32: Chapter 32 This is my apology letter

In an executive suite of a five-star hotel on the East Third Ring Road in Yanjing.

Smith leaned back in the leather sofa, swirling half a glass of Burgundy red wine in his hand.

The heating in the room was turned up high, making his typical Anglo-Saxon face look somewhat ruddy.

On the huge projection screen was the live broadcast feed of Su Yun's stream.

"Stupid," Smith took a sip of wine and laughed at his assistant beside him.

"That President Zhao was right. These Chinese people fear 'international influence' the most. As long as we ask for a high enough price, they'll sell anything just to save face."

The assistant, a young Chinese-American, smiled obsequiously: "Sir is brilliant. Spark Interactive Entertainment has already sent over the new contract. They are willing to give up sixty percent of the revenue from 'super captain' in the Huaxia region, just to have the banner of 'Official Hollywood Partner'."

"Sixty percent? Too little," Smith snorted disdainfully.

"Wait until Su Yun apologizes. This market will be a vacuum. We want eighty percent."

The screen flickered once.

The live stream began.

There was no anticipated weeping or bowing in apology.

In the very center of the screen, Su Yun stood with his hands behind his back, wearing that solemn Zhongshan suit.

Behind him was not a green screen or some exquisite backdrop, but a massive, grayish-white map of the Peninsula.

On the map, a red line, like a scar, stretched across the 38th Parallel north latitude.

Smith frowned. This attire made him very uncomfortable. Decades ago, the people who had silenced the American military representatives at Panmunjom wore this exact style of clothing.

"I am Su Yun."

The voice from the speakers was flat, without inflection, as if reading a verdict that had long been written.

"I have seen the demand for an apology issued by the Eagle Country Embassy."

Su Yun looked directly into the camera, his gaze seeming to pierce through the screen and stab straight into Smith's eyes.

"I have also received the suggestion from President Zhao of Spark Interactive Entertainment."

The bullet comments exploded instantly.

[Is he really going to apologize? Don't back down, Su Shen!]

[Are you an idiot upstairs? That's an embassy. If he doesn't apologize, the game will be banned outright. Are you going to pay the fine?]

[Sigh, this is reality. Some bones must be broken by capital.]

[Hahaha, why sow the wind if you couldn't handle the whirlwind! Look at the way he's dressed, acting all proper, only to kneel and lick boots in the end!]

Su Yun paused for three seconds.

In those three seconds, it seemed the whole world held its breath.

He raised his hand and pointed to the map behind him, his finger landing on one spot—the Imjin River.

"Mr. Smith said my game lacks 'civilized virtue' and is full of 'savage slaughter.' He said the Allied Forces went there to maintain peace, bringing God's mercy with them."

Su Yun even managed a slight smile, a cold one, like a knife scraping bone.

"You want an apology? Fine."

The smile on Smith's lips froze before it could fully spread.

Because Su Yun said the next sentence.

"Then I will write you an apology letter in a language you understand."

Snap.

Su Yun snapped his fingers.

The live broadcast screen instantly went completely black.

No buffering, no transition.

A harsh, grating sound of ice cracking suddenly tore through the darkness.

Crack—Crack—

The sound grew denser, the noise of tens of thousands of rubber-soled boots crushing thin ice.

The image lit up.

It wasn't bright sunshine, but the dim, bleak dawn.

Location: Imjin River. Time: December 31, 1950.

The camera zoomed rapidly across the ice surface.

The sub-zero wind of the Imjin River whipped snow spray against the lens.

The ice was not solid; large floes rose and fell with the river current.

On this treacherous ice, countless figures draped in white cloth were crawling forward.

They had no tanks, no armored vehicles, and very few heavy machine guns.

Carrying bags of roasted flour weighing several pounds and shouldering old rifles, they moved like silent ghosts, wriggling across the ice right under the eyes of the US military.

What kind of apology video was this?

This was clearly a declaration of war!

Smith's wine glass shook, and a few drops of red liquid splashed onto his white shirt, resembling blood.

"What is he doing? Cut the signal! Quickly, have someone cut the signal!" he roared.

But it was too late.

The new CG, titled 'Spring in Seoul,' had already bared its fangs to fifty million viewers worldwide.

On the screen, three red signal flares tore through the night sky.

That blinding red light became the only bright spot in this gray world.

The bugle sounded for the charge.

That sound was no longer a mournful whimper, but an overwhelming roar!

"Charge—!!!"

This roar was not voice acting; it was the real original sound extracted by the system from historical echoes.

It mixed dozens of dialects—Sichuan, Shandong, Central Plains, Hunan... converging into an unstoppable torrent.

The 'ghosts' on the ice leaped up.

They stepped on the shattering ice floes and charged desperately against the 'absolute defense line' that Ridgway had painstakingly established on the opposite bank.

Bullets struck the ice, kicking up shards of ice.

Some fell and were instantly swallowed by the river, but more rushed forward.

The camera switched.

The US military position.

The American soldiers, who were still celebrating New Year's, fearfully dropped their turkey legs and tried to grab their rifles.

But it was too late.

Grenades rained down into the trenches.

The cold glint of bayonets flashed under the illumination flares.

This was not the passive defensive counterattack of Chosin Lake.

This was an offensive!

