"The Past and Present of the Clown Virus" – Global News
"Marching Ant Company: Virus Written in Chinese Character Programming Language" – People's Daily
"Marching Ant Releases Official Statement" – Phoenix News
Right now, news about the Clown Virus is everywhere. London has publicly declared it will not give in to any hacker group. Globally, everyone's watching, waiting to see what the hackers will do next—or which city will be targeted.
Just then, the Marching Ant Company dropped a bombshell of its own:
The Clown Virus was written using a Chinese character-based programming language.
The claim caused immediate skepticism from the public, but Global Report quickly backed it with analysis. As people began digging through past events, the Jiangnan City virus incident resurfaced—along with the story of the girl who created the original virus.
No one had expected the code that paralyzed London to have originated from such an unassuming beginning.
With the Marching Ants confirming that the Jiangnan City network breach had come from the Clown Organization, the claim's credibility soared. Media outlets quickly latched on to the story and dug up more: how the Jiangnan virus was neutralized after Marching Ant intervened, and how the girl who wrote the program had since returned to campus life.
The Western media, in particular, took notice.
"Virus Written in Chinese Programming Language, Says Marching Ant"
"How Do You Kill the Clown Virus?"
"A New Kind of Virus, Written in a New Kind of Language"
"Marching Ants May Hold the Key to Stopping It"
Suddenly, the obscure Chinese character programming language was splashed across headlines worldwide. When it was first introduced, some media had reported on it—but public interest quickly waned. Now, it was back with a vengeance, and in the worst possible context. People were simultaneously fascinated and disturbed. Many were put off by how difficult the language was to learn—comments sections were filled with complaints about Chinese being too complex.
But regardless of how people felt, the language was now globally recognized—and hacker organizations had definitely taken notice.
At Qihu headquarters, Zhou Hongwei sat in his office, deep in thought. The crisis had forced him to re-evaluate the future of his company.
"Cybersecurity no longer exists"—Chen Mo had once said that during the China Internet Conference. Zhou hadn't fully understood it back then. When he asked Chen Mo to explain, he'd gotten only a vague response: "It depends on how the future unfolds." At the time, it felt cryptic. Now, it made sense.
Chen Mo's words had come true. The Clown Virus proved that a fragmented security system could bring down entire cities. It was a global wake-up call—and also an opportunity for major shifts in the tech world.
Zhou was certain now: Chen Mo had known about this possibility long before anyone else. He'd predicted the fall of Eternal Heart. And if anyone knew where the future was headed, it was Chen Mo.
Then it hit him.
Chinese character programming language.
Everything—the Jiangnan incident, the London breach—was tied to that language. Perhaps this was what Chen Mo had been alluding to when he spoke of upcoming change.
Zhou Hongwei quickly picked up his desk phone:
"Secretary Wu, put out a recruitment notice. We're hiring programmers who are proficient in Chinese character programming."
And it wasn't just Qihu.
Huawei, Alibaba, Tencent, Qiandu, and all the other tech giants were making the same move.
Overnight, what was once a niche and largely ignored language became the most sought-after skill in the programming world.
Meanwhile, London was still struggling.
Its banking systems were crippled. Gas stations, airports, government systems—everything had been hacked. As one of the financial centers of the world, the city's losses were incalculable.
The Clown Virus had shaken the global tech scene to its core. No one knew who was behind it, and no cybersecurity firm had yet come up with a viable countermeasure.
Outside London City Hall, a female reporter from Phoenix News, Yu Yu, stood bundled up in the cold, holding a mic. Her assignment was to cover ongoing updates about the Clown Virus and document how ordinary citizens were coping.
Flights were delayed because the airport's control system was down. The London Stock Exchange couldn't open because its systems had been hacked. Businesses were in chaos.
The virus was ruthless. Any computer connected to the internet got infected. Formatting and reinstalling the system didn't help—the moment you went back online, the virus returned. Antivirus programs were useless.
With most news systems down, people had to rely on newspapers or check their phones for updates. Even basic communications were being routed through mobile networks now.
Yu Yu had heard from other reporters that the Mayor of London would be making a statement soon. She and her cameraman had arrived early to be ready.
"This clown group... who the hell are they?" the cameraman muttered, shivering.
"You're asking me? Who am I supposed to ask?" Yu Yu chuckled.
As they joked, a stir rippled through the crowd. Yu Yu quickly waved her cameraman over. They sprinted toward the commotion.
A middle-aged man emerged from the building. Despite being in his 40s, his white hair made him look older. It was the Mayor of London, Sadika.
He stepped up to the podium, looked directly into the cameras, and began:
"The City of London has been hit with the worst cyber attack in its history. The Clown Organization has demanded a ransom of £100 million.
We will not negotiate with any hacker group. We will not pay any ransom.
Instead, we are offering a reward of £2 million for credible information that leads to identifying the hackers responsible."
The moment he finished, the press exploded with questions. His speech was broadcast live, and within minutes, it had gone global.
Not long after, the Clown Organization posted a chilling tweet:
"The ransom for London has now doubled—£200 million.
Want your city back? Pay up.
We've already chosen our next destination.
We like the Statue of Liberty.
Welcome us, New York."