48: Chapter 49 The Weight of Failure

The moment Jack took off his helmet, he felt a suffocating sense of weightlessness.

This feeling wasn't due to vestibular dysfunction caused by the VR equipment, but something much heavier pressing on his chest.

Outside the window, it was three in the morning. Neon lights still flickered tirelessly, and occasionally the roar of a sports car tore through the night sky.

The air conditioning blew a chilling breeze over him; there was no smell of gunpowder, no scent of blood, and none of that bone-chilling cold.

But he still couldn't help but shiver.

The bullet comment section of the live stream was eerily quiet.

With five million viewers online, usually, even if Jack went to the bathroom, tens of thousands of meaningless comments would flood in. But now, it was like stagnant water.

In the center of the screen, only those four scarlet characters lingered in Jack's mind.

The Battle of Dipingli was lost.

All personnel annihilated.

No miracles, no reversals, not even the tragic and heroic background music of 'though defeated, still glorious'.

The system's settlement screen was as cold as an autopsy report:

[Our casualties: 3582 (including players and NPCs)]

[Enemy casualties: 124]

[Strategic objective: Main force successfully transferred.]

[Battle evaluation: Crushing defeat.]

These lines of text were like a resounding slap, hitting everyone hard in the face.

"So... we lost?"

After a long while, a single bullet comment finally drifted across the screen.

Immediately after, the chat exploded.

"I don't want to curse, but isn't this casualty ratio a bit too outrageous? Thirty to one? Is the developer crazy?"

"Though I don't want to admit it, the American firepower network was indeed impossible to break through. Tanks formed a circle, searchlights on; we charged in just to die."

"Is this what they call 'underestimating the enemy and advancing rashly'? I refuse to accept it! Why didn't we even have a chance to resist?"

Social media abroad wasn't idle either.

Several famous Western gaming media outlets immediately published battle reports with sarcastic headlines: "Kung Fu No Longer Magical: Chinese Players Suffer Waterloo at Jipyeong-ri," "On the Gap Between Modern Warfare and Spiritual Victory Method."

Even a retired Eagle Country officer tweeted mockingly, "Looks like these kids who only know how to play with phones finally understand what real firepower saturation is. This isn't a game; this is science."

Jack looked at those comments, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, but he couldn't bring himself to press the "Enter" key.

If it were before, he would have slammed the table and cursed back.

Either blame the system for unfair judgment, or blame his teammates for being too weak, or even blame eating too much dinner for affecting his performance.

But now, looking at his hands trembling slightly on the keyboard, his mind was filled with the company commander's final gaze.

And the female streamer named Dai Dai, the mouthful of flour mixed with sand she fed him at the last moment.

"Stop cursing."

Jack suddenly said into the microphone. His voice was low and extremely hoarse.

The live stream went silent for a moment.

"Don't curse the developer, and don't curse the system."

Jack took a deep breath, his eyes a little red.

"We were too weak."

He grabbed a tissue from beside him and haphazardly wiped his face.

"We used to think that as long as we had passion and weren't afraid of death, we could win.

We thought it was natural for our ancestors to win, that it was a protagonist's halo."

"But this game tells us, it's not like that."

Jack clicked on the battle replay video and dragged the progress bar to the moment the American tank cluster opened fire.

"Look at this. The American night defense tactics, circular fortifications, plus flares and air support. This is not a defense line that can be broken through by bravery alone."

"We lost because we didn't understand tactics. We charged in like headless flies; it was meaningless except for sending ourselves to our deaths."

Jack's voice choked.

"We are unworthy of our ancestors' faith. If we really traveled back, we would only be a burden."

The live stream was deathly silent.

After a long while, a golden bullet comment floated by, with the ID "Retired Veteran 001":

"Kid, at least you didn't die for nothing this time. Back in Jipyeong-ri, we suffered even greater losses than this. But it's not shameful; as long as you know the pain, you'll know how to fight next time."

As if to confirm this statement, the game system suddenly popped up a server-wide announcement.

[System Update: Heroic Monument activated.]

All players still online, no matter where they were, saw a towering black stone monument appear before their eyes.

It wasn't a roughly modeled texture, but a huge granite slab that felt tangible.

The monument had no ornate carvings, only dense names scrolling across it.

These were the IDs of the more than three thousand players who had chosen to "stay behind" and ultimately died in the Battle of Dipingli.

