147: Chapter 147 Empty Promises and Empty Talk: The Cannon Fodder Squad Charges into the Bunker

"Do you want your descendants to sit by the pool in the Hamptons, sipping ice water from champagne flutes, rather than crouching on gravel with rifles, smelling the scent of gunpowder like you are now?"

Rockefeller III paused briefly, then continued:

"Wanting to become a top-tier elite family is actually very simple."

"To put it bluntly, it only requires one bold choice, one opportunity to go all-in with all your chips, and one gamble sufficient to change the fate of a lifetime."

On the four hundred faces below, the exhaustion that had been suppressed for so long by gunpowder smoke and bloodshed began to waver.

In the front row, several tactical team members unconsciously placed their fingers on the outside of their trigger guards, rubbing them back and forth.

In the back row, a sniper who had been looking down while adjusting his scope also lifted his face.

Rockefeller III turned slightly and pointed to Samuel standing beside him. His tone remained flat, yet every word carried a cold and sharp sense of control.

"This man looks no different from you, and some of you are even far more capable than him, but he gets to sit in a manor as the BOSS, while you only get to risk your lives for him."

"The answer is very simple."

"Because his ancestors made a bold choice over two hundred years ago, betting their entire fortune on a general named George Washington."

"Without that choice, the Astor Family would not be where it is today!"

"Without that choice, this man named Samuel would not be your boss!"

He deliberately paused for a long time, allowing the silence below to be digested by everyone.

Over four hundred adults who had received strict military training remained silent at that moment.

Except for the occasional faint metallic cracking sound from the vehicles still burning in the distance,

the entire courtyard was so quiet that one could hear the sand and dust gently scraping against the edge of the stone steps.

Someone rested their rifle butt on the ground and wiped the sweat from their forehead with the back of their hand.

Someone else pursed their lips tightly, their eyes staring unblinkingly at the stage.

Samuel finally understood his position in being dragged into this mobilization speech:

He was a prop, a living exhibit.

Rockefeller had used Samuel's ancestors to provide the example, and then used Samuel himself to make the comparison.

Rockefeller III looked at the heat that had not yet solidified in the eyes of the crowd below and spoke again:

"Now, a choice that requires courage lies before you!"

"Right beneath this wall! Right in this basement!"

"Whoever can be the first to rush in and rescue His Highness Prince Dao Dun, the Fourth Prince of Zeta Star, will be Zeta Star's number one hero!"

"From then on, Grey Alien will have your back, and even this Samuel Astor standing beside me will have to respectfully lower his head when he sees you in the future!"

"Because no matter how rich the Astor Family behind him is, they are only nobles on Earth."

"And the backer behind you is an advanced interstellar civilization capable of crossing thirty-nine light-years to reach the Solar System!"

As soon as he finished speaking,

someone in the crowd suddenly stepped forward from the ranks, raised their carbine above their head, and roared hoarsely:

"Swear to rescue His Highness the Fourth Prince!"

That roar was like a spark falling into a pile of dry firewood; the entire courtyard was ignited in less than three seconds.

"Swear to rescue His Highness Prince Dao Dun!"

"Swear to rescue His Highness Prince Dao Dun!!"

Over four hundred people raised their arms and shouted the same slogan in unison.

The sound was so loud that it made the cockpit instruments of the Black Hawk helicopters still cruising overhead tremble.

Rockefeller III stood on the stone steps watching all this, nodding slightly, a faint smile appearing on his face.

Samuel Astor did not speak; he merely withdrew his finger, which he had been repeatedly rubbing against the inside of his cuff, and shoved it into the side of his trouser pocket.

He watched the group of armed elites, pumped up with adrenaline, swarming toward the entrance of the basement passage, and shook his head slightly.

Samuel lowered his voice and said to Rockefeller III:

"It's just Solomon left, why go to such great lengths, and even use my family as fodder for your pep talk."

Rockefeller III did not turn to look at him, his gaze still fixed on the armed ranks orderly pouring into the basement passage.

He said casually:

"Just because Solomon cannot mobilize the armed forces of Mothman does not mean that Solomon does not have alien technology in his hands."

Samuel paused his steps, pulled his finger out of his trouser pocket, and gripped the railing of the stone steps.

He turned to look at Rockefeller III, his brows already furrowed before the other's second half of the sentence was even spoken.

Rockefeller III's voice remained flat.

"The connection between the Crane Family and Mothman has lasted for nearly a hundred years."

"As long as the people of the Crane Family aren't all pigs, Solomon must definitely be holding one or two weapons with alien technology levels in his hands right now."

"When the fighting starts next, I'm afraid it will be much more difficult."

Samuel turned these words over in his mind twice, his expression suddenly changing slightly. He turned his head and stared fixedly at the side of Rockefeller III's face, spitting out a sentence from his throat in a lowered voice:

"So that's why you said so much just now, you wanted to make them willingly go to their deaths."

Isabelle DuPont's arms, which were crossed over her chest, moved slightly. She shifted her gaze from the distant entrance of the basement passage to Rockefeller III, but said nothing.

However, the look in her eyes as she watched him was no longer the calm indifference typical of a noblewoman.

Jacob Rothschild stood in place, silent for a long time.

Then he pursed his thin lips, which were usually taciturn, slightly.

"So it was just to have them use their lives to fill the gap; once that alien weapon's energy slot is exhausted, Solomon will become meat on the chopping block."

After hearing this from Jacob, William Vanderbilt V gently placed his fingers, which were holding a whiskey flask, on the stone table beside him and did not raise it to his lips again.

Rockefeller III looked at the four old-money nobles standing beside him and spread his hands slightly.

"That's not the right way to put it."

"Hope is a real thing."

"As long as they really rescue the Fourth Prince Prince Dao Dun, Zeta Star's support will become a reality, and then they will naturally have a boundless future."

Samuel sneered.

"Your hope is equivalent to nothing."

"Making those elites take their rifles to fight against Mothman's alien technology, they are bound to die."

Jacob Rothschild took over the conversation, directing his calm, inquiring gaze straight at Rockefeller III.

"By the time our armed elites are mostly dead, the energy reserves of that alien weapon in Solomon's hands should also be mostly depleted."

"That will be the time for Solomon to be slaughtered."

"Am I right, Rockefeller?"

Rockefeller III gently clasped his hands—which were so clean they had never touched a trigger—behind his back, his tone remaining flat and calm.

"Other than that, can any of you think of a safer way?"

"Someone has to go and deplete the energy slot of his weapon."

"Is there anyone here who volunteers to go down and fill that hole?"