Not enough Japanese devils to kill? 1.4 billion people volunteer for the Battle of Shanghai.

The battle continues in the scene.

The Type 95 tank, which had been disabled by "Little Hubei" with six hand grenades, paused for about thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds later, the hatch on top of the tank was pushed open from the inside with a "bang".

Two Japanese tank crewmen wearing leather hats frantically climbed out of the narrow hatch, wanting to check the track damage and try to repair it.

Scattered gunfire echoed from the trenches.

boom!boom!

The two gunshots were not particularly noticeable in the noisy battlefield environment.

But it's precise.

The first Japanese tank crewman to climb out had barely poked half his body out when a burst of blood erupted from his forehead, and his body slumped to the side, hanging from the hatch.

The second tank crewman was terrified and scrambled back inside, slamming the hatch shut behind him.

But the tank was already immobile.

It became a fixed, tilted steel bunker. Although the turret was blown shut, the two 7.7mm machine guns at the front of the vehicle could still rotate and fire.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat—! ! !

The machine gun resumed spitting fire, bullets lashing out like whips at the ravaged trench.

One life was lost, but only one Japanese tank was left crippled.

But for Hubei province, and for Chinese soldiers in 1937…

"It was worth it!"

Little Hubei lay there and whispered those two words.

Blood foam spurted from his mouth, short and hoarse, yet satisfying.

He watched with his own eyes as the two Japanese tank crewmen scrambled out in a panic, and then watched as one of their corpses hung from the hatch like a puppet with its strings cut.

That life was bought with his own flesh and blood.

It was he who turned that menacing steel behemoth into a lifeless lump of iron, unable to move and only able to spew flames from its spot.

Little Hubei knew he was about to die; his body was rapidly growing cold.

He thought of the riverbanks in his hometown of Hubei, and the pebbles, smoothed by the river water, exposed after the dry season in winter...

…………

On the battlefield, another Japanese tank rumbled to fill the gap and continued to approach the position of the 7th Company of the 3rd Battalion.

A second Chinese soldier charged out from the trench.

He was also holding a cluster grenade in his arms.

But not six.

There are eight.

They were tied tightly with the same gray leg wrappings, and the lead wire was twisted into a single strand.

Unlike "Little Hubei," he didn't leap out of the trench and charge straight ahead.

He was experienced; he had probably witnessed too many such charges before, or perhaps he himself had charged like that more than once.

He rolled out of the trench and rolled into a half-meter-deep shell crater, thus avoiding the first round of machine gun fire.

Pause for two seconds in the shell crater to determine the interval between machine gun firings.

Then, he leaped out from the other side of the crater and, using the ruins and broken walls as cover, rushed forward in a serpentine path.

More flexible.

Smarter.

Even more...heartbreaking.

Because he knew perfectly well that this was suicide.

Yet they still used all their wisdom and experience, just to die a more worthwhile death, to get closer to the tanks, and to make the grenades hit more accurately.

But the Japanese army had learned its lesson.

The remaining two tanks that could still move, along with the machine gun from the disabled tank, at least three machine guns simultaneously turned around, blocking all his possible routes of advance.

Bullets rained down like water.

Puff puff puff puff—!

It hit the broken wall next to him, sending brick dust flying.

It struck the pile of rubble in front of him, sending countless fragments flying.

The bullets struck his feet, leaving deep craters.

The young soldier was hit when he was about fifteen meters away from the disabled tank.

The bullet hit his right thigh.

Blood splattered, and he stumbled, falling to his knees on one knee.

But he didn't fall; he used his left leg to support himself and tried to keep crawling forward.

A second bullet followed immediately.

It hit his left shoulder.

He finally collapsed.

The bundle of grenades in his arms rolled away due to loss of support and landed in a pile of rubble two or three meters ahead, where it was blocked by a half-burnt roof beam.

But he's not dead yet.

It can still move.

He raised his head.

I glanced at the disabled tank; the machine gun was still roaring, and bullets were still being fired.

He turned his head with difficulty to look in the direction of the trench.

There, his company commander and his brothers were still returning fire with their last few bullets. Every shot that rang out could be the last bullet of their lives.

