One person said: The essence of Wuhou Qimen lies not in Qimen, but in Wuhou.

Xu Si met Dou Le's gaze without flinching, grinning, or making excuses.

He slowly stood up from the chair, straightened the collar of his white shirt, and pulled down the slightly wrinkled hem that was stained with the smell of alcohol.

Then he raised his right hand, fingers together, to his temple and gave a standard, meticulous military salute.

Morning light filtered through the cracks in the breakfast shop's dilapidated awning, falling on his unusually serious face. When he spoke, his voice was not loud, but every word was clear and powerful, like a calming pill thrown into boiling water in the noisy breakfast street: "Not bitter."

I was born under the red flag and grew up in the spring breeze.

When the people have faith, the nation has strength, and the people have hope.

Dou Le fell silent.

He leaned back in the plastic chair, looked up at Xu Si who was standing straight and giving a standard military salute, and stared at him for a long time.

On the street, people were honking their horns, shouting "Boss, another bowl of mixed noodles!", children were crying, and electric scooters were honking past.

All these noises flowed outside the frame; Dou Le's eyes were fixed only on Xu Si's face, which seemed to say, "Every word I said is true."

He stared for several seconds, then suddenly stood up, the chair leg scraping against the concrete floor with a piercing screech.

Without saying a word, he picked up his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, slung it over his shoulder, and turned to walk toward the street corner.

After walking several steps, his voice finally returned from the morning breeze. There was no anger, no resentment, only a sense of defeat and grumbling.

The voice wasn't loud, but every word was clearly uttered and reached Xu Si's ears, gently drifting down the bustling little street where the breakfast shop was located.

"You're awesome—you're incredibly awesome."

You've settled the bill.

I am also a citizen—from today onwards, all your expenses during your stay in Jiangxi will be covered.

You son of a bitch!

Xu Si stood still, his right hand still in a salute position.

He watched Dou Le's figure disappear around the street corner before slowly lowering his hand, a complex smile spreading across his face—a smile that mixed victory, pride, self-admiration, and a touch of embarrassment.

He looked down at the four empty Erguotou bottles on the table, the pack of Zhonghua cigarettes that Dou Le had smoked down to just two sticks, and the two bowls of untouched rice noodles that had lumped together like flatbreads. The smile on his face grew wider and wider.

He reached up and touched the two red handprints on his face that hadn't completely faded, muttering something only he could hear, his tone filled with self-admiration and respect from the depths of his soul: "I, Xu Si—am truly awesome."

Then he took out his wallet, shaking his head and laughing, and went to the door to pay the bill.

The smile that hadn't quite faded from his lips lingered as he paid, leaving the shopkeeper bewildered—he'd drunk four bottles of Erguotou so early in the morning and was still so happy; this guy must have encountered some great joy.

……

The Jiangxi Provincial Department of Culture and Tourism is located at Building 8, West Wing, Provincial Administrative Center, No. 999 Wolong Road, Honggutan New District, Nanchang City.

The building is not tall, with a gray-white exterior wall and a dark blue glass curtain wall. The five-star red flag on the flagpole in front of the building slowly unfurls in the afternoon breeze, and the roses in the flower bed downstairs are in full bloom.

This book was first published on 2020s.com, providing you with a reading experience free of errors and disordered chapters.

The building's character is just like the name of the street it's on—Wolong Road—unassuming yet all people know its significance.

Two o'clock in the afternoon.

To be precise, it's not quite 2 o'clock yet; there are still more than ten minutes until 2 o'clock.

In the largest conference room on the east side of the third floor of Building 8 West, all the members who needed to attend the meeting had arrived.

No one was late, no one was late, and everyone arrived at least 15 minutes early.

The conference room was large, with a long oval mahogany conference table in the center. The tabletop was polished to a spotless shine, reflecting the soft white light from the row of embedded LED lights overhead.

Dark blue velvet chairs were neatly arranged along both sides of the conference table. In front of each seat was a white ceramic teacup and an unopened bottle of mineral water, the tea in the cups still hot, emitting wisps of steam.

A bright five-star red flag hangs on the wall at the far end of the conference room, flanked by the Party emblem and the national emblem, creating a solemn and dignified atmosphere.

But the atmosphere inside was far more somber than at any ordinary work meeting.

All senior executives of Nadutong Company—Chairman Zhao Fangxu and all six board members—were present.

The heads of the seven major regions of China and their respective temporary workers were all present—except for Gao Yushan, a temporary worker from the Northeast region, who was unable to attend due to special circumstances.

Everyone sat upright in their seats, their backs straight as javelins, their hands neatly placed on the table or their knees, their expressions serious and focused. Their eyes were not on their phones, documents, or looking out the window, but were all fixed on the same direction—the head of the table.

No one spoke. The entire conference room was so quiet that you could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, the occasional rustling of car tires rolling over the road outside the window, and the muffled beat of your own heart in your chest.

This quiet is not silence, but a tightly wound string.

Everyone is waiting for one person.

The meeting room door was pushed open.

It wasn't a sudden or careful push, but rather a smooth, even, and silent opening.

Zhuge Ming walked in.

Today he was wearing a formal business jacket, dark navy blue, well-tailored, with straight shoulders, and the zipper neatly zipped up to the center of his chest.

Inside, he was still wearing that perfectly pressed white shirt without a single wrinkle, the collar crisp, and although he wasn't wearing a tie, he still looked meticulous.

The Party emblem on his chest reflected a calm and understated luster under the soft LED lights.

His pace was neither hurried nor slow, his leather shoes making almost no sound on the carpet, but his aura, which did not need to be spoken, permeated the moment he stepped into the conference room.

What caught everyone's eye the most, and made everyone's pupils shrink slightly, was his hair.

His once iconic dark blue slicked-back hair has now turned into a pure and understated Chinese black.

It's not the fake black that appears on the surface of hair and reflects light like hair dye, but a deep, heavy, and lustrous black, like ink jade.

It blended perfectly with his eyebrows and eyes, making his already fair complexion look even cleaner and sharper, and also highlighting a subtle yet profound change in his overall demeanor overnight.

It has lost some of the unruliness and whimsy brought by that touch of blue, but gained a sense of steadfastness and weight, making it more spirited, more confident, and more like a regional governor in charge.

Black hair, black eyes, yellow skin, descendants of Yan and Huang.

Zhuge Ming walked to the main seat at the front and sat down, his movements calm and fluid.

He placed his fingers interlaced on the table, his gaze slowly sweeping from the left side of the conference table to the right, and then back again, lingering on each face for just the right amount of time.

Then he smiled slightly, a gentle and clean smile, as if he were greeting everyone present individually with his expression.