16: Chapter 16 Global Awakening: That Touch of Red Faith

Xinxiang, Times Square.

On the giant LED screen, the trailer for "Captain Eagle Country 5: Return to the Peak," which was supposed to be looping, was instead playing. It was the annual blockbuster jointly created by Spark Interactive Entertainment and Hollywood.

On the poster, the superhero, clad in a tight suit and holding a Vibranium shield, hovered in the air above a neat city and cheering crowds. This was the cultural totem meticulously constructed by the Western world for half a century—powerful, elegant, and world-saving.

But at this moment, most passersby below the screen were hurrying along, no one stopping to look up.

Occasionally someone would stop, but they would only be holding up their phones, pointing at the screen with a look of mockery reserved for a clumsy lie.

Just an hour ago, The New York Times published a fiercely worded commentary on its front page: "Beware the Spiritual Virus from the East—A Critique of the Savage Aesthetics in the VR Game <ice and snow world>."

The article stated: “This is a violent software without any bottom line. It abandons the game aesthetics of modern warfare and instead promotes a primitive, self-destructive tendency toward masochism.

Making players experience being frozen, starved, dismembered, or engulfed in flames is not entertainment; it is a provocation against the baseline of human civilization.

That so-called 'human wrench' is even more of a desecration of the dignity of life.

What we need is the elegant victory of Captain Eagle Country, not this kind of barbaric self-sacrifice.”

Simultaneously, the official social media account of the Eagle Country Embassy in China also very rarely posted three consecutive tweets,

hinting that a certain game “is suspected of tarnishing the image of allied forces and distorting historical facts,” and called on major platforms to throttle its reach.

The horn for the war of public opinion had sounded.

The capitalists across the ocean keenly smelled danger. That designer named Su Yun was not just making a game; he was demolishing the load-bearing walls of the edifice of Western cultural hegemony.

They had to nail him onto the pillory of 'anti-humanity' before he could push the wall down.

However, they miscalculated one thing.

They underestimated humanity's instinctive sense for the word 'hero.'

...

“Savage?”

In a basement full of Marvel figures in Texas.

The blogger 'Hardcore Mike' read the report, so enraged that he smashed the limited edition Captain Eagle Country shield model in his hand into the trash can.

He was a retired veteran who had served in the Middle East and lost the little finger on his left hand. Last night, he spent a full six hours in <ice and snow world>.

He failed to hold the train, and he failed to save that farming family.

In the minus-forty-degree blizzard, he watched the NPC named 'Little Shandong' give him the only potato they had, before freezing to death in a shallow foxhole himself.

Mike turned on the camera, and the red light illuminated.

He didn't roar or act goofy like usual. Instead, he silently took out a potato from the refrigerator.

It was the one he had put in there last night.

“The New York Times says this is savage,” Mike said to the camera, his voice low, carrying a suppressed fire.

“They sit in their heated offices, drinking $30 cups of coffee, saying that the people who threw their lives into the snow so their families could eat are savage.”

He picked up the potato, frozen rock-hard, and without cooking it, shoved it directly into his mouth.

Crunch.

A grating sound.

Mike couldn't bite through it. The icy skin wasn't thick, but the starch structure inside had become as hard as granite under the low temperature.

He gnawed forcefully. His gums bled, the blood trickling down the corner of his mouth.

He didn't stop. He seemed to be struggling against someone, his American accent slurring as he roared:

“This isn't savagery! This is will! When I served in Iraq, we had body armor, air-conditioned vehicles, and air support.

But if it were us on that snowfield, facing those people wearing cloth shoes... we would lose. We would lose badly.”

“Because we fight for oil, and they fight for the five acres of land behind them.”

Mike held the potato, now covered in bloody marks from his teeth, up to the camera.

“I’ve admired many superheroes in my life. But last night, I tore down all those posters. Real heroes don't fly. Real heroes freeze to death in the snow, maintaining their charging posture.”

The video was uploaded.

Ten minutes later, the view count broke one million.

Mike wasn't the only one.

On YouTube, on Twitter, on Facebook—a hashtag named #TheRealHero began furiously trending.

Russian players uploaded videos of themselves being burned alive while shielding comrades in a pine forest.

French players cried like children in a video because he had run his legs off in the game to deliver a single apple to his Platoon Leader.

Even in Seoul, a young person asked online: “The books say they were invaders, but why do I feel like they were the guardians in the game?”

The 'American myths' meticulously woven by capital appeared pale, thin, and like paper toys when faced with the true epic named 'Chosin Lake.'

The players weren't fools.

It was obvious who was treating them like idiots and who was respecting them as comrades.

...

Huaxia, Suzhou.

The wind direction on the streets had changed.

Usually, the entrance to movie theaters on weekends was lined with long queues waiting to see the latest Hollywood blockbusters.

But today, the premiere of "Captain Eagle Country 4" was deserted.

A few scalpers, sweating profusely while clutching a handful of tickets, desperately asked everyone who passed by: “Half price? Even three-tenths of the price is fine! This is IMAX!”

The passing young people waved their hands, too lazy to even glance.

They were no longer wearing trendy sweatshirts printed with English logos, but rather bulky, dull yellow, old-style military greatcoats.

This wasn't cosplay; it was a silent tribute.

In the central city square, the giant 'Captain Eagle Country' statue erected to promote the movie looked particularly desolate now. There were no flowers, no photo opportunities.

And at the base of the statue, someone had quietly placed a potato.

Then a second, then a third.

In less than half a day, the dirt-covered potatoes piled up into a small mountain, burying the glossy superhero beneath them.

