Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Profound Order Will Not Forget This Day

Southern Bay, aboard the Seven Nations Alliance fleet.

A helicopter slowly landed on the deck. The Xuanlu diplomatic team, dressed in suits, descended from the aircraft with solemn expressions. Led by the Alliance reception staff, they made their way into the battleship, arriving at a makeshift conference room.

Inside, four long tables had been arranged. Three were already filled with delegates, their placards revealing the countries they represented: the four major powers of the continent of Sibyl, nominally responsible for mediating the conflict, and the neighbor to Xuanlu separated only by the Tianzhu Snow Mountain—the Far North Snow Country. Finally, there was the culprit behind the incident, the Seven Nations Alliance.

The Xuanlu diplomatic team took their seats with grave faces. The representative of the Siberian Empire, acting as mediator, stood first.

“For this territorial dispute between Xuanlu and the Seven Nations, which has led to unfortunate casualties, the international community expresses its regret. But for the hard-won peace of the world, we hope both sides will exercise maximum restraint and resolve the issue amicably.”

They acknowledged the situation but, for the sake of peace, hinted that Xuanlu should not push its luck. The Seven Nations fleet, they claimed, had not violated international conventions; the casualties were merely accidental, a result of the territorial dispute rather than direct aggression.

The Xuanlu diplomats clenched their jaws; the secretary’s pen pierced the paper as he took notes.

The Xuanlu diplomat spoke: “Xuanlu does not wish for further war, but the Seven Nations must give an explanation for the forty-seven Xuanlu citizens lost. The Seven Nations must issue an official apology, punish those responsible, and compensate each victim with one million.”

The Seven Nations Alliance representative replied, “We deeply regret and apologize for this incident. However, it was merely an accident—we are only reclaiming our ancestral lands, and have committed no wrong. Nonetheless, out of humanitarian concern, we will compensate the unfortunate civilians in accordance with our national standards—each person shall receive a pig.”

They spoke of humanitarianism, but valued human life at the price of a slave.

Suppressing his anger, the Xuanlu diplomat had his assistant present a series of documents, hoping to overwhelm the Seven Nations with evidence. Yet the other side stubbornly insisted it was an accident caused by the territorial dispute, refusing to admit fault. They too produced a series of documents, seriously asserting their battleship had misfired.

Three hours passed. The diplomats abandoned negotiations, turning to the mediating powers.

The Siberian representative once again stood, speaking of international society, world peace, and humanitarianism—never once addressing the question of guilt.

The first round of negotiations ended in disappointment.

Five days later, the Seven Nations successfully proved, with a series of documents, that the misfiring was accidental, and gained recognition from the international community.

The diplomat sat at the long table, finished reading the so-called opinions of the international community, and swept his gaze across the other delegates, a mocking smile on his lips. “I’ve read page after page—every one speaks of world peace and humanitarianism, but all I see are two words: war!”

Crash!

The diplomat tore the reconciliation treaty into pieces and flung them to the floor.

“An apology—that is Xuanlu’s final boundary. If the Seven Nations cannot do this, then regretfully, Xuanlu will resolve the issue by its own means.”

Beneath his brows, those shadowed eyes flashed cold, like a fire among thorns.

“Seventy million Xuanlu people will not forget this day.”

With that, the diplomatic team rose and left their seats, leaving the other delegates stunned.

To endure is to see the bigger picture.

But endless concession is mere weakness; everything must have its limits. If reason fails, then force must speak.

Xuanlu has never feared war.

Year Seven of the Republic calendar, August 10th—the Southern Bay incident negotiations collapse.

Xuanlu’s Second and Third Armies enter the south, the Sixth and Seventh Fleets converge at Southern Bay.

None expected Xuanlu’s response to be so fierce; war was imminent.

The next day, the Seven Nations issued a statement, admitting fault in the battleship misfiring and apologizing to Xuanlu.

Soon after, the so-called international community stepped forward again—mediating the incident and condemning the immoral actions of the Seven Nations. This time, all the powers sided with Xuanlu, and international opinion shifted entirely in their favor.

