National Fortune Bonus: After the new player awakens at the maximum level, he will kill like crazy

When Su Mohui ignited the Flame of Reincarnation for the forty-third time, Qi Mo's divine eye suddenly rippled with gilded light. As the third Heavenly Dao anchor bound to the system, the map of national destiny in his palm was growing at a speed visible to the naked eye.

The female consciousness awakened by Su Mohui was like the crisp sound of bamboo joints breaking through the ground, growing in the long river of time, and was turning into the most precious golden powder of faith in the Nine Heavens, falling on the "Mo" divine pattern on his palm.

It seemed as if the reincarnation of the national destiny copy would always enter a multiple reincarnation. After a long time, when the reincarnation gear named "The Judgment of Wu Zetian" turned to the 123rd time, it finally reached the destined climax -

2014, Xiaguo.

In the screenwriter's room of Hengdian Film and Television City, the hum of the air conditioner outdoor unit mixed with the chirping of cicadas at midnight.

Jiang Zhao threw the script on the mottled wooden table for the 37th time, and used a red pen to draw three glaring blood marks on the paragraph where "the heroine was saved by the hero."

The curled folds on the edge of the manuscript paper were still stained with the cold tea that had been spilled when the manuscript was being revised three days ago.

"Why do women always have to wait to be rescued?" she muttered to herself, digging her nails deep into her palms.

The halo of the neon sign outside the window shines through the blinds, cutting out light and dark stripes on the line "Women are not allowed to enter Jiange".

Suddenly, she grabbed the mug and took a gulp. The cold tea choked her and made her cough violently. The splashing water droplets drew fine silver lines under the desk lamp, falling on the paragraph where the heroine was about to inscribe the new rules.

Suddenly, inspiration struck like thunder.

Jiang Zhao grabbed a red pen, the tip of the pen almost piercing the manuscript paper: "Delete the male protagonist's rescue scene! Let the female protagonist carve the new sect rules with a broken sword!"

Her movements made the glass on the table buzz, and the remaining tea in the cup rippled, reflecting the female character settings that covered the wall - from female doctors to female generals, each portrait had sharp eyebrows and eyes circled in red pen.

In her writing, the heroine kneels in front of the ancient monument that says "Women are not allowed to enter Jiange", her bloody fingertips still tightly grasping the broken sword.

When the sword and the stone tablet collided, sparks flew, and new words emerged from the flying stone chips: "Swords have no gender, and the world only recognizes chivalrous spirit."

When Jiang Zhao wrote this, her thoughts paused slightly. She suddenly remembered that when she was a child, she had seen blood marks on the foreheads of female actors after they took off their phoenix crowns backstage at the opera house.

In 2016, on the night of the premiere of "The Heroine's Song", Qi Mo's consciousness caused ripples on the national destiny map -

He saw the TV screens of countless families lighting up, and young girls holding up their phones to capture screenshots frame by frame, setting the sentence "Who says women can't write about the Spring and Autumn Annals? I am the master of my own destiny" as the screen saver.

The back of a certain middle school uniform has been embroidered with intricate sword patterns. In a kendo hall in a Jiangnan water town, a mother and daughter wield bamboo swords, the crisp sound of the wooden blades clashing startling swifts from the eaves.

These tiny fragments of light traveled through time and space, burning marks on the surface of Qi Mo's godhead. The Nine Heavens' "Female Ring" barrier began to crack like spiderwebs. The confinement laws woven by the gods' star officials were being melted into molten iron by mortal beliefs.

..........

2017, Jinling City.

The morning mist in the city has not yet dissipated, but the Women's Protection Association on the Qinhuai River has already lit up its warm yellow lights.

Wu Mingwei sat upright on the blue brick floor covered with plain cushions, the bamboo slips of "Records of the Grand Historian: Biographies of Women" spread out on her knees, shining with a warm luster.

The morning breeze blew through the hall, gently ruffling the loose hair at her temples and making the rustling sound of bamboo slips being turned, startling the birds roosting under the eaves.

Her fingertips moved slowly along the incisions on the bamboo slips, and the candlelight swayed slightly at the passage "Zhao E's personal revenge."

Suddenly, she heard a bird chirping beside her ears, and her eyes were drawn to the bird resting on the bronze tripod. The next second, she saw the inscribed patterns on the bronze tripod -

It was the pattern of Fu Hao's axe from three thousand years ago. Even after a thousand years of casting, the sharp edge still carried a chilling chill. Wu Mingwei reached out and stroked the cauldron. The rough lines hurt her palm, as if speaking of the glory of an ancient female warrior.

"Rights shouldn't be leftovers from charity." She murmured softly, then stood up and took down the association's bronze plaque hanging on the wall.

The gilded characters on the front, "Defending rights is never about fighting for privileges," gleamed brightly in the morning light. When the bronze plaque was turned over, the brand-new inscription on the back, with its rough edges, bore weight:

"Women's rights are not a gift, but the equal rights that everyone in the world should enjoy." This was the result of her three hours of hard work last night. The blood blister at the base of her palm was still aching.

Since 2017, Wu Mingwei's suitcase has always been filled with three treasures: a portable printer, a voice recorder, and a blank agreement stamped with the association's official seal.

She led her team to travel to 37 provinces and cities, from the kang in the northeast at minus 30 degrees Celsius to the stilt houses in the deep mountains of the southwest.

In a dim rental house in a coal mining town, she held the trembling hand of a woman who was being abused and quietly hid the recorder under a faded pillow.

In a high-end office building in a coastal city, she faced the cold faces of corporate executives and refuted the absurd argument that "family affairs should not be made public" with legal provisions one by one.

Countless days and nights passed, and Wu Mingwei's notebook was filled with densely written records. Some of the handwriting was stained by tears, and some was wet by rain.

The most precious thing was the booklet wrapped in red silk cloth, with the blood-written letters neatly arranged inside.

Some were written with lipstick on napkins, others were pressed on the backs of medical records with bitten fingers. At the end of each blood letter, there was a small sun drawn, representing the survivors' hope for the future.

...........

Time flies, and it is already early spring of 2024. The damp rain and fog cover the streets and alleys of Xia Country.

Su Mohui sat at her desk in the editorial department, staring at the seventh rejected surrogacy investigation article on her computer screen, her brow furrowed. The editor-in-chief's words were still ringing in her ears: "This kind of news is too sensitive. If we publish it, our entire platform will suffer. If you want to die, don't drag us into this."

But she could not forget the anonymous email she received last week. In the blurry video attached, pregnant women were locked in dim iron cages, with the numbers on their ankles glowing purple under the cold light. The desperate looks in their eyes kept her awake all night.

Amid the hum of the office building's central air conditioning, Su Mohui's computer suddenly emitted the unique WeChat notification sound, but no one noticed it amid the noise.

The messages in the work group were covered by red unread numbers, and the three-person window at the top, pinned and labeled "Mulan Spark", was flashing messages sent by Jiang Zhao and Wu Mingwei at the same time.

"My idol is Emperor Wu": Mo Hui, I've taken care of what you said last time. Here's a copy for you: a blood letter from a domestic violence survivor. [Document.docx]

The blue progress bar below the message frantically loaded. Su Mohui noticed the file size displayed as 3.76GB. Then, a new message with Wu Mingwei's profile picture popped up. The accompanying thumbnail showed a startling, dark red fingerprint on the white paper.

"Zhao Zhao": ... Miss Xie refused my visit, but she emailed me a video. [File.mp4]

The office ceiling light cast a pale spot of light on the keyboard. Su Mohui's fingertips hovered over the mouse for a long time. The rainstorm night three years ago suddenly surged in her memory.