On the other side, Sergei hoisted Kaplan like a dog. "Surprised? Didn't expect that, did you?"
Watching Kaplan thrash for air as he dangled by the throat, Sergei's grin grew even crueler.
Chapter 571: Civil War Ends, New Beginnings
Rapid mutation followed by devouring the nearby guard corpses, Kaplan finally became a monster—yet one with remarkable sanity. "This is power! Hahaha!"
Sergei, sent flying, pulled himself back up. "You're nothing but a freak!"
Clapping his palms together, Sergei willingly triggered a T-Virus mutation; anything non-T was beneath him—he wasn't singling out other strains, they were all trash compared to T.
The voluntary change turned Sergei into something grotesque, roughly a classic Tyrant but sprouting four pairs of tentacles from his back—seemingly harmless yet astonishingly agile.
His arms fused into one thick tentacle ending in a hooked claw; a huge eye opened in his mouth, and his legs were replaced by more tentacles—utterly bizarre.
The two abominations tore into each other: Kaplan wielding the titanic might of the Las Plagas parasite, Sergei relying on high mobility and a single smash from his fused tentacle that could flatten a car.
Neither could revert to human form unless they obtained a reinforced C-Virus—unlikely now that Carla had married Eddie.
On a rooftop, a sunglassed man collected combat data. "Hmph, Sergei… never thought you'd turn into a monster too."
The man was Wesker, now with Blue Umbrella Corporation, hiding inside the building to avoid the fighters overhead.
A Licker crept into the room; the moment its prey looked away, it pounced, claws slashing for the head.
Wesker spun, punching straight through the Licker's claws, then slammed a high kick down, crushing its skull underfoot.
Wesker, after all, was virus-enhanced; if he couldn't handle Eddie, these run-of-the-mill bioweapons were easy prey.
Meanwhile, inside the Parliament Building, Eastern Slav Republic leader Derek broadcast worldwide, denouncing the militant elders for using bioweapons for personal gain, ignoring civilian lives—and condemning the Western Federation's invasion and armed interference in regional affairs.
It was breaking news; every major outlet cut to the feed instantly.
What grabs eyeballs more than war? A war with piles of dead.
As cameras rolled, a thunderous blast blew the Parliament Building apart.
Silencing witnesses—the phrase flashed through every viewer's mind.
Even Eddie was stunned by Sergei's ruthlessness; the man was vicious enough to slaughter his own.
Svetlana shrugged. "For our homeland's rebirth, self-sacrifice is standard."
"Would you do it?" Eddie asked suddenly.
Svetlana shook her head. "Once, maybe. Now I've met you, bastard. Even if I wanted to, you wouldn't let me."
"Damn right. My wife stays alive—no self-destruct games." Eddie nodded firmly.
Just as the Western Federation, furious, ordered an assault, a joint Russo-Oriental air-strike force arrived, shredding every roaming bioweapon with cannon fire.
The Pentagon received formal diplomatic protests, condemning their interference in the civil war while affirming their allies' protection.
The staff inside The Pentagon fell silent; they couldn't stand against a two-region coalition.
The purge took half a day. Not one bioweapon survived; even the mutated Kaplan and Sergei were bombed to pieces, their remains burned to ash in the inferno.
A provisional joint parliament was formed; until a formal supreme leader could be elected, Eastern Slav Republic would be jointly maintained by two factions.
Mysterious Pharmaceutical also began moving into Eastern Slav Republic, dispatching construction crews to repair and rebuild according to blueprints almost as soon as the war ended.
They cleared a perfectly good city to make way for roads running in all directions, erecting tempered-glass walls on either side.
In just two days the brand-new racetrack was more than half finished, thanks to a flood of refugees pitching in.
Someone was paying to rebuild their homeland; homeless refugees could land decent, respectable jobs, and once construction was done they'd keep positions at the racetrack, complete with staff dorms—finally, a place to call home.
A dorm room was enough to keep the refugees of Eastern Slav Republic working with fiery zeal. Rest? Impossible—only overtime brings joy; idleness is ruin!
On a concrete worksite Eddie found Alexander, the militant leader who bore a faint, very faint resemblance to Chris.
Hand-picked by Zhudanovich as his successor, Alexander was stubborn yet kind at heart—an all-around healthy, upstanding youth.
Click—Eddie lit a cigarette, sat down on a chair, and offered one over. "After these two days, how do you feel?"
Alexander knew Eddie was the big investor bankrolling everything, the benefactor of every citizen in Eastern Slav Republic. "War, ruin—I thought you'd build a pharma plant here."
Eddie wagged an index finger. "Of course not; that would offend most people. The land's good for crops, not medicinal herbs. I just want to make money—how about you?"
Alexander lowered his head. "I want to see Eastern Slav Republic prosper, free of war."
"Then will you be supreme leader? Develop the economy properly—you'd be a fine choice." Eddie smiled.
"Why recommend me?" Alexander asked, grave-faced rather than delighted.
"I need someone who wants only peace and the best for his homeland. This is my wife's hometown; her dream was to end the civil war and bring peace to Eastern Slav Republic. That's done. Me, I just want to earn money—get it?" Eddie laughed.
"You're a good man. Thank you!" Alexander said solemnly; a man who loves his wife can't be all bad.
Chapter 572: The Royal Beauty Stands Him Up
With the candidate chosen, it was time to deliver. Eddie's task: revive the economy fast and turn the place into a money-printing machine.
"Want cash? Tired of being a nobody driver? Become a racetrack superstar! Come to Eastern Slav Republic and compete for a share of five hundred million U.S. dollars!"
"Eastern Slav Republic is holding its first street race with a five-hundred-million-dollar purse?" a bored French driver muttered at the news.
"Fool, quit pushing weed—let's enter!" a black guy bellowed.
With Alyssa's years of connections, the story hit the wires in no time.
The huge prize and unregulated street racing gave these normally downtrodden, dignity-starved drivers a chance to stand tall.
If anyone else had announced it, people might scoff—but it came from cash-rich Mysterious Pharmaceutical, guaranteed by the benevolent TerraSave. No hoax here.
The wealthy don't bother with fake news; five hundred million is pocket change to them.
To most, that sum could last a lifetime—yet for some it's merely a day's dining budget.
Asphalt roads of top-grade material now link the cities of Eastern Slav Republic—far better than crude concrete.
The city is partitioned by racetracks; aside from leisure zones there's no heavy industry—just tissue mills and wastewater plants at most.
Today's race began promptly. Silver-tongued hosts took the mics, cameras were scattered everywhere, feeding every corner of the track to giant screens.
Svetlana sounded skeptical: "Honey, can this really make money?"