"Unbelievable! To the San Francisco police, it seems anyone with a slightly darker skin tone is already a threat to their lives."
Human rights lawyer Ben Collinson spoke confidently at the press conference. Facing the cameras, he felt every cell in his body jumping with joy.
"According to Mr. Fortson's neighbors, the police were dispatched because Ms. Allen saw smoke coming from the neighboring kitchen and, in a panic, called 911."
"But she didn't expect the police wouldn't notify the fire department—instead, they arrived with guns. What were they going to do? Put out the fire with handguns?"
"The most unforgivable and absurd part is that these two officers even went to the wrong apartment!"
At this point, Ben Collinson slammed the table, emotionally charged and full of righteous anger.
"Can you believe it? Officers responded to a 911 call, got the location wrong, and still opened fire after the innocent man repeatedly identified himself."
"Tell me, who in America would still dare to call 911 now?"
"We white folks still would! Police immunity only kicks in when they shoot people of color…"
Many white journalists echoed this sentiment internally. Some even showed indifferent expressions, though their fingers never left the shutter button.
These reporters were realists—experts in saying one thing while thinking another. As long as it meant views and clicks, they'd even say God was Black.
In recent days, this case had become a hot topic—especially since the Air Force issued an uncharacteristically strong statement, and several congressmen (including presidential hopefuls) publicly supported the victim. The case quickly escalated into a nationwide media storm.
Large-scale protests erupted across the country, particularly among Black communities. Civil rights groups jumped in to ride the wave, further fueling the public outrage.
In San Francisco, where the incident occurred, Black protesters from all over the U.S. gathered and surrounded the SFPD, demanding justice and severe punishment for the shooter.
Will Fortson had successfully orchestrated the prelude. Next, he planned to petition the city council to launch a hearing into the SFPD, specifically demanding the shooter Jack Bryan appear in person.
His goal? Provoke Jack into making overtly racist comments during the hearing and then escalate the conflict to the point where he could kill Jack in "self-defense."
This plan... well, let's just say it reeked of youthful naivety.
Will had clearly cast himself as the main character in a movie, craving both justice and the spotlight—without considering whether other "actors" would follow his script.
The Air Force only backed him because they saw value in him—and because the public pressure was real. Senior Air Force officials, pragmatic as ever, believed that even if the hearing happened, it would just be a bunch of finger-pointing and bureaucracy. SFPD might compromise slightly, but would never give in fully.
As for Jack Bryan, he'd probably be fired. Whether he'd show up to the hearing was questionable at best.
No one—not Will, not the Air Force—anticipated what happened next.
After signing a pact with the demon lord and receiving demonic power, Jack Bryan's killing intent surged.
On a bright sunny morning, still wearing his police uniform, he appeared at the SFPD headquarters and walked straight toward the protesting Black crowd.
At the police station's entrance, the scene was tense—a clear Black-vs-White standoff.
The Black protesters chanted angrily; white officers, in riot gear, stood in tight formation. Occasional scuffles broke out.
SFPD leadership, under national scrutiny, wanted to avoid further conflict. Officers had been strictly forbidden from carrying weapons, so the white officers remained docile behind their shields.
Under normal circumstances, they'd already be shooting.
"Hey, Jack!"
His colleague George paled. "What are you doing here?!"
Jack waved and kept walking.
"That's the cop who shot Mr. Fortson!"
"Bastard! Is he here to taunt us?"
"Kill him! For Mr. Fortson!"
As Jack expected, the angry crowd rushed him.
"Oh my God, is Jack trying to kill himself?" his coworkers murmured from behind.
"Should we help him?" one asked.
"Nah," another shrugged. "I heard he's being fired. Maybe this is how he wants to protest."
Jack didn't fight back at first. After a full minute, he suddenly shouted:
"George! According to U.S. law, this situation qualifies as self-defense, right?!"
George hesitated, then shouted back:
"Yes! We have it all on camera!"
At that moment, Jack Bryan grinned wickedly.
"WRAARGH!"
A low, guttural roar echoed.
He transformed into a dog-like humanoid: white fur, white paws, white tail—a giant white bear-dog hybrid.
He had eaten the artificial Devil Fruit: Dog-Dog Fruit – White Bear Form.
Jack, originally 6'0", now stood over 8 feet tall, waving his clawed hands like weapons. Black protesters were tossed aside like leaves in a storm.
"Dear God!"
Officers were dumbfounded. "What the hell is this?!"
The Black crowd, under attack, screamed in terror.
"Oh my God, he turned into a demon!"
"Run!"
The smart ones tried to flee—but Jack, filled with bloodlust, gave no quarter.
"Stop filming—turn that off!" George shouted.
Before, it was arguably self-defense. Now, it was a straight-up murder.
"Idiot," the cameraman sneered. "This is the good stuff. The networks will pay top dollar."
Ah, capitalism.
Meanwhile, Will Fortson, recovering in the ICU and awaiting the hearing, saw the breaking news.
"We interrupt this broadcast with a live emergency report: A humanoid dog is rampaging through Black protesters on the streets of San Francisco…"
"Sources reveal this creature is none other than the SFPD officer who shot African-American pilot Will Fortson—Jack Bryan."
On the TV, a small window showed Jack's transformation in front of the police station.
"Why did Jack Bryan suddenly become a beast-man? Stay tuned for Big Mouth Henry's exclusive report."
For once, the reporters arrived faster than the police.
The SFPD, dragging their feet, even refused to answer the mayor's calls—an act of protest.
With no one stopping him, Jack Bryan massacred freely.
"Bastard!"
Will Fortson leapt from the window—ten stories up—transforming into a Black Panther, scaling walls and racing toward the scene.
Soon, national TV showed a black panther leaping across car rooftops on its way downtown.
America's media went wild.
Moments later, Will Fortson arrived.
"RAAWR!"
The Black Panther roared at the White Dog.
Their eyes locked—hatred boiling.
But as they noticed similar transformations, they paused, realizing they both bore the Demon Lord's power.
What if we kill an ally by mistake?
In both minds, a mocking voice from Robert—the Demon Lord watching from afar—echoed:
Only the strong are worthy of my blessing.
They understood. The Demon Lord wasn't here for pleasantries.
Taking it as a test, the two charged at full power.
Jack lunged in beast-form, belly the only spot without fur.
Black Panther vs. White Bear-Dog, their massive forms collided mid-air with explosive force.
Both were over 3 meters (10 feet) long, over a meter (3+ ft) tall—fast, vicious, and brutal.
Robert had even implanted combat techniques and training knowledge into their minds when giving them the fruit, making their battle fierce from the start.
The more intense the fight, the higher the death toll, the greater his harvest of souls.
But even Robert didn't expect the surprise twist.
After a few exchanges, the two beasts leapt apart.
Then Jack turned—and realized he was now fighting among Black civilians again. Will found himself near a crowd of Whites.
Their eyes met—and they both had the same idea.
The bear and panther expanded their range, diving into the civilian spectators of each other's race.
A flick of the hip, a swing of the tail—dozens of onlookers were injured.
Jack, who already hated Black people, took pleasure in it. Will, furious at Jack, returned the favor.
They'd unlocked a new level of combat.
Clash—then retreat—then massacre the audience.
"You kill Black, I kill White—until our eyes go red."
Even Robert, watching from afar, blinked in awe:
"Damn… self-taught!"
(End of Chapter)