Behind each ID was a brief epitaph.

[Player "Madman Jack": Held his ground on Hill 312 for four hours, killed 3 enemies. Commentary: On this night, he learned what responsibility means.]

[Player "Dai Dai": Died in the medical shelter, still trying to save comrades at the last moment. Commentary: Her fragile shoulders bore the weight of life.]

[Player "A Bowl of Braised Pork": Pulled a glorious grenade to die with the enemy while covering comrades' retreat. Commentary: He didn't get to eat braised pork, but he became a copper wall and iron barrier for others.]

The list scrolled slowly, taking a full half-hour.

In the real world, countless players sat in front of their computers or wore their helmets, quietly watching. No one fast-forwarded, no one closed it.

Those game IDs, which usually seemed childish and ridiculous, now carved on this monument, exuded a moving solemnity.

Su Yun sat in his studio's swivel chair, watching the "Awakening Value" curve in the backend climb at an astonishing angle.

He didn't smile.

Because he knew, this was just the beginning.

The forum's atmosphere had changed.

The spam posts previously filled with "how to glitch" and "where to farm equipment quickly" disappeared.

They were replaced by posts with hardcore titles that made one think they had mistakenly entered a military academy.

"Ideas for Breaking the American Circular Defense System in the Battle of Dipingli"

"How Night Marching Overcomes Visual Impairment Caused by Malnutrition"

"Detailed Explanation of Infantry Squad Infiltration Tactics Without Heavy Firepower Support"

"Air Defense and Evasion Guide: How to Use Terrain to Avoid Napalm Bombs"

Some even uploaded a scanned version of the "Infantry Drill Regulations," an old antique from decades ago, now being furiously downloaded by millions.

"Brothers, don't just cry!" a player with the ID "Tactical Master" shouted in a post.

"Even though our accounts are gone, our brains are still here! Next time we encounter this situation, we need to learn how to pry open these Americans' turtle shells!"

"Right! We can't die in vain! Form tactical discussion groups, and review the battle all night!"

"Who knows Morse Code? I want to learn it, so I can use it next time communication breaks down."

This generation, dubbed the "lost generation," after experiencing a virtual crushing defeat, did not choose to abandon the game and escape.

Instead, like awakened lions, they began to frantically sharpen their claws and teeth.

Su Yun watched this scene, his fingers gently tapping the desk.

"That's enough," he muttered to himself.

He opened an encrypted file in the backend and clicked publish.

A brand new CG animation, without any prior announcement, was directly pushed to all players' terminals.

The scene began in black and white.

It was the battlefield after Jipyeong-ri. Scorched earth, shattered flags, and corpses scattered across the mountains.

A cold wind carried snowflakes, whimpering across the silent front lines.

The camera slowly ascended, passing through the clouds, arriving at the Volunteer Army's rear command post.

There was no dejection, no shirking of responsibility.

Under the dim lantern, a group of commanders in patched cotton uniforms were arguing fiercely, banging on tables, pointing at the red and blue lines on the map.

They were summarizing. They were reflecting. They were drawing bloody lessons from this painful defeat.

The scene shifted, and time began to accelerate.

The Volunteer Army soldiers began to change their tactics.

They no longer blindly launched human wave charges, but instead began to utilize the cover of night, tunnels, and every dirt slope and shell crater.

They began to wedge themselves into the enemy's defense lines like nails, holding on tightly.

The scene gradually transitioned from black and white to color.

It was the red of artillery fire, the gray of gunpowder smoke, and the red flag still standing proudly amidst the ruins.

A line of text appeared on the screen:

[Failure is an excuse for the weak, but a stepping stone for the strong.]

[They won not because they never failed, but because they understood better than anyone how to rise from failure.]

Finally, the screen froze on a map.

The red arrow pointed to a new place name.

That name, for those familiar with history, represented an even more tragic, more desperate, yet even more glorious peak.

Jack looked at the screen; that place name was like a fire, burning into his pupils.

[Volume Three · Core Battle Unlocked]

[Objective: Iron Field]

Su Yun looked at the successful unlock prompt in the backend, and a cold, stern arc finally curved at the corner of his mouth.

He stood up and walked to the window, looking at the city, still prosperous but seemingly with a few more touches of solemnity.

"Only by learning to lose can one understand how to win; shame then fuels courage!"