91: Chapter 92 The Container Will Overflow

At 6:17 in the morning, Su Yun sat before his desk.

Two items were in front of him, one on the left and one on the right.

On the left was Grandpa's memorial portrait; the young soldier in the black-and-white photograph would be forever twenty-one, with a high brow bone and a hint of stubbornness in the curve of his lips.

On the right was that sesame flatbread.

It was golden yellow, with sesame seeds still clinging to the dough, and a slightly darker charred spot along the edge.

Su Yun reached out his right hand, his fingertips touching the dough.

It was warm.

Not the warmth of memory, but real warmth.

He pressed his fingertip down, and the dough collapsed slightly; the layers inside were clearly distinguishable—the crust crispy, the inside soft—and the sesame seeds pressed against his fingerprint.

He lifted the flatbread to his nose and inhaled for a long time with his eyes closed.

The scent of flour, the aroma of sesame, mixed with a faint hint of charred carbon from the furnace.

It was completely real.

He carefully placed the flatbread back on the table, wiped his fingers on his pant legs, and turned on the computer.

The system backend loaded for three seconds.

At the very top of the log list, a new message had appeared.

The sender field was marked with two words: Unknown Source.

It was exactly the same as the last time.

Su Yun opened the message.

There was only one line of text on the screen.

[Emotional threshold reached. The container is about to overflow. Please shut down safely within 24 hours. Otherwise, the boundary will dissolve irreversibly.]

Su Yun moved his hand away from the mouse and rested it on the edge of the desk, curling and uncurling his ten fingers.

He leaned back against the chair and stared up at the ceiling.

There was an old crack on the ceiling where the plaster was peeling, revealing the grayish-yellow sandy layer underneath.

He stared at that crack for four minutes.

Then he sat up straight and shifted his gaze to the cotton shoes beside Grandpa's memorial portrait.

The ink characters on the shoe uppers were half-hidden, but most of the strokes for the name "Zhenbang" were still legible.

He spoke, his voice very soft, as if talking to himself.

"I understand."

He looked at the flatbread again.

"Your tears, your anger, the pain that made you grit your teeth, those nights you squatted on the ground crying until you couldn't catch your breath... they were not in vain."

He reached out and touched the edge of the flatbread.

"They gathered together and 'pierced' through."

He pulled his hand back and typed four characters on the keyboard.

Server-wide announcement.

He only typed one line in the send box.

[I am going to shut down the server.]

His index finger hovered over the Enter key for two seconds.

He pressed it.

The notification sound for the message push rang once, very short, like a pebble dropping into a deep well.

Then Su Yun's phone began to vibrate.

Social media notifications popped up like crazy; the red-dotted numbers on the screen jumped from two digits to three, from three to four, and finally turned into an ellipsis.

Su Yun flipped his phone over, face down on the desk.

He stood up and walked to the window.

The sky had just fully brightened, there was no one on the street, and in the distance, a Water sprinkler was driving slowly by, the water mist dispersing into a thin veil in the morning light.

It was a very quiet morning.

He turned around, walked back to the desk, and opened Jack's social media account page.

Jack had already posted a long article.

The title was huge, the bold font taking up half the screen: An Open Letter to Su Yun.

Su Yun scrolled down; the body of the long article contained only one sentence.

"What right do you have to decide for us to forget?"

The number of shares below refreshed three times, each time increasing by tens of millions.

Su Yun didn't like or reply to it; he exited the page and opened Brother Bao's livestream channel.

Brother Bao was already there.

The livestream had 32 million viewers, and the density of the barrage was so high that the face on the screen was almost invisible.

Brother Bao sat in his gaming chair, his eyes bloodshot, one hand supporting his forehead, the other slapping the desk.

"He's crazy."

Brother Bao faced the camera, his voice hoarse.

"By what right? This game isn't just his; it belongs to all of us."

The barrage was filled with one-sided support.

Brother Bao took a breath, his voice suddenly dropping lower.

"Little Shandong hasn't even eaten his roasted sweet potato yet."

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"Let him eat it before you shut it down."

The livestream room went quiet for three seconds.

Then, the same sentence flooded the entire screen in the barrage.

[Let him eat it before you shut it down.]

[Let him eat it before you shut it down.]

[Let him eat it before you shut it down.]

Su Yun closed the livestream page.

He opened Dai Dai's account again.

Dai Dai hadn't posted anything.

The last update was from three days ago, a photo taken at the entrance of the Martyrs' Cemetery, with a line of text: The wind is very strong today, half of the roasted flour spilled, I'm sorry.

Su Yun stared at that line of text for over ten seconds, then exited the page.

At exactly 4:00 PM, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs held a press conference.

Su Yun turned on the live broadcast signal on his computer.

The wording of the joint statement from the seven Western countries was harsher than ever before.

"ice and snow world is systematically brainwashing global youth, seriously damaging international relations. If the server is not shut down within 48 hours, joint technical sanctions will be initiated."

Domestic public opinion instantly surged like a stormy sea.

On forums, Weibo, and short video platforms, the same voice was overwhelming.

"Don't shut it down."

"Su Yun, hold on."

"Absolutely do not bow down to them."

Su Yun read them one by one, each one carrying a scorching temperature.

He read for a long time.

Then he closed all social media.

Closed the browser.

Closed the live broadcast signal.

The room was left with only the low hum of the computer fan and the faint sound of Water from the Water sprinkler returning for its second pass outside the window.

Su Yun sat at the desk, the flatbread in front of him.

The flatbread had gone cold.

The sheen on the dough had dimmed, the sesame seeds no longer glistened with oil, and the charred ring around the edge had turned gray and dull.

But it was real.

It shouldn't be real.

Su Yun placed his hand beside the flatbread, not touching it, just resting it there.

He looked at Grandpa's memorial portrait.

"It's time for you to go," he said, his voice very soft, "you've seen enough."

Six o'clock.

Su Yun took an iron box out of the drawer; it was an old tea tin with most of the paint on the lid chipped off.

He put the flatbread inside.

He didn't screw the lid on.

He turned to the computer.

Opened the backend.

Found the streaming interface for the global broadcast.

He paused before starting the broadcast, looking down at his White T-shirt; it was wrinkled, with coffee stains on the cuffs.

He didn't change.

Didn't comb his hair.

Didn't prepare anything.

He clicked start broadcast.