The International Court in The Hague had never before become the focus of global attention as it was today. Within the solemn and dignified courtroom, the dome hung high, and lights illuminated every corner as brightly as daylight, yet also cast a cold, indisputable sense of authority. The public gallery was packed; long‑lens cameras and microphones from the world's major media outlets had long been set up, their lenses greedily capturing every minute detail of the scene. The air was so heavy it seemed as if water could be wrung from it; every slight cough, every rustle of paper turning, was amplified by the extreme silence, striking against everyone's eardrums.
Mozi sat in the respondent's seat, dressed in a dark suit, impeccably pressed without a single wrinkle. His expression was eerily calm—neither the agitation of being at the eye of the storm, nor anger in the face of grave accusations, nor even the slightest hint of nervousness. He simply sat there quietly, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if all the surrounding noise, scrutiny, and hostility were separated from him by an invisible barrier. His hands were naturally folded on the table, knuckles symmetrical, steady without the slightest tremor. This extraordinary composure itself was like a silent language, making those who expected to see him flustered or defensive feel vaguely disappointed and uneasy.
At the prosecution's table sat a top‑tier legal team representing the Joint Investigation Committee, suited and booted, expressions stern, with thick stacks of case files and data reports piled before them, giving the impression of being fully prepared and confident of victory. The lead counsel was an international‑law expert renowned for his sharpness and skill in steering public opinion; from time to time he glanced sidelong at Mozi, his gaze carrying both scrutiny and a near‑provocative edge.
On the bench sat several venerable judges, sitting upright and proper, their faces etched with the furrows of time and also bearing the heavy responsibility conferred by the law. Today, what they were to adjudicate was not merely the case of a financial titan, but a grand controversy concerning the future boundaries of capital power, technological ethics, and global governance models.
Before countless screens worldwide, people held their breath. Supporters clenched their fists, silently reciting prayers; opponents watched coldly, anticipating the downfall of the "digital dictator"; while the greater number of neutral observers looked on with confusion and curiosity, wanting to see clearly what this man—whose legend had grown to mythical proportions—and the "String Light" force he represented truly looked like.
The hearing officially commenced. The chief judge struck the gavel, its dull sound reverberating through the hall, announcing the start of proceedings.
The prosecution counsel rose, straightened his tie, and began his statement. His voice, amplified by the microphone, rang clearly throughout the courtroom and was broadcast to every corner of the world.
"Your Honors, members of the jury, today we gather here not to target an individual, but to defend a fundamental principle: in human society, no power—especially one as immense and opaque as capital‑and‑data power—can stand above the law and democratic oversight."
His opening remarks set the tone. Immediately afterward, he unfurled a meticulously drawn "map of evidence." He depicted a vast shadow cast over the global capital markets, built by Mozi's own hand—a financial behemoth that leveraged unprecedented complex algorithms, nearly real‑time consumption of market fluctuations, influence over capital flows, and in some extreme circumstances was even believed to "manufacture" market trends.
"What he commands is not capital, but capital's 'God algorithm'!" The lawyer's voice abruptly rose, charged with dramatic flair. "His 'String Light Fund', his 'anti‑fragility model', have transcended the bounds of traditional finance. They no longer merely respond to the market—they define it, they shape it! This is an unprecedented, highly concentrated digital power!"
He called up intricate charts of capital flows, marking several major market turning points, attempting to forcibly link Mozi's operations to these shifts, implying that he leveraged information asymmetry and algorithmic advantage to engage in a form of "market manipulation." He even mentioned the "String Light Cloud Brain," describing it as a "digital Leviathan" that devours all data and spies on all privacy, with Mozi as the master of this Leviathan.
"He claims his models are for stability, for efficiency, for steering capital toward the future. But who defines what 'stability' is? What 'efficiency' is? What the 'future' is?" The lawyer gesticulated, his tone aggressive. "Is it him, him alone, or the will of his small circle that decides? This is a regression of democracy, an usurpation by technology! He treats the global financial markets as his personal proving ground for his own ideas—this is a digital‑age dictatorship!"