The wind blew, causing a sticky note pasted on the statue's base to flap loudly. Written on it in childish handwriting was a single sentence:

“Sorry, I didn't understand before. Now I know—you aren't gods, but my grandpa is.”

...

Spark Interactive Entertainment's Public Relations Department had completely collapsed.

CEO Zhao looked at the data line soaring straight into the sky on his monitor, his face as ashen as used sandpaper.

It wasn't anger; it was fear.

He realized he was no longer fighting a designer named Su Yun, nor was he fighting a game.

He was fighting an awakened national sentiment, a faith suppressed for too long that, once ignited, was powerful enough to burn down every capital barrier.

The global concurrent user count for <North Country Scenery> broke five hundred million.

This was a miracle in human gaming history.

But these five hundred million people weren't enjoying the thrill of slaughter. They were suffering. They were crawling over ice and snow in the fields of Chosin Lake; they were forced-marching on the roads of Hŭichŏn; they were experiencing that extreme cold that threatened to freeze the marrow in their bones.

For every tear shed, the stock price of Spark Interactive Entertainment dropped one point.

“CEO Zhao...” The secretary pushed the door open, her voice trembling.

“The Ministry of Culture is calling... Also, the propaganda officers from the major military regions are all forwarding that 'human wrench' video. Should we... should we issue an apology statement?”

CEO Zhao opened his mouth but couldn't make a sound.

Apologize?

At a time like this, would an apology even help? Once people have seen a true Mount Tai, who would still worship a temple made of paper?

...

The rental room.

It was quiet here, incongruous with the clamor outside.

Su Yun sat in front of the old computer whose fan was buzzing, the screen light reflecting on his slightly pale face.

The emotional value accumulated in the backend had reached an astronomical figure—thirty billion.

This was enough for him to redeem the cruelest, yet most glorious, ultimate dungeon—<Battle of Triangle Hill>.

But he didn't move.

His hand rested near the keyboard, where the slightly oxidized and darkened medal lay.

This was the only relic left by his grandfather.

When Su Yun was little, his grandfather was always taciturn. Only after having a little alcohol would he point at American blockbusters on TV and curse:

“Fake! All damn fake! If they dared to fight standing up in that battle, my old man would have shot them down with one round.”

At that time, Su Yun didn't understand, thinking the old man was pedantic and didn't grasp artistic license.

Now he understood.

“Grandpa, look,” Su Yun gently stroked the red five-pointed star on the medal.

“They are all learning Chinese. They are learning the phrase ‘Open fire on me.’ No one thinks those people in cloth shoes are country bumpkins anymore.”

The phone on the desk vibrated.

There was no caller ID. Only a special red number.

Su Yun paused for a moment, adjusted his posture, and answered.

“Hello?”

“Is this Comrade Su Yun?”

The voice from the receiver was very old, as creaky as bellows being drawn. Every word carried a heavy gasp.

But the authority in that voice made one straighten their back involuntarily, even across the radio waves.

“It is me,” Su Yun’s voice was a bit tight.

“I am that... that Platoon Leader’s survivor,” the old man paused, seemingly to compose himself.

“My grandson showed me that VR thing... that 'human wrench'... That was our Platoon Leader.”

Su Yun said nothing. He even held his breath.

“You did a great job,” the old man laughed, his laughter laced with tears.

“It was so cold that day. The Platoon Leader’s blood flowed down, and before it hit the ground, it froze into red ice. I was right there, I wanted to pull him down, but he held on with sheer force; you couldn't pry his grip open. We just watched the train pass right next to him...”

“Eighteen whole trains, ninety whole minutes!”

Su Yun felt his eyes grow hot; he bit his jaw tightly.

“Little comrade, thank you,”

The old man’s tone became serious, the solemnity only people who crawled out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood possess.

“These years, I watch TV, I read newspapers. It’s all about flying supermen, all foreign names. I kept thinking, should we also be forgotten? Is the blood we shed worthless?”

“Today my grandson told me that the whole class is eating frozen potatoes. He said, Grandpa, it turns out you guys are the real supermen.”

“This old body of mine has nothing to give you,”

“Let me salute you.”

A sound of fabric rubbing came from the other end of the line.

Su Yun could imagine the scene. In a hospital ward in a veterans' home, a frail old man, using that hand—perhaps maimed, perhaps deformed—

adjusted the old military uniform covered with medals, and then slowly raised his right hand toward a mobile phone that showed no image.

“Salute to the comrades who held the line.”

Su Yun abruptly stood up.

In this cramped, dim rental room, facing the medal lying quietly on the desk, he stood perfectly straight.

“Salute concluded.”

The call disconnected.

The dial tone beeped steadily.

Su Yun took a deep breath and wiped the moisture from his face. His gaze had changed.

If before he was only fighting for a point of pride, to retaliate against the arrogance of capital, now he carried a responsibility.

It was the gaze of countless heroic spirits watching him.

He looked at the screen.

In the game, the boxcar train filled with three hundred million players had already crossed the Yalu River Bridge.

Ahead lay the Gaema Plateau at minus forty degrees.

It was Chosin Lake.

It was the pinnacle, and the most tragic hell, in the history of human light infantry.

Su Yun placed his hand on the Enter key.

“Since you are awake, then don't sleep anymore,”

he said softly.

“Volume Two, <Crossing the Yalu River>, initiating.”

[System Prompt: Pain threshold unlocked to 80%.]

[System Prompt: All players please note, this battle is not fought for victory, but only to prove that we were here.]