150: Chapter 150: Withdrawal Blocked, Top-Secret Past Exposed

After Samuel Astor finished speaking, Isabelle DuPont, Jacob Rothschild, and William Vanderbilt V all fixed their gazes on Rockefeller III's face.

There was no reproach in their eyes, no anger, only an extremely cold, pressing question:

"Should this war against the Jewish Financial Groups and the Crane Family continue?"

"Should we still continue to rescue the Fourth Prince Daodun of Zeta Star?"

Rockefeller III fell silent.

He stood there, hands hanging at his sides, his gaze passing through the gaps in the shields, watching the remnants of the assault team at the end of the distant corridor, who were still being swallowed by black smoke and yet continuously regrouping to counterattack. He remained silent for a long time.

The Fourth Prince Daodun was right before them, perhaps in some room beneath this very wall.

To give up would be to admit that all previous efforts had gone to waste.

But if they didn't give up, they would have to continue facing Solomon Crane's bizarre, extreme alien weapon.

He had previously judged that this bio-armor required energy consumption, and that they could win as long as they drained its energy reserves.

But now, Solomon Crane had already died a dozen times.

Each time, he was able to be reborn through the body.

After each rebirth, his combat power did not diminish in the slightest.

This thing seemingly required no energy consumption at all.

Samuel Astor urged him again.

Rockefeller III raised his hand, closed his eyes, and after a fleeting moment of painful deliberation, opened them abruptly.

He ordered a retreat, immediately!

Rescuing the Fourth Prince Daodun and becoming the agent of Grey Alien on Earth was indeed a temptation great enough to make one take such a risk.

But the prerequisite was surviving.

And now, of the over four hundred elite armed forces, only fifty remained. If they didn't retreat now, there would be no need to retreat at all.

The fifty-plus surviving assault team members quickly retracted into a circular defensive formation, guarding the five heads of the families as they retreated rapidly along the corridor they had come from, toward the basement exit.

Their steps were hurried, but the formation never broke.

The emergency lights in the corridor ahead were still flickering on and off.

From the cold wind at the exit, one could faintly smell the dry desert air pouring down from the surface of the manor.

A figure walked out from the darkness at the end of the corridor.

It didn't charge out; it walked out.

Its pace was steady, neither fast nor slow, as if it had been waiting there for a long time.

As if it had been standing beneath that flickering emergency light for a long time.

Finn.

The deputy security commander who had volunteered to lead The Five Great Families was now standing in the center of the corridor, expressionless, his eyes tightly shut.

When he opened his eyes again, thick black smoke gushed out from his eye sockets.

That black mist surged out simultaneously from his mouth, nostrils, and ear canals, quickly enveloping his entire body.

In less than three seconds, the nano-scale bionic cockroach units transformed from parasites into a complete carapace, and the dark red glow of the compound eyes appeared particularly glaring under the pale light of the emergency lamp.

"Do you think you can leave here alive?"

Solomon Crane's voice came from Finn's face, which was now completely covered by the black carapace, his tone filled with undisguised mockery,

"The Five Great Families: Rockefeller, Astor, DuPont, Rothschild, Vanderbilt."

"You old-money aristocrats who have lorded over the America for over two hundred years, today you will all die beneath my manor!"

Rockefeller III, Samuel Astor, and the others stopped in their tracks simultaneously.

The guards in the front row instinctively raised their guns, but their fingers trembled so violently on the trigger guards that they could barely hold them.

They had just witnessed several identical scenes in the outer corridor.

Each time this mass of black smoke took shape, it meant more people turned into minced meat.

Solomon Crane did not give them any time to prepare.

He transformed into a black afterimage, crashing into the front row of the guard formation.

The carapace blades on his arms slashed in three directions simultaneously at a speed almost impossible for the naked eye to track.

The chests of five guards were sliced open diagonally at the same time.

Before their bodies could even hit the ground,

Solomon Crane had already flashed to the other side. With a flap of his wing membranes, he swatted two guards attempting to flank him, along with their guns, against the corridor wall.

In less than ten seconds,

the circle of elite personal guards around Rockefeller III and the others had been decimated, their bodies and severed limbs strewn across the corridor floor.

Solomon Crane paused, standing amidst the corpses, allowing the dark red glow of his compound eyes to slowly sweep across the five people still standing before him. His tone was flat and cold, as if stating a formula for which the result had already been calculated.

"You have been dead since the moment you entered."

"The only difference is the method of death."

Rockefeller III stood in place, unarmed.

He looked at the bodies of the guards lying in pools of blood, then at the alien armor-possessed entity before him, covered in black carapace, its compound eyes coldly looking down at him amidst the dark red glow. He took a deep breath.

He forced himself to calm down, then lifted his eyes to stare straight into those compound eyes.

"The alien weapon the Mothman gave you is indeed strong."

"But have you ever thought about the fact that it was the Mothman itself that shot down Grey Alien' flying saucer back in 1947?"

"It won't be long before the million-strong fleet from Zeta Star attacks Earth."

"When that time comes, as the agent of the Moth Star, how will you conduct yourself?"

Solomon Crane had originally intended to raise his arm and swing the blade to cut Rockefeller III in half at the waist.

But upon hearing the words "Mothman shot down Grey Alien' flying saucer," his arm, which had already been raised into the air, suddenly stopped.

The crystalline surfaces of his compound eyes scanned Rockefeller III's face over and over, as if confirming whether what this person said was true.

Then he laughed,

The laughter held no joy, only absurdity and mockery.

"Mothman? Shot down Grey Alien' flying saucer? What are you talking about?"

He slowly lowered the arm that had been suspended in the air, the sense of absurdity in his tone growing stronger,

"Rockefeller III, have you been blasted stupid by a shell?"

"My grandfather found only two cockroach-shaped alien corpses in the ruins of a farm on the outskirts of Roswell in 1947, and that was it."

"There is no Mothman! There are no Greys!"

"What does everything you just said have to do with my Crane Family?"

But just after he finished this sentence, the real pupils behind his compound eyes suddenly shrank violently.

He stood in place, his arms still hanging at his sides. No one attacked him, no one spoke, but a completely foreign memory suddenly surged into the depths of his brain.

In that memory,

there was a Deep State Longevity Faction official named Zhang Long, who, in the Boxwood Tea Room of the Casablanca Manor, told Diana Hopkins that her great-grandfather Leo Hopkins had polished his shoes for free for his entire life;

in that memory,

there was a Tech Faction official named Joshua, who, on the second basement level of the Starship Base in Texas, had a bolt of lightning strike into the conference room to tell Elon Musk that the Longevity Faction bunch were all low-class hillbillies,

and that the Tech Faction was the orthodox group that would expand the Deep State's power to the entire galaxy;

in that memory,

a secret base codenamed Warehouse 18 was hidden beneath the Hoover Dam,

filled with experimental records on reverse-engineering the wreckage of Grey Alien' flying saucers,

and in its deepest part, on a torn piece of paper, was a clinical observation report for a heart transplant surgery, where the donor heart came from a live-dissected Grey.