He fiercely criticized the Manchu scholar clique and the twelve emperors of the Qing Dynasty.

The Beijing-accented man's earth-shattering words, "You must be Zhao Shuyao himself," echoed through the static in the headphones, tearing a hole in the previously relaxed atmosphere of the live stream.

Zhao Shuyao's fingers, which were holding the stainless steel thermos, froze in mid-air.

Looking at his own slightly blurry image on the screen, and glancing at the number of online users in the upper right corner of his eye, his brain raced in that brief second.

Denial? It's pointless. In the internet age, once a deliberate pretense is logically exposed, any subsequent attempt to cover it up will only make it more obvious.

Loosen your fingers and place the thermos cup steadily on the computer desk.

"You noticed that?" Zhao Shuyao leaned back in his chair, a relaxed smile playing on his lips as he looked directly at the camera. "Alright, then I won't pretend anymore. I am Zhao Shuyao."

Open, straightforward, without a trace of awkwardness at being exposed.

A deathly silence that lasted for five seconds.

The six profile picture frames in the live chat channel seemed to freeze at this moment. This silence was not due to a disconnection, but rather because when a person experiences a huge psychological shock, the brain temporarily cuts off the instinctive response of the language center.

"Holy crap!" The engineering student from the South was the first to break the silence. His voice was completely split due to extreme excitement, accompanied by a series of heavy breaths.

"Zhao Shuyao, is that really you? I just... I just spent ages complaining to that amazing guy who rocked academia about my job search. What kind of luck do I have?!"

The girl on microphone number two then let out a short scream: "Ah, it really is you! Oh my god, I follow all your articles on Toutiao, and I was just asking you what you think of unofficial history! How embarrassing!"

The eldest brother in microphone number three, who had been lecturing about royal bloodlines, was now only coughing incessantly, clearly choking on his own saliva. After a long while, he could only manage to stammer, "This... how can I possibly do this? I'm showing off my skills in front of Guan Yu."

Meanwhile, the comment section in the lower left corner of the screen, after a brief pause, erupted.

The live stream room, which originally had only a few dozen viewers, suddenly saw the barrage refresh speed break through the limits of the naked eye, with layers of white text piling up to form a wall of text.

"???"

"Is it really him? That history guru who went viral at his lectures is now just sitting in his pajamas on Bilibili?"

"Brothers, we've caught a wild Zhao Shuyao! Quick, take a screenshot and post it online!"

"I actually made him swallow a light bulb! I'm guilty, and I apologize to Teacher Zhao!"

Looking at the almost frenzied enthusiasm on the screen, Zhao Shuyao raised his hand and gently pressed it down, conveying an undeniable sense of reassurance.

"Everyone, don't get so excited. I'm just an ordinary person with two shoulders and one head." Zhao Shuyao's voice came through the microphone, and his deep and magnetic tone quickly calmed the pace of the live broadcast.

He leaned forward slightly, placed his hands on the table with his fingers interlaced, and his attitude became serious.

"It was indeed my fault for not revealing my identity earlier. I need to apologize to the people on the microphone and the friends in the live stream." Zhao Shuyao nodded, his tone revealing a frank sincerity.

"There were few people coming in at first, so you didn't recognize me. If I insisted on saying 'Hello everyone, I'm Zhao Shuyao,' it would seem a bit presumptuous. Now that you recognize me, I'll reintroduce myself."

He took a deep breath, his expression shifting from its previous casualness.

"Good evening, comrades," Zhao Shuyao said, emphasizing each word. "I am Zhao Shuyao. This is my first time doing a live stream on Bilibili. I'm very happy to be able to chat with you all in this way on this weekend evening."

"Comrades."

As soon as those three words were uttered, all four voices in the live chat channel paused for a moment.

The girl on microphone number two was the first to react, her voice filled with undisguised emotion: "Teacher Zhao, I've discovered that I especially love hearing you call us that."

He paused for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts, trying to accurately express his feelings: "In every one of your science videos online, you start by calling us 'comrades'."

"You know what? In today's online environment, everyone is calling each other 'bro,' 'baby,' or 'family.' But every time I hear you say those three words, my usually lazy nerves will unconsciously focus. These words are so infectious."

"Yes, yes, yes!" The man with the Beijing accent on microphone number one immediately chimed in, his tone filled with strong agreement. "These days, everyone uses playful words to bridge the gap, but when you use this word, it makes us feel that we're not just fans and internet celebrities; we're on the same path."

The guy on microphone number three also recovered and his tone became deep: "Yes, this is the first time I've heard someone say these three words so formally in a young person's live stream. To be honest, it's quite shocking."

Zhao Shuyao leaned back in his computer chair, listening quietly as these strangers analyzed their inner feelings, the light in his eyes gradually softening.

This is exactly what he wanted to confirm most at this point in 2016: that young people of this era have not really been swallowed up by the entertainment-obsessed traffic; deep down, they still yearn for a grand sense of identity.

"Actually, calling you comrades isn't anything unconventional." Zhao Shuyao picked up his thermos but didn't drink from it; he just felt the warmth emanating from the cup. "In the education we received from childhood, this was originally the most normal and purest form of address between people."

He looked up, his gaze passing through the camera, as if looking at the millions of young faces behind the computer screen.

