responsibility for the consequences of this action. My only priority now is ensuring that devil's destruction!"
Following his commands, three aircraft on ready-alert scrambled with 500-pound conventional bombs. Meanwhile, ground crews began the complex process of preparing the GBU-43.
The thermobaric weapon weighed several tons and required a specialized transport aircraft for delivery, necessitating additional preparation time.
Despite Jason's seemingly unstoppable rampage through the arsenal, his efficiency had limitations.
In a facility housing nearly a thousand personnel, he had eliminated approximately three hundred. The remainder either concealed themselves throughout the base or fled beyond the perimeter.
He proceeded directly to the secure weapons storage area, easily locating the two Jericho missiles.
With superhuman strength, he dragged them to the warehouse entrance, then accessed the launch system through Stark's backdoor.
After a sequence of precise inputs, he designated Bagram base as the target coordinates.
A series of electronic acknowledgments sounded—beep, beep, beep...
WHOOSH!
Twin missiles ascended skyward, tracing elegant arcs through the night before orienting toward their programmed destination.
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