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

Baoshan Bank Building, second floor.

Company Commander Liu Xiao leaned against the broken window, holding an empty Mauser pistol in his hand.

He counted a third time.

Those still able to move: 87 people.

Forty-three guns are still firing.

Bullets: Less than five per person on average.

Hand grenades: nineteen in total, six of which were homemade and might only break in half upon detonation.

"Company Commander," the messenger Xiao Shuanzi crawled over, his voice trembling, "the Japanese... are coming up again."

Liu Xiao knew without even looking.

He heard it—

The sounds of tank tracks crunching over broken bricks, the clatter of boots on the ground, and the short, sharp commands of Japanese officers converged from three directions, like a net being pulled in.

Lobby.

Sergeant Zhao Dashan is "processing" the last batch of bullets.

He drew a cross on the bullet with his bayonet—

This causes the bullet to tumble and deform upon entering the body, resulting in greater trauma. However, it also makes the trajectory unstable, making it inaccurate beyond ten meters.

"Old Zhao, don't bother." A young soldier next to him smiled wryly, "Whether you draw the cross or not, it's the last shot anyway."

Zhao Dashan didn't stop. He drew very carefully, each mark deep: "The last shot must be enough to make the Japanese remember the pain."

The young soldier fell silent. He looked down and pulled a photograph from his pocket—

One corner was burned off, revealing a woman holding a baby. He wiped it with his sleeve and carefully put it back.

"My son... should be able to walk by now," he murmured.

Second floor, southeast corner.

Machine gunner Wang Tiezhu was holding the Maxim heavy machine gun. The barrel had already been fired three times and was red-hot. The coolant had long since evaporated. If he fired any more, the barrel would deform or even explode.

But he didn't let go.

Seven empty ammunition boxes were piled up beside him. In the last box, there was still half a belt of ammunition—two hundred and fifty rounds of bullets. This was the "last one" he left for himself.

"Pillar." Assistant Shooter Li crawled over and handed him half a hardened biscuit. "Eat something."

Wang Tiezhu shook his head: "You eat. I'm not hungry."

Actually, I was hungry. So hungry my stomach was cramping.

But more than hunger, there was something else—a heavy weight pressing on my heart.

He knew that once the machine gun opened fire, it would reveal its position. Japanese grenade launchers would be raining down within thirty seconds.

These 250 bullets were his life, and also his death sentence.

Liu Xiao walked down the stairs.

Eighty-seven pairs of eyes were looking at him.

These eyes were bloodshot and tired, but there was no fear in them.

"Brothers," Liu Xiao said, his voice hoarse but clear, "our Second Company has been ordered to defend the bank building to the death."

He glanced at his pocket watch: 8:17 p.m.

"But we can't hold out any longer." He said this calmly. "We're almost out of bullets, out of grenades, and only one machine gun left that can still fire."

No one spoke.

"But I did the math—" Liu Xiao raised his voice, "We have eighty-seven people, and we've already traded over a hundred Japanese soldiers for one. It was worth it."

He drew his bayonet and wedged it into the muzzle of the gun.

Click.

The sound of metal clashing was particularly crisp in the quiet hall.

"So for this final battle," Liu Xiaofan said, raising his rifle with bayonets fixed, "killing one more would be enough, killing two would be a bonus."

He paused, then spoke slowly and deliberately:

"It doesn't matter if we run out of bullets, let's use knives."

A series of clicking sounds echoed in the hall.

Eighty-seven bayonets were simultaneously fixed to the muzzle. Some bayonets were dull, some were rusted, but at this moment, under the dim kerosene lamp, they gleamed with a cold, hard light.

Zhao Dashan stood up; he was the oldest, forty-two years old. He walked to the front, turned to face the crowd:

"I am Zhao Dashan from Hebei. I have a wife and two daughters at home. If I can't go back—"

He took a deep breath:

"Tell them that their father has not disgraced the people of Hebei."

"I am Li Youtian from Shandong!" A burly man stood up. "My parents are long gone, I'm all alone. I have nothing to say!"

"Liu Zhuzi from Henan! My mother has gone blind. If anyone can go back... please tell her for me, 'Your son is unfilial!'"

"Wangshui Reservoir in Hunan! My wife just gave birth to a baby boy! Tell him his father died fighting the Japanese!"

"Chen Ergou from Sichuan! I..."

One voice after another echoed in the empty hall. Behind each name was a life story that was never finished.

Liu Xiao's eyes welled up with tears as she listened.

But he didn't cry; he raised his gun.

"Second Company—"

"Here!" Eighty-seven voices exploded.

"Follow me!"