Siheyuan: I, Shazhu, started out as an army and became a general.

Beijing, Ministry of Foreign Affairs press conference hall.

The air was filled not only with the acrid smell of burning film rolls, but also with the smell of gunpowder about to explode.

This is the press conference that has garnered the most global attention since the founding of the People's Republic of China.

Below the stage, Reuters, Associated Press, Agence France-Presse... these Western journalists who usually look down on everyone were craning their necks, like ducks waiting to be fed.

Notebooks are open, pens hovering in the air, all waiting for the news that will blow up the headlines.

"cough."

A soft cough silenced the entire room.

The newly appointed spokesperson, Wu Jianmin, slowly stepped onto the stage. He was dressed in a crisp Zhongshan suit, his hair neatly combed. He carried no prepared remarks; only behind his black-rimmed glasses lay two sharp, piercing eyes.

Today, he stood exceptionally straight.

That was a hydrogen bomb with a yield of 130 million tons, and the "straight line" supported by the Seventh Fleet that had just fled overnight.

"May I ask the spokesperson?"

An AFP reporter sprang to attention, speaking rapidly and with obvious provocation: "According to the US, during yesterday's standoff in the South China Sea, the Chinese Air Force took extremely dangerous and unprofessional interception maneuvers, even suspected of 'nuclear blackmail'!"

"What is China's explanation for this? Does this signify a change in China's defensive national defense policy?"

The entire audience erupted in uproar.

The label of "nuclear blackmail" is too heavy.

Wu Jianmin adjusted his glasses, showing no sign of panic; instead, a faint smile curved his lips.

"My friend, journalist, your word choice is very inaccurate."

The sound wasn't loud, but it penetrated clearly into everyone's ears through the microphone, carrying a calm yet authoritative pressure.

"First, regarding the 'danger.' This is the South China Sea, right on our doorstep. American warships travel thousands of miles to 'stroll' in our yard, accompanied by fully armed bodyguards. That's the real source of danger."

"As for 'nuclear blackmail'..." Wu Jianmin paused, his gaze sweeping across the entire room, exuding an aura of authority.

"We simply conducted a routine, open, and transparent long-range delivery training exercise. What the bombers were carrying is a military secret. But there's one thing I can tell you—"

He leaned slightly forward, speaking each word slowly and deliberately, with a firm and resonant tone:

"We welcome friends with fine wine, but we meet wolves with hunting rifles!"

"If the caliber of this shotgun is slightly larger, it's for better 'hunting' and to protect our families."

"Whoosh—"

A commotion broke out in the audience.

That was a really tough answer! It was like they had "If you dare come, I dare bury you" written all over their face!

"But!" The reporter's face turned a deep shade of purple, yet he persisted, "The US Seventh Fleet withdrew because of 'humanitarian' reasons and 'to avoid miscalculation,' not because it was forced to retreat!"

"Oh? Is that so?"

Wu Jianmin laughed, a meaningful laugh, like watching a clumsy clown performance.

"We are very grateful for the 'politeness' of the US military. We hope that they can give us a heads-up before their next visit so that we can prepare some 'local specialties' to entertain them."

"After all, our pilots are very tired when flying with live ammunition, and it wouldn't be very 'humane' if they accidentally 'slipped' their hands!"

Laughter erupted from all sides.

Several TASS reporters were laughing so hard they could barely hold their pens. What the hell, a "slip of the hand"!

This isn't diplomatic language; it's clearly a civilian version of He Yuzhu's roguish, soldierly demeanor! A surefire way to quell any dissent!

"Next question." Wu Jianmin waved his hand, ending the topic as if shooing away a fly.

A Reuters reporter stood up, looking puzzled: "Mr. Spokesperson, regarding the Sino-Indian border conflict, India just released a statement claiming a great victory in the 'Battle of New Delhi,' forcing Chinese troops to withdraw. Furthermore, out of humanitarian concern, India has provided China with substantial amounts of gold and material aid. What is China's comment on this?"

Upon hearing this question, even Wu Jianmin, who had received strict training in facial expression management, couldn't help but twitch his lips.

He usually doesn't laugh, unless he can't help it...

He took a deep breath and forced down his smile.

"Facts speak louder than words when it comes to victory or defeat."

"As for the 'victory' mentioned by the Indian side..." Wu Jianmin pushed up his glasses, his tone three parts helplessness and seven parts sarcasm, "We respect the unique 'way of expression' and rich 'imagination' of the Indian people. As long as they're happy."