This was a comprehensive assault meant to grind the so-called 'United Nations Forces' into the dirt!

The scene transitioned rapidly.

Imjin River breakthrough, Euijeongbu defense line collapse, Goyang falls.

The mechanized units the US military prided themselves on were crammed together on the narrow mountain roads, turning into live targets.

Finally, the image froze before a city.

Seoul.

The city that was boasted about over the microphone as a 'Fortress of Freedom.'

At this moment, the Taegukgi and Stars and Stripes flying over the city were slowly descending.

US military jeeps fled south in disarray through the streets.

The vehicles were stuffed with valuables snatched from civilians, and the red wine they hadn't finished drinking.

A young Volunteer Army soldier, his face covered in smoke, stood beneath the 'Seoul' road sign.

He didn't cheer; he just quietly took out a shriveled apple from his breast pocket and placed it under the sign.

Then, he turned and looked south.

That was the direction the US military was fleeing.

The screen gradually dimmed.

Leaving only one line of text, typed by Su Yun in vivid crimson Song font.

[—This is my apology.]

In the live stream room, the bullet comments disappeared for a full five seconds.

Then, like a volcano that had been suppressed for ten thousand years, it erupted completely.

[Holy crap! Holy crap! Holy crap!]

[You call this an apology? This is shoving it right in their faces!]

[Awesome! So awesome! I want this kind of apology too!]

[Smith: I asked you to apologize, not to send us to our graves!]

[Is this the Third Campaign? The one that drove the Americans back into the sea? I'm crying, so fierce were we once!]

The high-stemmed glass in Smith's hand shattered with a 'pop' as he crushed it.

Glass shards pierced his palm, and blood trickled down between his fingers, dripping onto the carpet.

He didn't feel the pain. He only felt an unprecedented humiliation.

It was a slap delivered hard across his face in front of the entire world by opponents he considered 'savages.'

The scene cut back to the studio.

Su Yun was still standing there, his expression completely unchanged.

"Mr. Smith, have you finished watching the video?" Su Yun asked lightly.

"If you think it's not enough, I have data here."

He pressed the remote control.

The map behind him changed into two massive bar charts.

The one on the left was dazzling red.

[US Military Bomb Tonnage on the Korean Battlefield: 635,000 tons.]

[Of which, Napalm: 32,000 tons.]

[Estimated Civilian Casualties: Over 2 million.]

The one on the right was pitifully short.

[Volunteer Army Average Ammunition Consumption: Less than 1/50th of the US military's.]

[Volunteer Army Average Calorie Intake: Less than 1/10th of the US military's.]

Su Yun pointed at the figure of 630,000 tons, his voice suddenly rising like a clap of thunder.

"You call us savages? You say we destroyed peace?"

"Are these 630,000 tons of bombs candy sprinkled down by God?!"

"The villages scorched by napalm, the Korean civilians who lost their legs, is the 'civilization' in their eyes your bomber planes?!"

He took a step forward, pressing close to the camera, his eyes bloodshot.

"Tell the whole world, Smith. Who is the butcher? Who is the robber that turned another nation's land into scorched earth?!"

Dead silence.

Whether in the live stream room, the embassy, or the offices of Spark Interactive Entertainment, everything fell into a deathly hush.

Data does not lie.

In the face of these bloody numbers, those flowery phrases and diplomatic rhetoric seemed so pale, hypocritical, and nauseating.

Su Yun took a deep breath, calming his emotions.

He straightened the collar of his Zhongshan suit and resumed his indifferent tone.

"Of course, you won't understand just by talking reason. You only understand fists."

A new logo appeared on the screen.

It was the title for the second volume of 'ice and snow world'—'Full-Scale Counterattack.'

"Starting today, the game enters Phase Two."

"It will no longer be just a defensive war where we only take hits. This time, I will let you experience what an offensive that 'swallows the land like a tiger' feels like."

"New mechanism unlocked: Logistics Lifeline."

"You will no longer be single soldiers. What you will face is an extreme offensive with no supplies, short on ammunition, and no air support.

You will have to use your two legs to outrun the enemy's wheels.

You will have to use the rifles in your hands to drive that so-called 'Superpower' armed to the teeth, all the way back from the Yalu River to the 38th Parallel!"

"The servers are open."

Su Yun glanced at the time; exactly ten minutes had passed.

"Mr. Smith, if you truly wish to understand history, you are welcome to enter the game and experience it. I will reserve a VIP spot for you, right in... the POW camp in Seoul."

The live broadcast signal was cut.

Smith stared fixedly at the darkened screen, his chest heaving violently.

The bloodstains on the carpet had dried, but the glass shards in his palm remained.

"Bastard... Bastard!"

He suddenly grabbed the ashtray on the table and hurled it fiercely at the projection screen.

Bang!

The expensive equipment was smashed, leaving a large dent and emitting wisps of electrical sparks.

The assistant huddled in the corner, trembling: "S-Sir... Washington is calling..."

Smith gasped for breath and snatched the phone.

"This is Smith."

There was no voice on the other end, only a strange static sound, like some kind of high-frequency data transmission.

After a few seconds, a cold, mechanical voice sounded.

It wasn't a human voice, but rather some kind of synthesized tone.

"Smith, your mission has failed."

"Since conventional means cannot suppress him, activate the 'super captain' plan."