[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-from-special-forces-to-the-multiverse":3,"chapter-from-special-forces-to-the-multiverse-from-special-forces-to-the-multiverse-chapter-200":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","From Special Forces to the Multiverse",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2315250,4527,"Chapter 200: Proclamation and Political Platform","from-special-forces-to-the-multiverse-chapter-200",200,"\u003Cp>This town does not appear on any official map. Nestled deep in the hills southwest of Jiankang Prefecture, it lies barely sixty li north of the Yangtze River and no more than three days’ journey east of Lin’an. Small and unremarkable, it has two streets and about a hundred households; on market days—every third day—mountain folk from surrounding villages come to barter bamboo shoots and firewood for salt, and when the market ends, the town falls silent. No one gives such a place a second glance—it is indistinguishable from hundreds of other poor, obscure mountain towns scattered across the Jiangnan hills.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But if one looked closely, subtle anomalies would emerge. The proportion of able-bodied men in the town was unnaturally high, with no trace of conscription by the imperial court. The field ridges outside town were straight and level, and the irrigation ditches were built with precisely fitted blue bricks. The large courtyard at the town’s center, bearing the sign “Chunxi Book Society,” often glowed with lamplight deep into the night. Even stranger, at certain quiet hours, a muffled, rhythmic metallic clanging could be heard from the western valley—sound unlike blacksmithing, which strikes in isolated hammer blows, but continuous and dense, as if some vast machine were Yunzhuan . An old hunter, drunk one night, told others he had seen a peculiar path behind the mountain—two iron rails emerging from the hillside, upon which ran a metal cart without horses, loaded with pitch-black, gleaming stones. No one believed him; they laughed, saying he’d confused dreams for reality. The old hunter said nothing more, and never spoke of it again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>That night, the secret chamber of the book society was packed with people. Seven oil lamps burned brightly, illuminating the walls covered in maps. But these maps did not mark mountains or rivers or place names—they displayed industrial metrics: monthly steel output, monthly firearms production, ammunition stockpiles, grain reserves, troop deployments. Every figure had been revised repeatedly over the past six months, and each revision had raised the number.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Nie Huaishang sat at the head of the long table, before him three reports. The first summarized military production capacity; the second, a survey of civilian conditions in the outer-controlled zones; the third—a single thin page—contained only one sentence: “Rapid Column fully assembled, awaiting orders.” Nie Huaishang read all three reports, then lifted his head and scanned every face in the room. His expression was calm, but those who knew him understood: this calm meant he had already decided.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Gentlemen,” Nie Huaishang spoke, his voice low but each word clear, “from today, the outer-controlled zones of our base will be fully publicized. Cooperatives, militia units, literacy classes, Weisheng Academy—these models will be displayed to all surrounding prefectures and counties, drawing in refugees and expanding our population base. Core factories remain hidden. The Rapid Column moves into the hills west of Lin’an, no more than three days’ march from the city. Remain concealed, await orders—no unauthorized action.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He paused, then spoke his final words.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“At the same time—issue the proclamation, publish the political platform.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The chamber fell silent for an instant. Then all knew what those words meant. Six months of debate ended here. The Jiangnan base would no longer be a hidden industrial enclave nestled in the mountains, nor a shadow force capable of influencing the war only indirectly through the grasslands. It would step into the open, voice its political stance. The first words of that voice would strike at the most vulnerable bone of the Southern Song regime—its kowtowing to the Jin.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Jiangnan political platform was drafted personally by Nie Huaishang, revised and debated over a dozen times within the Zhigeng Society, and ultimately titled “Letter to the People of Jiangnan.” Nie Huaishang personally proofread the entire text and changed the title to four characters: “Proclamation Against the Song.” On the first day of the New Year, this proclamation was posted throughout the entire outer-controlled zone, then copied, circulated, carried along trade routes and whispered by refugees all the way to Jiankang, to Shaoxing, to Lin’an.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The opening paragraph of the proclamation directly exposed the true nature of the Southern Song regime.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The imperial house of the Southern Song is not the imperial house of Huaxia. The court of the Southern Song is not the court of the state. The Zhao family treats the realm as private property; the scholar-officials treat their salaries and positions as their lives. For eighty years since the Jingkang disaster, they have ceded territory, paid tribute, sent the heads of loyal ministers to appease enemies, and opened the Yangtze’s defenses to invite invaders. Annual payments of silver and silk, called ‘peace accords,’ are in truth tribute. Their self-confession of ‘misgoverning the state’ is called ‘repentance,’ but is in truth treason. Today’s Lin’an is not the capital of Great Song—it is the granary of the Jin. Today’s Zhao Kuo is not the Son of Heaven of Huaxia—he is a vassal of the Jin barbarians. Today’s Chancellor Shi Miyuan is not a minister of Great Song—he is a broker for the Jurchens. With the dignity of a sovereign, they perform the deeds of dogs and pigs; with the weight of the court, they offer up the people’s flesh and blood.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fewer than two hundred characters, this passage uprooted the Southern Song’s legitimacy entirely. The proclamation’s logic was razor-sharp: You claim to be the orthodox Song, but what have you done? Ceded land, paid tribute, sent loyal ministers’ heads to the enemy, confessed to “causing disaster,” and built fortifications and transported grain for the Jin. Which of these acts belongs to a legitimate dynasty? Everything you do is the conduct of vassals and brokers. If so, on what grounds do you demand the people’s loyalty?