"Digital dictator"—this media‑hyped, inflammatory label was now formally thrown out in the solemn courtroom, like a huge rock cast into water, stirring enormous waves in the public gallery and among the audience before screens. Cameras immediately focused on Mozi, trying to capture any flicker of emotion on his face.
Yet Mozi remained calm. He even adjusted his posture slightly, making himself more comfortable, as if the other party's impassioned accusations were directed at someone entirely unrelated to him. His gaze occasionally swept across the prosecution's table, but there was no anger, no contempt—only a near‑compassionate indifference. This silent response frustrated and unsettled the prosecution more than any fierce rebuttal could.
The prosecution's statement continued for a long time; they marshaled a jumble of data, cited numerous expert analysis reports (many of which were funded by opponents), attempting to substantiate from every angle the charges of "using extraordinary technology to exert improper market influence," "building financial hegemony," and "threatening global economic stability." Throughout the whole process, Mozi hardly took notes, only occasionally lifting the water glass on the table for a gentle sip.
When the judge finally turned his gaze toward him, asking whether he and his defense team wished to make a statement and offer rebuttal, the atmosphere in the room instantly tightened to its limit. Everyone assumed that what would follow would be a thrilling legal‑and‑technical duel, a clash of titans.
Mozi slowly stood up. He did not look at the top‑tier defense team, lavishly hired and equally prepared with stacks of legal statutes, technical white papers, and expert testimony beside him. He did not even look toward the judge or the jury.
He faced the cameras, faced the courtroom, but more than that, he faced the countless eyes watching him beyond the courtroom, and began to speak in a clear, steady tone devoid of any demagoguery yet carrying a peculiar force.
"Your Honor, friends present here and before the screens," his voice was not loud, yet it was enough for everyone to hear distinctly. "Regarding everything just presented by the prosecution, I myself offer no self‑defense."
These words sent a shock through the entire assembly!
A wave of barely suppressed commotion arose in the courtroom. No self‑defense? This was almost tantamount to admitting the charges! Members of his own legal team also showed astonishment; although they had known Mozi's decision in advance, hearing him say it in such a crucial setting still sent a jolt through them. The prosecution counsel's face flickered with surprise, followed by unconcealed satisfaction.
Yet Mozi's next words once again reversed everyone's emotions.
"It is not that I admit these charges, nor that I disdain the authority of this court," Mozi continued, his gaze profound, as if it could penetrate walls and see the broader world. "Rather, I believe that the true judges of everything I have done, of the direction represented by 'String Light', should not merely be the few esteemed elders sitting in this courtroom, nor should they be merely the expert reports saturated with predetermined conclusions."
He paused slightly, letting his words settle in everyone's hearts.
"The true judges should be the small and medium investors who benefit from more efficient, more transparent capital flows; the scientists whose brilliant ideas become reality thanks to support from the 'Humanity Future Fund'; the entrepreneurs who regain their footing and find renewed vitality through breakthrough lithography technology; and the ordinary people who learn, grow, and create within the open community of the 'String Light Cloud Brain'."
"My personal defense is pale and feeble. But the voices of the countless people whose destinies have been changed, whose hope has been kindled by 'String Light'—those voices are the most powerful evidence."
Having said this, he gave a slight nod and calmly sat back down. He had completely yielded the stage of defense.
An eerie silence fell over the courtroom. The judges exchanged perplexed, serious glances. The prosecution counsel frowned, unable to comprehend what intention lay behind Mozi's seemingly surrender‑like move.
Yet, at that very moment, the courtroom doors slowly swung open.
No clamor, no chaos—only a silent, resolute force began to pour in.
First to enter was a teacher from an African village. Holding a simple tablet, he showed the courtroom how children in his village, through the affordable computing power and open courses provided by the "String Light Cloud Brain," had accessed the world's cutting‑edge knowledge, their eyes rekindled with longing for the future.
Next was a biologist from Northern Europe. She recounted how her team, with the timely support of the "Humanity Future Fund," had broken through a bottleneck in gene therapy for a rare disease, while traditional capital had shut its doors to them due to excessive risk and long payback periods.