He smiled.

The same smile as "Little Hubei".

Then, he used his still-mobile left hand to prop himself up.

His right leg was ruined, and he was shot in the left shoulder.

But he started climbing

They crawled inch by inch toward the bundle of grenades that had rolled into the rubble.

Behind him, a long, dark red trail of blood was left.

And in the trench behind him, it exploded.

"Yao Lin—!!!"

A young soldier, perhaps only seventeen or eighteen years old, with a childlike face, cried out and grabbed the last wooden-handled grenade in the corner of the trench, about to rush out.

"I'll fight them to the death! Save Brother Yao Lin—!"

He was held down firmly by an old soldier next to him with a full beard and half of his left ear missing.

"Let me go! You bastard, let me go!" The soldier struggled desperately, his face covered in tears and snot.

"Going out is suicide!" the veteran's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping. "What's the point of another death?!"

"What are we going to do?! Wait to die?! Watch Yao Lin crawl over there to his death?!" the soldier roared, his voice cracking. "He's my brother! My own brother—!!"

The trench fell silent instantly.

Everyone looked at the soldier, at the lone grenade in his hand, and at Yao Lin, who was crawling laboriously in a pool of blood outside the trench.

despair.

Like an icy tide, it engulfed everyone's heads.

Everyone knew that even if Yao Lin crawled over and detonated those eight grenades, the best he could achieve was—

The destruction of a tank.

But the Japanese army still had intact tanks and was closing in step by step.

More than four hundred infantrymen have advanced to within a hundred meters.

Only fifty-odd men remained in the trenches.

Each person had fewer than three bullets in their gun.

The blade of the broadsword was chipped.

The bayonet tip broke off.

The grenade... there's only one left.

The company commander leaned against his firing position, his single eye lifeless. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but only violent coughing came out.

He looked at Yao Lin, and then at the young soldier struggling to crawl in the pool of blood.

Those were his best soldiers.

Clever, brave, literate, good at math, and thoughtful in battle.

I originally had the opportunity to work as a clerk in the back office.

But Yao Lin said, "Company Commander, my brother is up ahead, I have to keep an eye on him."

Now, the younger brother is crying and screaming in the trenches.

The older brother crawled toward death outside the trench.

The morning light grew a little brighter, but when it shone on this scorched earth, it only made death appear more vivid.

Yao Lin's hand finally touched the edge of the rubble.

There was still one meter between us and the bundle of grenades.

His left hand dug deep into the scorched earth, and with great effort, he dragged his almost completely numb lower body forward.

Blood kept gushing from the wounds on his thighs and shoulders.

His vision began to blur.

My ears were ringing, and the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and tanks seemed distant and unreal.

But he still remembered the bundle of grenades.

Remember to climb over there.

Remember to pull it.

His fingers, trembling, reached forward.

There's still half a meter left.

Thirty centimeters.

Ten centimeters...

bumped into.

A rough wooden handle, a cold iron casing, and a twisted, sweat-soaked fuse.

Yao Lin's face showed a relieved, almost liberated smile.

Then, with the last of his strength, he roared—

The voice was soft, hoarse, and broken, yet it seemed to be a cry from the depths of the soul:

"Yao Lin—a native of Yanling, Henan—"

"Kill the Japanese devils—"

"I would die without regrets!!!"

Fingers, hooking towards the fuse—

In that very instant.

A hand grasped his hand.

It wasn't the hand of the brother in the trench.

It wasn't the younger brother's hand.

It was an unfamiliar, long and powerful hand wearing a matte black tactical glove.

The gloves were made of a strange material; they were not ordinary leather or cloth, but rather a dense, elastic metal weave with extremely fine honeycomb textures on the surface.

It feels slightly cool to the touch, yet carries an undeniable sense of stability.

Yao Lin was stunned.

The intense pain and blood loss slowed his thinking.

It took him a full two seconds to realize what was happening—someone had grabbed his hand as he was about to pull the pin on a grenade.

Who?

devil?

No, the Japanese soldiers wouldn't shake his hand; they would just stab him to death.

That is……

He struggled to lift his head.

