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

Inside the brick and stone shop, the angel had completed all the pre-operative preparations.

"Now, begin the surgery."

She paused, then added, as if speaking to herself:

"The first step is the incision."

The blade tip falls.

laugh--

The angel used a high-frequency electrosurgical unit.

The blade is extremely fine, with a faint blue electric arc flashing at its tip.

laugh--

When a high-frequency electrosurgical unit cuts the skin and subcutaneous tissue, there is almost no sound, only a slight electrical hum.

The tissue at the edge of the incision is instantly coagulated by the high temperature, resulting in minimal bleeding.

Because the high-frequency electrosurgical unit stops bleeding while cutting.

"Now, repair the lung lobe."

Meanwhile, outside the shop.

The Kirin tank's 125mm smoothbore gun fired first.

The sound of firing is not "bang" or "boom".

It was a low, heavy sound, like the earth coughing.

Two huge fireballs shot out from the muzzle brake, and the cannon barrel recoiled sharply and then returned to its original position.

The shell's flight time is less than one second.

hit.

It didn't hit the machine gun—it hit the sandbag bunker behind the machine gun position.

The armor-piercing shell cut through the sandbags like a hot knife through butter, piercing the Japanese soldiers hiding behind them, piercing the brick wall behind them, and then exploding behind the wall.

The entire machine gun emplacement, along with its personnel and guns, was blown into the air.

The Japanese troops who came from all directions, intending to surround the area, were clearly stunned by this shell.

They paused for about ten seconds.

Then, the charge began.

It's not a skirmish line, not a probing attack.

It's a pig's ram.

Like a herd of enraged wild boars, more than three hundred Japanese soldiers rushed out of the ruins, roaring and brandishing their bayonets, and ran wildly toward the shop.

They knew that tank cannons couldn't hit targets that were too close—there were blind spots.

They wanted to rush into the tank's blind spot...

The one-eyed company commander saw these pigs rushing towards the Japanese troops, trying to break into their blind spot, and immediately roared:

"Third Battalion, Seventh Company—! Infantry, advance—!!"

In an instant, dozens of soldiers rushed out of their cover and marched forward in unison.

The one-eyed company commander's gaze swept across the faces of the soldiers beside him:

"Brothers, fix bayonets!"

"Let's have a hand-to-hand battle with the Japanese from the 3rd Division."

There was no enthusiastic response. Only the cold, sharp sound of metal scraping against metal, crisp, short, and resolute—

"Clang!"

"Clang!"

"Clang!"

They stood around their company commander, forming a thin, uneven line.

The bayonet was raised, its tip trembling slightly, reflecting the still-burning firelight in the ruins, illuminating a row of silent stars.

The one-eyed company commander braced the wooden butt of his rifle against his waist, the tip of his bayonet steadily aimed at the howling, surging yellow tide.

"remember."

"Third Battalion, Seventh Company, not a single step back!"

"The more you exchange, the more money you make."

Behind the Seventh Company of the Third Battalion, an angel was performing surgery.

The angel's movements remained steady.

It's as stable as a precision machine.

The needle in my hand pierced the lung tissue, passed through, was pulled out, and tied in a knot.

Each knot is tied with just the right tightness—too tight and it will cut the tissue, too loose and it won't stop the bleeding.

The tear was being meticulously stitched up, stitch by stitch.

A corner of the shop.

The old soldier, who was holding six grenades in his arms, raised his head.

In the dim light, the scar on his face looked like a centipede wriggling.

He listened to the sounds outside—footsteps, the sound of tracks, and faint Japanese commands.

He looked down at the grenade in his arms.

The leads were twisted together, gripped tightly by him.

Then, he looked at his comrades-in-arms beside him.

A young soldier was holding the rifle with the bent barrel.

The other one was holding a large sword with a chipped blade.

There was another one, who was holding only a sharp piece of broken brick in his hand—the brick had been peeled off the wall and its edges were sharpened to be used as a dagger.

Everyone's eyes look the same.

Calm, scalding hot, ready to die.

The veteran smiled.

The smile was unpleasant, because the scars on his face distorted his muscles, but his eyes were gentle.

"Brothers."

His voice was hoarse, but clear:

"They're here again outside."

"How many?"

"Judging from the noise... there's quite a bit."

silence.

Three seconds.

Then, the veteran took a deep breath, used the hand that wasn't holding the grenade to support himself against the wall, and slowly stood up.

He had an injury on his leg and swayed slightly when he stood up, but he regained his balance.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

He looked at the others:

"Lie down and wait to die?"

"still--"

He paused, then spoke slowly and deliberately:

"Go to the doorway, and die standing there?"

No one speaks.

But everyone moved.

The young soldier, clutching his bent rifle, shakily stood up. Unable to maintain his balance, he leaned against the wall for support.

The soldier wielding the broadsword used it as a crutch to help himself to his feet.

The soldiers, clutching the broken bricks, tucked them into their coats and, gripping the wall with both hands, slowly climbed upwards.

And many more—

A wounded soldier, his abdomen wrapped in bandages and still oozing blood, gritted his teeth and sat up.

A wounded man with a broken leg, secured with a wooden stick and bound with rags, dragged his broken leg as he crawled forward.

A wounded soldier, almost blind due to an eye injury, groped his way to his feet, leaning against the wall for support.

There were thirteen people in total, like thirteen weapons that should have been scrapped:

Curved guns, broken knives, shattered bricks, and even someone picked up half a table leg and sharpened one end.

They supported each other.

You lend me a hand, and I'll pull you up.

Staggering and swaying, but he stood up.

The veteran walked at the front.

He was still holding the bundle of grenades in his arms, but with his other hand, he drew a bayonet from his waist.

He took it from his dead comrade-in-arms; the hilt was engraved with his name: Wang Dahe.

"Lend me Dahe's knife for a bit," he murmured. "I'll return it to you when we go down later."

They walked to the shop entrance.

It's not about rushing out, it's about standing still.

Thirteen people, lined up in a row.

Standing in the doorway, standing in front of the threshold.

Outside, a battlefield raged with gunfire.

Inside, doctors and wounded soldiers are performing surgery.

They stood in the middle.

Like a wall.

Take their flesh and blood.

To build a new city wall here...