Xuanlu’s government did not accept the apology, nor the compensation, but merely withdrew its assembled forces.

...

Imperial Capital, within an ancient tea room.

On a square redwood tea table, delicate cups steamed gently, tea leaves floating atop the water. The refined aroma filled the room.

Several elderly men, hair silvered and aged around sixty or seventy, sat around the table, savoring tea once reserved only for the emperor himself.

One man, gentle-faced and wearing large round reading glasses—like a retired schoolteacher—spoke, “Youth is wonderful! Full of vigor, fearless—true young people of the new era. Not like that rascal who always says it’s impossible, unrealistic, too risky.”

Beside him, an old man in a military uniform, gaunt and stern, set down his cup. “They’re too reckless, acting on impulse without considering consequences—good intentions often lead to bad outcomes.”

“Hahaha, Old Li, they’re young after all. You can’t expect them to be like us, can you?” The schoolteacher patted the uniformed elder.

“Their spirit is the Republic’s most precious asset. As long as it remains unbroken, the Republic will not fall.”

Another elder, dressed in old-fashioned finery, chuckled. “Your student isn’t so impulsive—back then, barely a teenager, yet more cunning than us. If he hadn’t coordinated with us and supplied all sorts of intelligence, who knows how many would have died.”

“That rascal isn’t normal,” the schoolteacher waved dismissively, refilling each cup from the teapot.

“Some people are impatient—barely two sips in, and they’re topping up the pot; once it’s full, they start brewing a second. Though the pot is always full, the flavor is diluted. And some insist others drink tea the way they do.”

“But the tea table is still in our hands; what gets brewed isn’t for them to decide.”

The schoolteacher set down the teapot, took a small sip, and savored it carefully.

“Good tea, truly good tea. If you don’t savor it slowly, its flavor will escape you. So don’t rush—the anxious ones aren’t us, but those already perched atop piles of kindling. Ten years ago, Xuanlu was covered in tinder; today, the whole world is.”

“Our enemy isn’t the world—it’s the aristocrats who linger in the old order. And their enemy isn’t just us, but the countless people like us—the masses, the global proletariat.”

“To endure is not to concede, nor is it cowardice.” The military elder’s eyes flashed with deep, cold light, the iron-blooded aura of a soldier rising within him.

“One day, when the east wind rises and the red flag waves, the world will be united.”

“Three thousand years of Xuanlu, unity under heaven, all seas sharing one boat.” The elderly man in finery dipped his fingertip in tea and wrote a flowing line upon the table.

...

Ten days later, after a bumpy journey, the convoy finally returned to base.

The trip made Qin Le realize the importance of road construction; without it, the journey was unbearable.

The Kingdom of Dawn had almost no proper roads, and the few that existed were riddled with potholes—driving armored vehicles felt like riding a roller coaster.

For the Kingdom, road building was a thankless task; only a few lords built roads so their knight orders could reach their lands quickly, or merchants funded construction for trade. The royal government seldom bothered, as there was simply no need.

With massive horses and extraordinary physical prowess, the kingdom’s knight orders could charge straight through almost any terrain, except for extremes like swamps, barely needing roads.

Back on the flat desert, the base looked much as it had before departure, except now a dense crowd of figures surrounded its perimeter.

A mass of ragged refugees now sat on the ground, encircling the base’s gate.

Seeing this, Ai Moya covered her face. “I knew this would happen. I told you not to take in refugees. Now look—the problem’s here; all the nearby territories’ refugees have flocked here.”

The greatest aftereffect of the Green Demon disaster was the creation of countless refugees; the exact number was unknown, but it had already caused serious law and order issues in nearby lands.

Soldiers poured from the base, dispersing refugees from the road so the convoy could enter.

The convoy slowly passed through the throng. Outside the windows, the refugees were severely malnourished, wild in appearance, their eyes filled with both despair and hope.

Yet some among them moved restlessly, like starving wolves ready to pounce—the slightest misstep, and they might attack en masse.