326: Chapter 326 One video is worth a rocket corps?

"Boss," a young editor looked up, his face pale, "the video has been played nearly twenty million times, just surpassing the single-day viewership record for the WWII Normandy landings documentary. The comments section... has completely spiraled out of control."

Anderson yanked his tie loose. He knew what this meant—this wasn't an exclusive scoop or a deep investigation; it was a public opinion nuclear bomb that had already been detonated.

In Tokyo, evening variety shows were interrupted by emergency news bulletins. Audiences who had been laughing at comedians suddenly fell silent. The teleprompter cards in the host's hands trembled slightly; he tried to speak several times but couldn't find the right words, finally saying with a dry voice: "The footage that follows may cause significant distress to viewers... but our editorial team believes you have the right to see the truth."

In Berlin, in Paris, in Cairo, in Istanbul, in Jakarta—the same scene repeated across different time zones with the same sense of shock.

At the end of the video, the Lens slowly pulled back. Smoke rose from the ruins of Nablus Village in the morning light, a few scattered gunshots echoed in the distance, and then everything fell into silence. In the final freeze-frame, a black stray dog crossed an empty square.

No background music.

No narration.

But everyone heard the roar.

Three hours later, the UN UN Security Council convened an emergency meeting. The original agenda was "Monitoring the Implementation of the Humanitarian Ceasefire in the Gaza Strip," but before the meeting even began, the documents in the hands of the national representatives had been replaced by screenshots from the same video.

The permanent representative of the Squid Nation was surrounded by reporters before entering the hall. His face was ashen, and he mechanically repeated: "Our military has launched an internal investigation. Anyone found violating military discipline will be dealt with severely..."

"Dealt with severely?" A French reporter practically shouted while shoving a recording pen into his face. "Eleven people are dead! Including four children! You call gang rape and burning people alive 'violating military discipline'?!"

Representatives from Egypt, Jordan, Turkey, and Qatar issued a joint statement ten minutes before the meeting, announcing the immediate recall of their ambassadors to the Squid Nation. The French President delivered a televised speech from the Élysée Palace, using language of a severity rarely seen in recent years: "If this is what is called a 'civilized force,' then I demand that Tel Aviv relearn the definition of those words."

The permanent representative of the Dragon Kingdom said only eight words to the camera: "Crimes against humanity. No shielding. No double standards."

Times Square, New York. The video was projected onto the big screen by an anonymous hacker group. Passersby stopped in their tracks, looking up and staring. Some covered their mouths, some burst into tears on the spot, and some, after the brief shock, raised pre-prepared protest signs and flooded into the streets—they had been waiting for a flashpoint.

In London, outside 10 Downing Street, thousands of protesters shouted "Stop selling weapons to murderers." In Rome, in front of St. Peter's Square, the faithful gathered spontaneously for a candlelight vigil for the victims. In Tokyo, at the Shibuya Crossing, college students held a sit-in protest with signs reading "Children are not military targets." In Paris, the Eiffel Tower turned off its lights that night to commemorate the eleven victims of Nablus Village—even though the French government had not officially announced the decision.

Tel Aviv, first-floor lobby of the Ministry of Defense.

Soldiers moved in and out with their heads down, trying not to look at the large screen in the corner playing the news. Several staff officers from the Southern Command hurried through the corridor, their expressions as grim as if they had just stepped out of a morgue.

Minister Lavitz—who was supposed to be awaiting trial under house arrest but was temporarily assigned during the ceasefire to coordinate "rear-area public opinion"—sat in his office as one colleague after another roared through the telephone receiver. He suddenly found it absurd: just seventy-two hours ago, they were still mocking Sinwar's "gaza diary" as "terrorist propaganda tactics." Now, a raw video with zero post-production had pierced their carefully cultivated victim narrative shell more lethally than a hundred rockets.

A freshly printed internal investigation report lay spread out on the desk. The list of Givati Brigade soldiers involved in the Nablus incident was clearly visible, including that bearded sergeant. A note at the end of the report read: "The personnel involved showed signs of combat stress trauma the day before and did not receive timely psychological intervention."

He slowly crumpled the report into a ball and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

"Psychological intervention." When these words were squeezed out from between his teeth, they carried the bitterness of self-mockery. This was probably as laughable as their pre-war claim to "wipe out Gaza within a week."

Deep beneath Gaza, the "Rock" command post.

On the three tactical tablets in front of Sinwar, the left one still showed the defensive deployment dynamics of various sectors, while the global social media trend chart on the right showed that "#Nablus" had topped the charts for seven hours. The middle screen was currently playing real-time footage from New York—a march of tens of thousands of people was moving along Fifth Avenue toward the UN headquarters, led by a group of Jewish youth holding signs that read: "Not in our name."

Sinwar watched quietly, without a smile or any extra words.

The head of the "Lens" team still stood behind him. Sinwar took off his headset and, without looking back, asked only one question: "Camera Position 04, is he still on the other side?"

"Yes, Marshal. After the filming ended, he continued to hide in camouflage on-site. The signal has not been detected."

"Arrange a rotation. Let him rest for a few days." Sinwar picked up the half-smoked cigarette he had extinguished earlier and relit it. "The effect this man achieved today is worth a rocket artillery company."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the screens showing the former armed personnel currently under house arrest by the Squid Nation's Ministry of Defense.

"Let the world see their so-called 'civilized force'." He spoke very softly, but in the quiet command post, every word was embedded into the air like a nail.

The global public opinion tsunami triggered by "Bloody Morning" continued. The Squid Nation Defense Forces announced an "indefinite suspension" of all military action authority for the unit involved and characterized the Nablus incident as "a very small number of personnel violating the rules of engagement"—however, this did not stop twelve countries from successively announcing the downgrading or freezing of diplomatic relations with Tel Aviv within forty-eight hours.

But deep beneath Gaza, Sinwar's attention had already turned to another, more important task.

He left the information war to the "Lens" team and the staff group, while he himself took several core commanders through three sealed blast doors into the lower area of the Rock command post—codenamed "The Furnace."

This was the logistical heart of the Gaza Resistance Organization.

The corridors on both sides had been converted into semi-open workshops, with the white light from explosion-proof lamps illuminating every corner with extreme clarity. To the left was the ammunition assembly line, where dismantled rocket bodies were neatly stacked on anti-static shelves. Local female workers, under the guidance of Death Soldier technicians, carefully embedded system-produced guidance components into modified warheads. To the right was the firearm maintenance area, where various captured light weapons were disassembled, cleaned, had worn parts replaced, were reassembled and oiled, and then registered and assigned to the front lines where they were needed most.