American comics: May the Holy Light deceive you

Chapter 46 Reveille

Vega agreed to Steve Rogers' suggestion, and even if Rogers hadn't said anything, Vega wouldn't have sold the bodysuit so easily.

The Scepter of Life and the eight rings are manageable, but misuse of the bodysuit could cause serious trouble.

After finishing their business, everyone started chatting, and the banquet lasted until midnight.

Superstar had already returned to Houston with the pregnant Monica, while Vega remained at the Allied headquarters, where he began receiving clients who wanted to conduct private transactions.

The five major powers had not yet decided what to exchange for the three most valuable items, so Vega first received representatives from the smaller countries and their families.

These people were also self-aware; only a small number of them exchanged extraordinary materials for the ordinary magical items that Vega had brought out at the auction. Most of them still wanted to buy potions, battle dolls, and enchanted orbs, but Vega refused them.

Firstly, he genuinely has no inventory on hand right now, and secondly, he wants to gradually reduce the trading volume of these items.

These customers mostly paid in cash, and the money he and Monica now had had become a huge burden.

Furthermore, anticipating that he might be very busy in the future, he had no choice but to make these clients feel a little guilty in order to squeeze out more time to spend with Monica and their unborn child.

People lived well even before these things existed. Now they're just less numerous, not nonexistent. We'll get used to it after a while.

After dealing with these people, it was already past 2 a.m., and Vega, who had been working hard for two days in a row, decided to go and rest.

Phil Coulson: ......

Phil Coulson waited for over an hour before realizing he had been ignored.

He gave a helpless, bitter smile, utterly baffled as to why this was happening.

He's already been punished for what happened last time, and this time he just wants to buy some potions and combat dolls.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

At 5:59 a.m., on the parade ground of the joint command, five buglers raised their bugles together.

The French horn player started playing, Le Réveil, which had drifted from the Paris military camps three hundred years ago. The first note from the brass was like a corner of the morning mist on the Seine being gently lifted.

The melody rises gracefully and unhurriedly, each note seemingly saying, "Sir, it's time to wake up. The weather is quite nice today."

That was the last vestige of dignity left by the Old World nobility, a kind of gentleness that only existed before the Great Revolution.

The British trumpeters joined in almost simultaneously, followed closely by the American trumpeters.

The same Reveille, the same tune.

But the British blow it slower and more deliberately—like the guard at Buckingham Palace who is never late, methodical and solemn to the point of being rigid.

The Americans, on the other hand, raised the tempo by half a beat, making the notes crisp and bright, like the first drumbeat at the start of a Hollywood movie.

Decisive and efficient, full of energy, and never dawdles.

Three horns come together and become a river. The same song, three flavors, three temperaments.

Then, the Russian trumpeter sounded the horn.

In that instant, the air itself changed.

Пробуждение——This isn't telling you to get up, it's ordering you to crawl out of your grave!

The deep horn blasted out from the chest, like the Siberian permafrost cracking beneath your feet, like the sound of a tank track rolling over snow.

There was no gentleness, no elegance; every note carried the message: "War will not wait for you."

The Frenchman's morning mist was torn apart, the British man's solemnity was suffocated, and the American man's decisiveness was like that of a child in front of this bronze wall.

Finally, the Chinese bugler raised his bugle. He didn't wait for anyone; a sharp, long note tore through the air of the entire parade ground.

This is not the mellow sound of a brass bugle—this is the unique, penetrating whistle of a Chinese military bugle, produced purely by mouth and breath, without any buttons.

The three melodies are like three knives.

The first strike was the rallying cry; the second strike was the charge; the third strike was the ultimatum.

No build-up, no transition. Within three seconds, you either stand up or you'll never be able to lie down again.

Five bugles sounded together, echoing across the playground.

France is saying "Good morning"; Britain is saying "Get up"; the United States is saying "Let's go"; Russia is saying "Get up and fight"; China is saying—"If you don't get up, you die!"

Five melodies collide, intertwine, and tear each other apart, with elegance and violence coexisting, and composure and urgency confronting each other head-on.

Under the same sky, five civilizations use the same method to pull sleeping people out of their dreams—but what they pull out are five completely different souls.

Those weren't five reveilles. They were the tempers of five nations, baring their fangs in the last second before dawn.

The moment the bugle sounded, Vega opened his eyes, and then listened to the five reveilles to get up, get dressed, and finish washing up.

When I pushed open the door and came out, there were already countless neat rows of people running on the huge playground.

Vega spotted a man running alone in training gear, and upon closer inspection, realized it was Steve Rogers.

After thinking for a moment, Vega ran towards the training ground. His white robe transformed into a green camouflage uniform as he ran, and he quickly blended into a team that was chanting "One, two, one."

After running two laps with the group, Vega broke away from the group and sped up to catch up with Steve Rogers as he ran quickly over.

Vega: "Good morning, Captain."

Steve Rogers: "Good morning, Lee."

Vega: "How are you doing? Adapting to this era?"

Steve Rogers chuckled wryly: "I spent months learning, and just when I thought I was almost ready, aliens that only existed in comic books invaded Earth."

Not only that, I also witnessed many incredible things, and I realized that this world was terrifyingly unfamiliar, and I had never truly seen its true face.

Vega: "Haha, is the real world amazing?"

After a long silence, Steve Rogers said in a heavy tone, "The world is wonderful for you, but for me and ordinary people, it is terrifying."

Vega shook his head and sighed, "No, Captain, you're wrong. The real world also fills me with fear and dread."

"Why?" Steve Rogers wondered. In his eyes, Vega was no different from a god. How could this world make him feel afraid and terrified?

"Because I've seen more than you have." Vega's voice was very soft, as if he were afraid of waking something...