The Blue Hall of the Foreign Ministry had never been so crowded in its history.
The press room, originally designed to hold one hundred people, had somehow been crammed with nearly three hundred reporters.
The corridors, aisles, and corners were packed with people—every spot where someone could stand was occupied.
Camera tripods stood densely packed atop the raised platform at the back, telephoto lenses aimed at the podium, their red indicator lights blinking in the dimness.
Reporters from major media outlets around the world spoke quietly in different languages, and the air was thick with tension.
With twenty minutes still remaining before the press conference, the atmosphere in the Blue Hall had already tightened to the breaking point.
A CNN reporter rapidly recited a script into his phone in a corner, a BBC host adjusted her tie, and a Reuters reporter flipped through a thick stack of documents.
A Kyodo News reporter scribbled furiously in a notebook, while a TASS reporter quietly exchanged opinions with a colleague beside him.
Some kept checking their watches, some repeatedly tested their recording equipment, and some closed their eyes and took deep breaths. Everyone was waiting for that door to open.
The door opened.
Mr. Guo, dressed in a dark suit, strode steadily onto the podium.
His hair was combed impeccably, his expression calm, the corners of his mouth slightly raised. His eyes, tempered by countless press conferences, held an unhurried composure.
Flashbulbs exploded in an instant, waves of white light swallowing him whole.
The shutters rattled down like a rainstorm, click-click-click-click-click-click blending together and continuing for more than ten seconds before gradually thinning out.
Mr. Guo came to a stop, braced both hands against either side of the podium, and swept his gaze across the room.
Then he lightly tapped the microphone on