Then came a young entrepreneur from Southeast Asia. He excitedly displayed how his technology startup, using domestically produced chips made with the DUV and even EUV lithography machines that Xiuxiu's team had achieved breakthroughs in, had designed smart devices with global competitiveness, driving employment and upgrading throughout the local industrial chain.
One after another.
There was an ordinary pension‑fund manager who had avoided massive losses thanks to Mozi's model warnings; a South American coffee farmer who, for the first time on the fair‑trade platform built by "String Light," had secured reasonable prices for his agricultural produce; a historian who had made a major archaeological discovery with the help of Cloud Brain computing power; residents of an industrial city who had regained blue skies thanks to clean‑energy projects funded by "String Light"…
They came from different countries, different races, different industries, with different skin colors and languages. They were not legal experts, they did not understand complex financial models—but they brought the most authentic stories, the most unadorned emotions, and the most irrefutable facts.
They had no orderly formation, no unified slogan. They simply walked in quietly, or appeared on the courtroom's large screens via pre‑arranged video links, speaking in perhaps not‑so‑fluent but utterly sincere language, telling how "String Light" had concretely and genuinely changed their lives, their communities, their futures.
These people together formed a vast, living "people's defense team."
They held no thick legal documents, but they possessed proof of transformed destinies.
They spoke no obscure technical jargon, but they held gratitude from the depths of their hearts.
Their faces bore no meticulously crafted expressions, but they radiated a genuine, moving light.
The prosecution counsel attempted to interrupt, raising procedural objections, claiming these "testimonies" were irrelevant to the core financial charges of the case. Yet after brief deliberation, the judges allowed this unprecedented form of "defense" to continue. For even the most rule‑bound law could not ignore such a torrential surge of calls from the real world.
The courtroom seemed transformed into a vast stage of life. One vivid story after another, scene after scene brimming with hope, converged into an unstoppable torrent, washing away those seemingly rigorous yet fundamentally pale accusations.
The label "digital dictator" appeared so laughable, so feeble, before this warm current formed by countless ordinary people. How could a "dictator" who disregarded public welfare and sought only personal power possibly win such widespread, heartfelt support?
Mozi still sat calmly, watching this scene. For the first time, a barely perceptible touch of emotion flickered in his eyes. This was not a play he had directed; it was the fruit borne spontaneously by the "String Light" ideal, the sparks ignited by him, by Yue'er, by Xiuxiu, that had now gathered into a blazing flame illuminating the truth.
He needed no self‑defense. Because these people who had benefited from "String Light," these people representing the future, representing hope, had in the most powerful way rendered the fairest judgment—for him, and for the path pursued by "String Light."
By this point, the nature of this open "trial" had quietly changed. It was no longer an accusation against an individual, but a test of a new model, a new idea. And the result of that test, broadcast live worldwide, was clearly presented before the entire world.
The prosecution counsel's face grew increasingly grim; his meticulously constructed legal fortress crumbled before this "people's war"‑style defense. He could cite legal statutes to refute experts, but he could not refute thousands upon thousands of genuine smiling faces, could not deny one after another ignited dream.
When the last "defender"—a Pacific Island boy who had kept his homeland thanks to an environmental project funded by "String Light"—said in a tender yet firm voice, "Thank you, for giving my island hope to continue existing," the eyes of many in the courtroom gallery moistened; even a judge whose expression had been extremely stern all along subconsciously pushed his glasses up, concealing the turmoil within.
The lengthy "defense" finally concluded. The courtroom fell into silence—but it was a silence filled with power, utterly different from the oppressive silence before the hearing began.
Mozi slowly rose once more. This time, his gaze swept across the bench, across the prosecution, and finally settled once again on the cameras.
He said not another word.
Yet everything was already self‑evident.
Who exactly was tried by this open trial, who was defined by it—in everyone's heart, a clear answer had emerged. The force that sought to nail him to the pillar of shame as a "digital dictator" had instead, with its own hands, built for him a broad stage showcasing the universal value of "String Light." The legal process might not yet be over, but the balance of public opinion, the inclination of people's hearts, had at this moment decisively shifted.