As Ding had that thought, the ruling council of the Southern Provinces shuffled into the room. The Council of Seven moved with purposeful steps, their presence cloaked in the gravity of the moment. The tension in the air shifted as every murmur and whispered conversation abruptly ceased. The attendees, seated in rows or standing along the edges of the room, turned their full attention to the seven figures now taking their places at the crescent-shaped table.

The Chairman, thin and severe, rose with practiced ease. His movements were deliberate, his presence commanding as his gaze swept across the room. When he spoke, his voice carried the steady cadence of authority. “Brothers and sisters, tonight we gather not as individuals, but as the stewards of a great legacy—the legacy of Nanyue, a name that speaks to the hearts of those who truly know our history.”

The Chairman’s voice resonated with conviction as he continued. “The council has deliberated on the path ahead, and we have come to a unanimous decision. It is a decision born not out of ambition or hubris, but out of love—for our people, for our land, and for the future generations who will one day look back on this moment.”

Ding shifted in his seat, his eyes tracing the faces of the seven council members. Six hailed from Guangdong, their shared origins woven into every inflection of their speech and gesture. The seventh, from Guangxi, sat silently among them. Though his presence was ostensibly a nod to inclusion, to Ding, it felt more like a token acknowledgment of Nanyue’s broader historical borders. Even more glaring was the absence of anyone representing northern Vietnam, a land that had once been part of the ancient kingdom.

“We have heard the concerns expressed in this very room,” the Chairman continued, his words measured. “Concerns about the dangers of what we propose, the risks to ourselves and to those we hold dear. But let me ask you this: What greater danger is there than the loss of our identity? What greater risk than the slow erosion of our culture, our heritage, and our pride?”

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A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but Ding remained silent, his thoughts turning inward. The Chairman’s rhetoric was persuasive, but beneath it, Ding felt the weight of unspoken truths. Unity, Ding thought. They speak of it as a noble ideal, but sacrifices will it demand?

The Chairman’s voice grew more impassioned. “The council believes that we stand at a crossroads. One path leads to complacency, to continued submission, and the eventual disappearance of everything that makes us who we are. The other path—our path—is difficult, yes. It is fraught with challenges. But it is the only path that ensures our survival as a people.”

He paused, letting his words settle over the room. “Some may call us dreamers. Some may say our course is reckless. To them, we say this: Love for Nanyue demands action. To hesitate now is to betray not only our ancestors but our descendants.”

Ding’s gaze shifted to the maps displayed on the far wall, their holographic projections highlighting the divide between the shielded cities and the vulnerable expanses beyond. Zhongkai, his childhood home, lay among the unshielded areas—a place of hard labor and fragile hopes. He thought of his mother, her hands worn from years in the factory. Would she see this vision as salvation, or merely another promise destined to fade?

The Chairman’s voice lowered, taking on a more somber tone. “We cannot afford division. The council has decided that unity must be maintained at all costs. Anyone who finds themselves unable to align with this vision is free to leave. We will not hold them here against their will.”

Ding’s felt some measure of assurance upon hearing that. Even though Ding had heard whispers of members vanishing after exiting the organization, he felt that they must be exaggerations, after all, the council themselves have said that members may choose to leave. Nobody would dare violate a freedom given by the council.

“The council understands the weight of what we ask,” the Chairman continued. “But we ask it not for ourselves, but for the millions who look to us for guidance, for hope. This is not about personal ambition. This is about the restoration of a people, a culture, and a way of life that has endured for millennia.”

The room remained silent, the gravity of the moment pressing down on everyone present. Ding’s mind buzzed with excitement. The council’s vision was compelling, almost intoxicating in its promise of a restored Nanyue.