Look up along the arm wearing the black glove.

Then he saw—

a woman.

Kneel beside him.

Kneel on one knee, lean your body slightly forward, forming a stable posture that allows you to exert force at any time.

She was dressed in an outfit Yao Lin had never seen before—not a military uniform, not civilian clothes, but a streamlined, body-hugging black armor.

It wasn't armor; it wasn't that bulky. It was more like some kind of thin, elastic metallic fabric that clung to the curves of her body, yet had just the right amount of reinforcement at the joints and vital areas.

On the surface of the armor, there were slowly flowing, pale blue light patterns, like living blood vessels or some kind of intricate circuitry. The alternating light patterns created a serene yet powerful sense of technology.

She wore a helmet—also a black, streamlined design that completely protected her head. The visor was transparent, but not glass; it was made of a clearer, more durable material. Through the visor, her face was visible—

A very beautiful face.

His skin was a healthy wheat color, his cheekbones were clearly defined, his nose was high and straight, and his lips were tightly pressed together. Most striking were his eyes. Clear and sharp, like steel that had been tempered, or like a lake that had weathered countless storms yet remained crystal clear.

At that moment, those eyes were looking at him, without pity or sorrow, only a calm and unwavering strength.

She knelt on one knee beside Yao Lin, her left hand holding his hand as he was about to pull the pin on a grenade, her right hand—

He was embracing another person.

Yao Lin's pupils suddenly contracted.

That's... Little Hubei!

The first young soldier to rush out, with a huge wound blown open in his chest, lying in a pool of blood waiting to die!

Little Hubei was held in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder. The wound on his chest was still gruesome, and blood was still seeping out, but—his eyes were open.

Although his eyes were unfocused and confused, and he was seriously injured, he was still alive!

The heart was not damaged!

When that bunch of grenades exploded, the shrapnel avoided vital organs!

He is still alive!

Little Hubei seemed equally bewildered.

He blinked, glanced at Yao Lin, then turned slightly to look at the strange woman embracing him. His eyes were filled with confusion.

Am I dead? Is this the underworld? Is this woman Meng Po? But why is Meng Po dressed like this?

Meng Po is quite pretty.

Yao Lin and Xiao Hubei, two young soldiers covered in blood and on the verge of death, stared blankly at the woman who had suddenly appeared, as if a goddess had descended from heaven.

Time seemed to freeze at that moment.

Even the sound of gunfire seemed distant.

The woman looked into Yao Lin's astonished, dying eyes and spoke.

The sound, amplified by the built-in microphone in the mask, was clear, steady, and possessed an undeniable penetrating power...

"I am Fu Hao," she said, "from China of the future."

She paused, seemingly giving the two 1937 soldiers time to process the information, before continuing:

"I'll take you back."

In the trenches, everyone was stunned.

The young soldier who was about to rush out to save his brother opened his mouth wide, tears still on his face, but he forgot to cry.

The company commander stopped coughing, his one eye wide open, staring intently at the black figure that had suddenly appeared outside the trench.

All the soldiers who could still move stopped what they were doing, forgetting to fire, forgetting to reload, forgetting that death was approaching.

They looked at the woman kneeling beside Yao Lin.

Looking at her, I saw a streamlined black armor that I had never seen before.

Looking at her young yet resolute face beneath her helmet.

Watching her grasp Yao Lin's hand as he pulled the pin on the grenade.

Looking at her other hand, she was holding Xiao Hubei, whose chest had been blown open and who should have been dead.

Like a miracle.

Like a dream.

"You...who are you..." Yao Lin was lifted up by Fu Hao's arm around the waist, but he still managed to speak, asking weakly, his voice as soft as a sigh.

He lost too much blood and started to feel cold.

"I've come to take you away," Fu Hao's voice came through the mask, calm yet strong. "Hold on. You won't die here. You, and Xiao Hubei, will not die."

Yao Lin smiled, but it was a bitter smile: "I'm not afraid of death... but... Japanese tanks..."

He turned his head with difficulty, looking at the disabled tank that was still spitting fire, and then at the two intact Type 95 tanks in the distance, which had advanced to within eighty meters, their guns adjusting their angles and aiming at the area.