"The Soviet writer Nikolai Ostrovsky, also known as Pavel Korchagin, who wrote 'How the Steel Was Tempered,' made a very classic statement about faith and life in the book." Zhao Shuyao's voice was calm and powerful, without any preachy tone, but only the sharing feeling unique to a cultured person.

"Our generation basically took an oath under the bright red flag and joined our original organization during junior high school."

He slowed his speech, as if recalling a precious period of time: "I was a member of the Communist Youth League in 2004, and then in 2011, I officially joined the organization. So many years have passed, but I can still clearly remember the temperature of the sunlight shining on the paper that afternoon."

Zhao Shuyao smiled slightly and asked into the microphone, "I wonder which year you all joined the Communist Youth League, the people on the microphone and the comrades in the live broadcast room?"

This is a highly interactive emotional anchor that goes straight to the heart.

A brief silence fell over the voice channel. It wasn't that they had nothing to say, but rather that everyone was earnestly reflecting on their own growth trajectory. They were doing the most rigorous addition and subtraction in their minds, afraid of giving the wrong year and failing this somewhat solemn question.

"I was born in 2002." The guy with microphone number three spoke first. His voice was full of composure and pride after years of experience. "So, I joined the Youth League two years earlier than you, Teacher Zhao. On the day the Youth League badges were distributed, I represented all the freshmen in receiving them on the playground."

"Let me do the math," the man with the Beijing accent on microphone number one muttered to himself. "I was in the second year of junior high in 06. Yes, I was a member of the Communist Youth League in 06. I remember that night I even asked my mom to make me a braised pork dish to celebrate."

"I was born in 08," came the girl's clear voice from microphone number two.

"I was born in 10, hehe." The engineering student from the south, who was looking for a job, also shyly revealed his birth year.

Not only the four people on the microphone, but also the barrage section at this moment, the style has completely reversed. All the previous teasing and amazed comments have disappeared, and in their place is a screen full of neatly arranged year numbers.

"05 Communist Youth League members reporting for duty!"

"A 12-year member of the Communist Youth League here!"

"In 09, I remember it was raining heavily that day, and we took the oath indoors."

Hundreds of years, representing youth and faith, scrolled rapidly across the screen. No one made any jokes; everyone responded to Zhao Shuyao's title in this most simple way.

Zhao Shuyao watched this scene with extremely focused eyes.

"So, you see," Zhao Shuyao said, a genuine smile spreading across his face, his voice deep and resonant, "since we all share a common starting point of faith, it's not only not inappropriate for me to call you all 'comrades' on this virtual night, but it's perfectly fitting."

He put down his thermos, his gaze turning colder: "I know that some people on the internet are deliberately deconstructing this powerful word to give it vulgar or mocking connotations in order to grab attention."

"But for me, in our hearts, this word represents shared ideals and working side by side towards the same grand goal. This word is not to be tarnished."

These words, like a resounding bell, struck directly into everyone's hearts.

"Well said!" Brother Mai, number three, loudly agreed.

The comment section was instantly flooded with the words "not to be defiled".

The emotional buildup was in place. Zhao Shuyao didn't dwell too long on the grand narrative, knowing full well that too much of a good thing can be bad.

He leaned back in his chair, adopting a relaxed posture.

"Alright, I'm going to start a live stream today because I was bored over the weekend." Zhao Shuyao tapped his fingers on the table twice, his tone returning to that of a friendly older brother next door.

"There's no specific teaching theme, and I don't want to cram any historical knowledge into you. You're all already tired enough from your daily lives and studies."

He glanced at the microphone queue and said, "Let's just chat casually today. You can talk about anything you want—life's difficulties, work's confusion, or relationship troubles. Throw them out, and I'll listen."

"Although I'm still a graduate student and can't help you solve your card balance problems, at least I can offer a different perspective so we can discuss it together."

His gaze swept across the screen: "Wasn't that guy from the South just worried about finding a job? We can continue our conversation from there, or if anyone has anything else they're particularly confused about, they can say it now."

Zhao Shuyao threw out the question, waiting for a response.

There was a two-second silence in the headphones, and suddenly, microphone number five—an account that had been silent the entire time and whose existence had been completely overlooked—suddenly flashed its green light.

"Teacher Zhao." A hoarse, deeply weary female voice rang out. There was no excitement in the voice, only a sense of utter desperation. "I've been following you for a long time. You always say that to understand history, you need to look at the underlying logic. So today I want to ask you about the underlying logic of reality."

Zhao Shuyao's gaze sharpened, and he sat up straight: "You speak."

The woman took a deep breath, her voice trembling slightly, and posed an extremely pointed question.

"I am a college student from a remote county. I just graduated this year. I interned at a media company for three months, working overtime until 2 a.m. every day. I wrote all the copy and plans by myself."

"But today, the company fired me directly, saying that I did not have a degree from a prestigious university and did not fit the company's future cultural image."

Her voice trembled with suppressed sobs: "Teacher Zhao, tell me, in this era, do ordinary people like us, with no connections and only a worthless diploma, still have a chance to turn our lives around through hard work? Or is hard work just a huge joke in the face of capital and power?"

The entire live stream room fell silent instantly.