Huizhou's skyline shimmered under the protective hum of the kinetic shield, the faint blue dome casting an ethereal glow over the city. Though smaller than its neighbors, the city bore its shield with pride, a testament to Guangdong’s relative prosperity. In the shadow of this technological marvel, Zhongkai’s unshielded expanse loomed in the periphery—a stark reminder of the stratification that marked the new age.
Ding adjusted his collar as he approached the building where the meeting was being held. It was an old government building, repurposed for this clandestine gathering of the Southern Provinces Alliance. The exterior bore the marks of time: faded red banners from some forgotten national holiday fluttered weakly in the breeze, and the once-polished stone steps were chipped and uneven. Ding hesitated there in front of the stairs, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest.
If I were standing on the roof, could I see Zhongkai in the distance? he wondered. Would my mother still be working in the factory, or will she have left on time without overtime today? He took a step forward but paused again at the door. It felt like crossing a threshold, he thought. His mind wandered to a line he had once read in a tattered book salvaged from a library in Zhongkai. Something about a man who kissed a girl, forever binding his vision to her fragile, fleeting breath. Ding’s pulse quickened as he climbed the steps. This moment might shatter my own illusions, he thought with a twinge of a feeling he couldn’t quite identify. Do I belong here?
Inside, the meeting room buzzed with low murmurs. The walls were lined with holographic maps of the region, each highlighting shields, energy sources, and areas without protection. Figures in tailored suits and traditional robes stood in small clusters, some sipping tea, others gesticulating with the urgency of true believers. Ding’s eyes flickered over them, cataloging faces. He recognized a few from news clips—rising figures in local governance and influential business leaders. They were Guangdong’s best and brightest, yet none turned to acknowledge him. To them, he was an outsider—Henan-born, Guangdong-raised, always caught between two worlds.
Ding slipped into a seat near the back, his position emblematic of his standing: close enough to hear, far enough to remain unnoticed. The chair creaked under him as he leaned back, letting the voices wash over him.
“We must move forward with the declaration,” a woman’s voice cut through the hum. She stood at the center of the room, her Cantonese accent sharp and deliberate. Her hair was pinned in an intricate style, a nod to tradition that contrasted with her sleek, modern suit. “The central government has failed to protect our interests for decades. Shield technology, energy independence, cultural identity—Guangdong has always been at the forefront. Why should we bow to Beijing any longer?”
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A man to her left, stockier and dressed in muted tones, raised his hand. His voice, gravelly and firm, carried a different tone. “You speak as if the past is something we can resurrect. This is one country now, one people. Whatever kingdoms existed before, they are dust. The shields may protect us from external threats, but independence will bring internal chaos.”
Ding’s attention sharpened. The room tensed as another figure rose, tall and wiry with the confident bearing of someone used to command. He wore traditional robes, his voice tinged with an old Yue dialect that he wielded like a badge of honor. “Can’t repeat the past?” he echoed, incredulity dripping from each word. “Why, of course you can!” His words drew scattered murmurs of agreement, but also a few skeptical glances. “The Han—the so-called united people you speak of—is an illusion. Before the Qin, we were Nanyue. We’ve not forgotten.”
Ding felt the words hang in the air like a gauntlet thrown. He glanced around the room, noting the reactions: some nodded vigorously, others whispered behind their hands. He thought of his own upbringing, caught between the traditions of his Henan ancestors and the rhythms of life in Guangdong.
They all speak of the past as if it’s a map, Ding thought. But maps can lead you astray. The Yue, the Qin, the Han—what difference does it make to the child in Zhongkai who grows up knowing only that his home is unshielded?
The woman from earlier addressed the room again, her voice a steely counterpoint to the passionate declarations. “Our ancestors may guide us, but they do not dictate our path. What we propose is not chaos; it is order, tailored to our needs. Independence is not regression. It is progress.”
“Progress?” the stocky man retorted. “And what of those left behind? The unshielded, the impoverished? Do we trade Beijing’s neglect for Guangdong’s elitism?”
The room erupted into fragmented arguments. Ding’s thoughts churned alongside the noise, weighing the ideals thrown about with abandon.
Independence, he mused. Would it truly mean freedom? Or simply a different kind of chain?
He leaned back, letting the debates swirl around him. The maps on the walls seemed to pulse with life, each border and shielded zone a testament to what humanity had built and what it threatened to destroy. For the first time, Ding felt the enormity of the moment, the weight of history pressing down like the shields above the city.
This isn’t just a meeting, he realized. This is the first strike in a war that doesn’t need guns or drones—just words and the will to wield them.