There were also more than four hundred ferocious Japanese infantrymen.

"And..." Yao Lin's voice trailed off, "There are many more... my brother... in the trenches..."

Fu Hao glanced at the trench in the direction he indicated.

I saw those Chinese soldiers, covered in dust and wounds, yet still holding their guns.

I saw the one-eyed company commander.

I saw the young soldier with a tear-streaked face, still clutching a grenade—Yao Lin's younger brother.

Then, she looked away and turned her gaze back to Yao Lin and then to Xiao Hubei.

She smiled.

It wasn't Yao Lin's tragic laugh, nor was it Xiao Hubei's pure laugh.

It's a laugh brimming with absolute confidence, as if stating the simplest of facts.

"Tanks?" she said softly, her voice even carrying a hint of...disdain?

"We have that too."

Before the words were finished—

Rumble, rumble, rumble—!!!

The earth began to tremble.

It wasn't the explosive, shattering tremor like that experienced during Japanese artillery bombardment.

It is heavier, more stable, and more powerful, like a primordial beast awakening from its slumber and taking its first steps on the trembling earth!

The sound came from the other end of the street—

From behind the Chinese defenders' positions, from that rear ruin that was thought to have been completely leveled by artillery fire and where no one could possibly have survived.

The roar of an engine could be heard.

It wasn't the high-pitched, noisy engine sound of the Type 95 light tank, which was like the buzzing of mosquitoes.

It was a deep, resonant engine sound, like a tiger roaring in its chest!

A powerful and technologically advanced roar!

Then, they appeared.

Three tanks.

They slowly drove out from around the corner of the ruins.

But it wasn't the Japanese Type 95.

It's a bigger, heavier tank with more menacing armor lines and a futuristic look!

The streamlined main turret is low and compact, reducing the area exposed to shells. The turret front and upper glacis armor are distinctly wedge-shaped composite armor, with multiple layers of different metallic and non-metallic materials stacked together, giving off a cold, hard, matte color in the morning light.

The most striking feature is the gun barrel, which is much thicker than the Type 95's 57mm gun! The long barrel even has a smoke extraction device and a thermal sleeve, and the muzzle brake has a complex and precise structure.

On top of the turret is a sighting system that integrates various optical and electronic devices, as well as a remote weapon station with a strangely shaped heavy machine gun mounted on it.

The sides of the vehicle are covered by thick side skirts, which cover the tracks and some of the road wheels.

And at the front of the vehicle, there's a symbol painted on the armor—

A bright red, full, and sharply defined five-pointed star.

Below the five-pointed star are two white, strong Chinese characters:

Qilin!

"That is..." Yao Lin's eyes widened, the chill brought on by blood loss seemed to be dispelled somewhat by this shocking scene.

He had never seen a tank like this before.

It's unimaginable that such a tank exists in the world.

It looks...unlike something from this era.

Like a steel mythical beast arriving from the future.

"The Qilin Tank," Fu Hao's voice rang out, filled with undisguised pride, "our own tank. Completely independently designed and manufactured."

She paused, then added:

"One of the main battle tanks of the Chinese Army in 2026."

Yao Lin couldn't understand "2026" or "main battle tank".

But he understood "our own".

I understood the pride in that tone.

His lips trembled, as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came out.

Tears, without warning, welled up from his eyes, which were already sore from the smoke of battle.

Mixed with blood and grime, it rolled down.

The woman looked at him, watching the last glimmer of light in the dying young soldier's eyes, and whispered:

"Although only three vehicles have come from the north bank of Luodian so far."

"but--"

She raised her head, looking into the distance, towards the Yangtze River, towards the sky shrouded in war, her voice clear and firm, as if declaring an inevitable fact:

"Soon after."

"We have reinforcements."

"Lots and lots of reinforcements."

The words fell.

In the distance, the turrets of the three "Qilin" tanks were spinning in unison.

The thick, long cannon barrel was steadily pointed at—

The two Japanese Type 95 light tanks that were approaching.

The muzzle of the cannon, dark and deep like a prison...