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Then the proclamation turned its Maotou  against the entire scholar-official class.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The scholar-officials recite the words of sages, yet harbor the calculations of merchants. At the start of the northern expedition, they vied to submit victory reports to win favor; after its failure, they scrambled to submit memorials condemning others to save themselves. Before Han Tuozhou’s head even reached the Jin camp, the courtiers had already drafted congratulatory memorials for the peace accord. The bones of the fallen at Lingbi had not yet cooled, the bloodstains at Dengzhou had not yet dried, yet in Lin’an’s teahouses, storytellers had already returned to tales of romance and moonlight. Such men in robes are not scholars—they are worse than entertainers kept in servitude. Under the guise of ‘jointly resisting northern barbarians,’ they practice ‘jointly surrendering to northern barbarians.’ They call themselves ‘lips and teeth,’ but in truth they are master and servant. Today they pay silver, tomorrow they supply grain, the day after they obey orders. Before the Jin’s blade even arrives, the Song’s knees have already bowed. This is not the fault of war—it is the fault of surrender. This is not the strength of the barbarians—it is the baseness of the rulers.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This passage struck at the most fatal flaw of the Southern Song scholar-officials: they never took responsibility for the state. During the northern expedition, they praised Han Tuozhou to the skies; after its failure, they trampled him into the mud and washed their hands clean. Han Tuozhou’s head was still en route to the Jin camp when they had already drafted congratulatory memorials for the peace accord. The corpses of Song soldiers fallen at Lingbi had not yet cooled, the bloodstains from the two-month siege at Dengzhou had not yet dried, yet in Lin’an’s teahouses, storytellers had already switched back to tales of romance. These men cared only for their rank and salary; the survival of the state and the lives of the people had never been their priority.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The proclamation then defined the relationship between the Southern Song court and the Jin as “master and servant.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“All say the Jin are enemies—this is true. But today’s Song court is no longer the Jin’s enemy—it is the Jin’s servant. An enemy may still fight; a servant cannot be saved. The Jin, with powerful foes to the north and no strength left to the south, are like eggs on a precarious nest. Yet the Song court does not seize this strategic opportunity; instead, it sends grain to prolong the Jin’s life, builds fortifications to strengthen their defenses. This is not aiding the Jin—it is binding oneself. If the Jin survives, the Song remains a servant; if the Jin falls, the Song becomes its funeral pyre. Today’s Song court has willingly become the Jin barbarians’ watchdog. A dog barks at people not out of loyalty, but fear of the whip; it guards the gate not out of courage, but for scraps. To have such a dog as ruler is the shame of Huaxia.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Jin was indeed the Southern Song’s ancient enemy, but the Southern Song court had lost even the right to be called an enemy. An enemy still fights; a servant lacks even the courage to fight. The Jin, pressed by the Iron Cavalry of the Xinming Party to the north, had less than fifty thousand troops left on its southern front—a once-in-a-millennium strategic opportunity for the Southern Song. But what did the Southern Song court do? It did not reclaim lost territory during the Jin’s weakness; instead, it sent grain, built fortifications, and helped the Jin survive. This was not aiding the Jin—it was binding itself. If the Jin survives, the Song is its servant; if the Jin falls, the Song is its funeral offering. The Song court has willingly degraded itself into the Jin’s watchdog—dogs bark not from loyalty, but from fear of the whip; they guard not from bravery, but for scraps. To let such a court rule the people of Lin’an is the shame of all Huaxia.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Finally, the proclamation raised its three banners.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The people of Jiangnan are not the private property of the Zhao family. The land of Jiangnan is not the imperial estate. This is not a change of dynasty—it is the rebirth of Huaxia. Our Jiangnan base vows to resist the Jin barbarians from this corner, to restore proper order with this army. Our platform has three principles: First, oppose the Song—the Song court is rotten, beyond salvation; only by tearing it down can Huaxia be reborn. Second, resist the Jin—the Jin are the eternal enemies of Huaxia; all our people must regard expelling the barbarians as their duty. Third, stand independent—no vassalage, no tribute, no marriage alliances, no cession of land. Grounded in industry and agriculture, armed with firearms, armored by institutions, guided by conviction. Heaven and Earth bear witness to this resolve.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The signature was not a person’s name, but an organization’s: “Jiangnan People’s Revolutionary Committee.” Below it, a small line read: “All members of the Zhigeng Society swear to live and die together with the people of Jiangnan.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This proclamation struck the still pond like a boulder—not sending ripples, but a tidal wave. At Jiankang’s docks, someone copied it onto coarse paper, folded it into small squares, and slipped them into rice sacks, sending it down the Yangtze. In Shaoxing’s dye workshops, literate female workers secretly read it aloud to their illiterate peers; when they reached “To have a dog as ruler is the shame of Huaxia,” every woman in the room stopped working. By the Jinghu Lake in Shanyin, a nephew of Lu You brought the proclamation home. Lu You read it from start to finish, fell silent for a long time, then said: “This man is harsher than I am. But he speaks the truth.” He did not write poetry as he had for the northern expeditions—his body could no longer write. He simply placed the proclamation beneath his inkstone, beside the poem on Han Tuozhou’s severed head, beside the odes to the northern expeditions, and beside his own “When the imperial army recovers the Central Plains.”\u003C\u002Fp>",1979,"2026-06-20T13:48:22.834Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","4e5bb440e35d4245c8a4d48880a637158ab1f24f237b15b04489c15fbebb5cc9","from-special-forces-to-the-multiverse-chapter-201","from-special-forces-to-the-multiverse-chapter-199",205,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Ffrom-special-forces-to-the-multiverse-cover.jpg"]