"As for those supplies, they are India's 'state compensation' for the losses caused by provoking the conflict. Of course, if they insist on calling it 'charity,' we don't mind. After all, who would turn down money?"

"Finally, I suggest everyone pay close attention to the upcoming list of prisoners of war. Perhaps Brigade Commander Dalvi will be happy to personally tell you how he was invited to the POW camp for tea during our 'victory'."

……

At the same time.

New Delhi, King's Road.

A grand, magical "victory parade," worthy of being included in the "Awards of Human Bizarre Behavior," is unfolding amidst the deafening sounds of gongs and drums.

Just yesterday, Nehru was crying like a baby at the Prime Minister's office, preparing to pack his belongings and move the capital.

But today, with the news of China's troop withdrawal, coupled with Menon's silver tongue that can talk the dead back to life, the entire atmosphere in India has changed drastically.

The front page headline of The Times of India featured several striking words in bold:

A Great Victory! The Dragons Stopped at Tezpur!

The subheading was even more alarming: "Prime Minister Nehru's Strategic Resolve: Trading Space for Time, Ultimately Trailing the Aggressors!"

The streets were adorned with colorful flags and teeming with people.

Several sacred cows painted red and adorned with flower garlands strolled slowly through the crowd, enjoying the worship of the people. Women dressed in brightly colored saris danced in the streets, while men held up portraits of Nehru and chanted "India will prevail!"

One float after another drove by.

Instead of cannons and missiles, the vehicle carried several acrobats on motorcycles, spinning around in the magic of love.

If you didn't see the frontline battle reports, you'd really think they'd reached Beijing.

On the balcony of the Prime Minister's Office.

Nehru, wearing his signature robe and a red rose pinned to his chest, was waving to the cheering crowd below.

Although her eye bags were bigger than her lower eyelids and her hands were trembling slightly, her expression had to be "resolute".

"Your Excellency Prime Minister, you see, the people love and respect you."

Menon, standing behind him, wiped away his cold sweat, his face full of obsequiousness, "As long as we control public opinion, even bad things can turn into good things."

"Those... matters about reparations, haven't they leaked out, have they?" Nehru asked in a low voice, like a thief.

"Don't worry, Prime Minister!" Menon patted his chest and assured him, "In the newspapers, it's called 'charity to a poor neighbor'! It's called 'the benevolence of a great power'! We'll publicize that the Chinese army only attacked because they were too poor to eat. We gave them gold and US dollars, which moved them, and they withdrew in shame!"

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

Nehru let out a long sigh of relief, and his previously hunched back straightened instantly.

This is the ultimate level of the "spiritual victory method"—as long as I'm not embarrassed, it's others who are embarrassed.

However, the world did not play along with their act.

London, BBC studio.

When the host was broadcasting this news, he couldn't help but let out a "pfft" like a pig.

Screen segmentation.

On the left is a crowd celebrating in New Delhi, with the caption "India declares victory".

On the right is a black-and-white photograph: tons of gold and US dollars are being loaded onto Chinese trucks by Indian soldiers, while armed and indifferent People's Liberation Army soldiers stand nearby. The caption reads: "Tiger He's spoils of war."

"I must say, the Indian government has redefined 'victory'." The host wiped away tears of laughter and commented sarcastically, "If paying fifty tons of gold and fifty million US dollars in reparations is called 'charity,' then I hope the whole world will 'charity' the British Empire."

Moscow, the Kremlin.

Khrushchev looked at the briefing and slammed the corncob in his hand onto the table.

"Idiots! Did these Indians graduate from the circus?!"

Pointing to the captured American equipment in the photos, he laughed angrily: "The guns the Americans gave us, the cannons the British gave us, and in the end, they all ended up with that bastard He Yuzhu! And now they're holding this self-deceiving parade? It's practically rubbing the intelligence of the socialist camp... no, it's rubbing the intelligence of all humanity into the ground!"

Washington, D.C., the Pentagon.

General Felt watched the television, his face ashen.

He had just experienced the greatest humiliation of his life and was seething with anger. Seeing India's behavior, he smashed the remote control against the screen.

"This is the Asian ally we've been supporting? This is the so-called 'beacon of democracy' that claims to contain China?"

Felt gritted his teeth, feeling his intelligence had been insulted. "We not only lost to the Chinese hydrogen bomb, but also to the shamelessness of the Indians! God, even a pig would grunt when its face is swollen, and they're celebrating?!"