119: Chapter 119 Amidst the Chaos, Each with Their Own Thoughts

Rockefeller III opened the car door, glanced back at Samuel, his tone calm to the point of being cold:

"There is no need to discuss this."

"Whether pi equals 3 or 3.14, it has nothing to do with us."

Samuel froze on the spot, one hand still resting on the car door frame.

He was never interrupted so directly like this back at the Astor Family's private club on Fifth Avenue.

He composed himself, stepped onto the running board, and sat down. Before the door was even fully closed, he turned his head to stare at Rockefeller III:

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why is it unnecessary? It is absolutely necessary."

"If the entire Solar System is a flawed space-time, then all the defection strategies we previously discussed need to be recalibrated..."

"To me, π = 3 only proves one thing."

Rockefeller III interrupted him, his tone so flat it was as if he had already calculated all the relevant variables and filed them away in the appropriate folder,

"The true reason for the crash of the Grey Alien saucer during the Roswell Incident back then was that the physical parameters of their saucer were incompatible with this distorted space-time of the Solar System."

"Other than that, it means nothing."

Samuel leaned back into the leather seat, slightly turned his head, and through the car window, his peripheral vision swept once more over the line of text still faintly floating in the sky. A lingering sternness remained on his face, but Rockefeller III continued immediately.

"A flawed space-time is not that big of a problem."

"As long as there is a solution, that is enough."

"And we have already seen the solution."

"That night over the Hoover Dam, whether it was the Deep State's 200,000-strong Space Fleet or the Grey Alien's 2,000 saucers, they all fired normally, had their shields fully engaged normally, and maneuvered at acceleration normally in this so-called "flawed" space-time."

"This proves that whether it is the Deep State or the Grey Alien, both have already found a way to deal with this flawed space-time."

"Since both sides have a plan, what are we panicking about?"

"Continue with the established plan and head to the Warren Family's Spring Mountain Manor."

Samuel did not press further.

He slowly leaned his back against the seat again. Outside the window, the road and the desert retreated at a steady pace beyond the car curtains.

In the faint reflection of the car window, he watched Rockefeller III's expression, which was calm to the point of being cold, and a complex impression he had never felt before suddenly rose in his heart.

The bulletproof Cadillac continued to drive steadily on the desert road leading to Spring Mountain Manor.

And deep within the mind of Samuel, this old aristocrat, those old impressions of Rockefeller III—hitherto calm and neither light nor heavy—were undergoing a silent, earth-shattering change.

...

Washington D.C., Federal Detention Center, side corridor.

When Prant walked out of the interrogation room, the corridor was empty, with only the monotonous echo of his own leather shoes hitting the concrete floor.

Biden had already left, disappearing at the end of the corridor with his Secret Service team and the deafening slam of the door, which followed his words: "I am the President."

Prant buttoned his cuffs, adjusted his collar, and a trace of the mocking curve that had remained from his confrontation with Biden still hung on the corner of his mouth.

Then he pushed open the side door of the Federal Detention Center and stepped into the midday sun.

His lawyers and campaign team had been waiting for him in the parking lot outside for nearly two hours.

The lawyer held the bail order, which had been stepped on by a Secret Service squad, its edges now crumpled.

Campaign manager Eddie Rosenthal was holding a tablet, and the expression on his face made it hard for Prant to tell for a moment whether it was anxiety or excitement.

Just then, the midday sun suddenly went out.

Prant's feet were still planted on the asphalt of the parking lot, and he was frozen in place.

The entire sky flickered violently between night and day, so fast it was as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button on the zenith,

Night, day, night, day—each switch was accompanied by a harsh, static-like sound,

as if the entire sky had turned into a giant, old-fashioned television set with someone roughly twisting the channel knob, a snow-screen of bad signal covering every inch of space from the horizon to the zenith.

Then the flickering stopped.

A line of characters hung quietly in the sky: π = 3.

Prant looked up at those three characters, his brow furrowing.

He knew this was the work of the Aliens,

He still had fresh memories of what happened last night over the Hoover Dam with the 200,000-strong Space Fleet and the 2,000 alien saucers,

and it was no surprise to see another strange event in the sky today.

But he did not yet understand what it meant for the Aliens to write a wrong pi formula in the sky.

π is approximately 3.14; this is common knowledge from middle school mathematics,

Why would the Aliens change a simple mathematical fact into a wrong answer?

Rosenthal, however, clutched his tablet and hurried over to Prant.

He turned the tablet screen toward Prant, his face filled with the excitement of being flooded by the explosion of data traffic, his voice trembling.

"Sir, our opportunity has arrived!"

"In just a few minutes, the internet has exploded. Netizens are all analyzing what π = 3 means—some are talking about conspiracy theories, others about science."

"The most popular conclusion is that our Solar System is a flawed space-time! All physical formulas are overturned, and humanity is destined for destruction. This conclusion is already flooding social media!"

"Sir, your probability of winning the presidency is now rising along with the heat of these keywords! This is more effective than the days and nights we spent bombing rallies talking about "MAGA"!"

Prant withdrew his gaze from the sky and looked at his campaign manager's face, which was flushed with excitement, his own face full of confusion:

"What does the Aliens writing pi equals 3 in the sky have to do with me running for president? I didn't ask them to write π = 3."

"Besides, everyone's attention is drawn to that formula. Who has time to watch my campaign speech? This actually looks like my probability of success is dropping."

Rosenthal stuffed the tablet into his hands, his excitement undiminished:

"What people are watching is not important! What is important is that social order has already collapsed!"

"The conclusion of that flawed space-time, when pushed to the end, is that humanity is destined to be destroyed!"

"Many people have already decided not to follow the law. There is looting in the streets, and half of the live streaming rooms on streaming platforms are showing cars being flipped, shops being ransacked, and police cars being overturned!"

"And this is only after a few minutes! If a few more hours pass, I dare not imagine how chaotic the situation will become!"

Prant looked down at the tablet screen, at the row of rapidly updating real-time news and social media trending topics, and fell silent.