Order has always been the nature of balance.
In politics, that balance is sustained by philosophy.
Whether it's democracy or communism, at their core both are simply systems through which leaders govern a nation.
The methods and ideologies may differ, but the supposed foundation is the same: the well-being of the state and its people.
Yet in any society, conflict remains the underlying rhythm.
Democracies and communist states—different instruments, same symphony of power—are the two dominant ideologies currently shaping the balance of the modern world.
Right now, democracy sits on the higher side of the scale.
But communism is far from weak.
After all, the country carrying its banner—China—is not only vast in population but also one of the strongest military powers on Earth.
Opposite it stands America, its rival in almost every arena.
And in an age when geopolitics move faster than a river's current, nations act swiftly where their interests collide—whether in trade, military reach, or cultural influence.
Now, it seems the two most powerful nations have chosen to wrestle over something less tangible, yet equally formidable: global media influence.
Some might dismiss media as a soft tool, hardly a weapon compared to tanks or missiles.
But that's a mistake.
Media shapes perceptions, crafts narratives, and quietly builds hierarchies that endure for generations.
Take Hollywood, for example.
For decades, Asian actors were cast in ways that reinforced stereotypes—small, weak, or exotic, always framed through a Western lens.
Even something as subtle as a poster, like Nike using an Asian model with "almond eyes," carries unspoken implications.
To the casual eye, it's marketing.
But to the critical, it's another brushstroke in a centuries-old picture of racial hierarchy.
This, too, is a war. A secretive and progressive war.
Not with rockets, but with images, words, and stories that mold the confidence of entire races.
A missile may leave scars on the land, but media leaves scars on identity.
It creates an invisible feudal system where the West crowns itself superior and others are left to play the subordinate.
And unless the world one day erases the borders of nations entirely—leaving us with only races, not states—such discrimination will never disappear.
Back on the streets of Cannes, Jihoon, Jiangwen, and Tarantino found themselves seated at a small cafe.
The rich aroma of coffee did little to ease the furrow in their brows.
Their worries had nothing to do with caffeine or fatigue—it was the weight of Cannes itself.
This year, the festival carried a different purpose, one heavier than art alone, and none of them could ignore it.
Jiangwen finally broke the silence, exhaling as if surrendering to his thoughts. "So… what do you guys think?"
His voice betrayed the unease he had been wrestling with.
The more he thought about it, the clearer it became: he had stepped into something far bigger than cinema.
Jihoon rubbed his temples, his expression just as grim. "There isn't much we can do now. Withdrawing our submissions would only stir up new problems. I checked with my producer, Jim from Fox—he's still looking into it through his contacts."
His hand traced over the vein in his arm, a nervous habit that betrayed the tension he was trying to keep buried.
Because the truth was plain: 'Buried' carried its own baggage, woven with U.S. military undertones. Jiangwen's 'Devils on the Doorstep' carried another, tied to China's political sensitivities.
Whether they liked it or not, they had become pawns in a much larger game.
The chessboard was no longer cinema—it was world politics. Their lives might not be in danger, but reputations could be stained, careers derailed.
And if the clash between nations spilled into smear campaigns, there was no telling how far the fallout might reach.
Sensing the heavy silence hanging over the table, Tarantino leaned back in his chair and tried to lighten the mood.
"Come on, guys," he said with a half-grin. "Don't sink so low. Who knows—maybe it won't turn out the way we think. Let's just get through the festival, finish the event, and take it one step at a time."
His attempt at optimism, however, only sparked Jiang Wen's temper. "Easy for you to say!" Jiang Wen snapped, his voice sharp. "Your hands aren't in it, so you can say whatever you want!"
That was Jiangwen—hot-blooded, impulsive, the kind of man who spoke before weighing his words.
Friend or stranger, it didn't matter.
He had always been that way.
Tarantino, though, wasn't offended.
He knew Jiangwen well enough to understand the frustration beneath the words.
Instead of flaring back, he reached across and gave Jiangwen a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
"Calm down, man," Tarantino said gently. "Getting angry won't help. It only clouds your judgment and makes you see things worse than they are."
His sharp features and intimidating presence often gave him the look of a villain, but those who knew him personally understood the truth—Quentin Tarantino was calm, kind, and patient.
Unlike Harvey, his notorious producer, Tarantino carried himself with a surprising sense of poise and decency.
Jihoon, who had been quietly weighing the situation, finally spoke up. "Jiang, I think you should contact the film bureau back home," he advised.
"See what they've got planned for you."
"Quentin and I aren't banned from filming in our own countries, but you?"
"Your situation's different. If this screening turns into something that risks your career, I'd suggest pulling your film out of Cannes altogether."
"We're filmmakers, not politicians. Whatever game they're playing here, it's not ours to win or lose."
He placed a steady hand on Jiangwen's shoulder, the gesture carrying both warmth and calculation.
Jihoon's words weren't only born of friendship.
He knew he would need Jiangwen's connections the following year to break into the Hong Kong market.
Jiangwen was a key holder, and Jihoon couldn't afford to let him crumble under political weight before that door could be opened.
Call it selfish, call it pragmatic—Jihoon had long accepted that in the modern world, profit and personal interest were the ultimate rules.
Pure kindness didn't build empires.
Jiangwen, for all his fiery temper, wasn't a fool.
Advice that made sense still reached him. He let out a long breath, nodding reluctantly. "You're right. I guess this is all I can do for now. If things really are as we suspect, I'll pull my film from the screening."
He leaned back, shaking his head with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire festival. "Who would've thought," he muttered bitterly, "that a filmmaker could get entangled in global politics?"
Jihoon didn't know how to answer. Instead, he shifted the moment away from tension and looked toward Quentin.
"Tarantino," he asked, "are you here alone?"
Tarantino smirked, shaking his head. "Nah. My producer came with me. I just got here first to meet Jiang."
Jihoon nodded. "Same. My producer will be joining me soon."
Tarantino tilted his head curiously. "And who's your producer?"
"Jim Gianopulos," Jihoon replied smoothly. "From Fox and Yours?"
"TWC Harvey Weinstein," Tarantino answered casually.
The name made Jihoon's brow tighten.
He couldn't help the frown that crossed his face.
Weinstein's reputation preceded him—greedy, manipulative, always circling like a vulture.
Frankly, Jihoon wasn't surprised to hear his name in this year's Cannes.
After all, Tarantino had become Weinstein's golden goose, and festivals like this were his stage, his circus.