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

Jiang Xingchen put her sunglasses back on.

Then, he looked at his Rocket Force squad and said succinctly:

"Walk."

"Passed."

"Then--"

He pushed up his sunglasses, the lenses reflecting a cold light.

"Go to 1937."

"Set off fireworks."

now,

The team that finished crossing the river is resting.

The team, which was preparing to depart, was assembling.

The team that had already set off for Sheshan also turned back to look in the direction of the command area.

Then--

I don't know who started it.

make a fist.

Beating one's chest.

boom.

First word.

Immediately afterwards—

Bang bang bang bang bang bang-! ! !

The sounds merged into a torrent!

Like war drums! Like thunder! Like the synchronized heartbeat of this nation across eighty-eight years!

There was no unified command.

Slogans without organization.

It is spontaneous.

It's an irrepressible resonance that originates from the depths of one's blood!

Army, Navy, Air Force, Rocket Force—all branches of the armed forces, all units—at this moment, have only one identity:

Chinese soldiers.

There is only one goal—

Go to 1937.

Kill the Japanese devils.

Save my brother.

Tell those ancestors who are fighting the invaders with their lives—

The descendants of later generations have arrived.

It possesses a power beyond your imagination.

With the prosperity you earned with your lives.

coming!

On the observation platform.

General Wang Kangmei leaned on the railing, looking down at the bustling, roaring steel jungle below.

The old man's eyes reddened.

But he did not shed a tear.

He simply took a deep breath, and then, in a voice only he could hear, murmured:

"Did you see that...?"

"Old buddies..."

"This is what you risked your lives for..."

"Soldiers of the New China"

He paused, raised his head, and looked into the distance, towards the direction of 1937. His voice suddenly became firm and resolute:

"Wait."

"It will be soon."

"Soon..."

"I'm going to pick you up and take you home."

A river breeze blows.

The wind stirred the old general's gray hair.

It blows the ceaseless waves of the Yangtze River.

The wind that had been building up for eighty-eight years, finally roared and erupted across this land—

A torrent of iron and blood!

………………

1937, the Battle of Shanghai, north bank of Luodian.

In the trench, the company commander of the 7th Company, 3rd Battalion, 402nd Regiment, 67th Division of the 18th Army stared intently with his only remaining eye.

Staring at the three steel behemoths, staring at the roaring figure on the Qilin turret.

His lips were trembling.

Brothers, do you see?

All the brothers who went to Shanghai and sacrificed their lives here, did you see that?

This is what Chinese soldiers are like today!

This is what the Japanese devils tried every means to destroy, but could never destroy—

The backbone of the Chinese nation!

Then, he opened his mouth as well.

With that hoarse, blood-stained, yet incredibly resolute voice, he joined the roar:

"ah--------!!!!!!!"

One.

two.

Three...

All the soldiers in the trench who could still make a sound stood up, faced east, and roared with the last of their lives!

Old, young, hoarse, clear...

It coalesced into a scalding, boiling mass, seemingly about to burn through the sky—

A roar!

The sound surged over the scorched earth, over the corpses, and over the burning wreckage of tanks.

It tumbled, roared, and exploded in the sky above Luodian!

It's as if it's announcing to the whole world:

Chinese--

Still there!

Chinese military —

Still there!

This land—

This land will always belong to the Chinese people!

Anyone who dares to trample on this—

This is what happens!

Iron Anvil stood on the Qilin Tank, looking towards the trenches.

He looked at the Chinese soldiers who were covered in wounds but still stood tall and looked at him.

His gaze met that of the one-eyed company commander in mid-air.

No words were spoken.

But everything is left unsaid.

The anvil slowly raised its right hand.

make a fist.

He pounded his left chest hard.

The location of the heart.

That was a military salute.

It is the oldest, most solemn, and most respectful form of tribute between warriors.

The one-eyed company commander watched this action, and then he also raised his right hand—the hand missing two fingers, which had been cut off by the Japanese army's sword during the bayonet fight yesterday—and with difficulty, but with unwavering determination, he pounded it against his own chest.

boom.

A very soft sound.

Yet it weighs as much as a thousand pounds.

Immediately afterwards, all the soldiers in the trench who could still move raised their hands.

make a fist.

Beating one's chest.

Bang bang bang bang—!

The sounds blended together.

It's a heartbeat.

It is a war drum.

It is the indomitable pulse of this nation.

Amidst this pulsation, Xiao Hubei, the young soldier who was the first to rush towards the tank with six grenades, now lay on a makeshift stretcher padded with a few tattered military uniforms.

His injuries were severe.

Although the wound on his chest had been treated urgently, blood was still slowly seeping out.

Every breath he took pulled at his broken ribs and damaged lungs, bringing excruciating pain.

But he didn't utter a sound.

He simply stared at the three black steel behemoths that were parked quietly not far away, their cannons still emitting blue smoke.

This time, however, what I was looking at wasn't a Japanese tank.

It was the Qilin Tank of the new China.

Look at their smooth lines, look at their heavy armor, look at their intimidatingly thick cannon barrel.

"That's great..." he murmured softly, "We... have someone like that now..."

He recalled the tank he had seen in his hometown county town in Hubei before he joined the army. It was so old and worn out, the gun barrel was as thin as a fire poker, and it rattled and clanged as it ran, as if it were about to fall apart.

Even those scraps of metal were incredibly rare back then.

And now...

He looked at the Qilin tank.

This is not a tank at all.

This is a mobile steel fortress.

It is a demon that can crawl out of hell and drag the Japanese devils back to hell.

"It was worth it..." Little Hubei said softly but firmly, "It really was worth it..."

He remembered the day he joined the army. His mother made pancakes out of the last half bag of flour they had, stuffed them into his bundle, and said, "Live well, and come back when the war is over."

But now...

He can't go back.

But he doesn't regret it.

not at all.

"Company Commander..." Xiao Hubei turned his head with difficulty and looked at the company commander who was leaning against the trench wall, his one eye filled with lifelessness.

The company commander was also looking at him.

The young man from Hubei grinned, a grin so wide that blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "I... am from Enshi, Hubei..."

"I killed Japanese soldiers..."

"It blew up tanks..."

"Now... I've also seen... our own... big tanks..."

He gasped for breath, his eyes beginning to glaze over.

"This life..."

"It was worth it."

"die……"

"And without regrets."

Little Hubei slowly closed his eyes...

"Company Commander..."

"are you still there?"

"I miss...I miss my mother so much..."