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

The last rays of the setting sun peeked through the gaps in the ruins west of Baoshan City.

The light, like molten gold, poured onto the dilapidated windowsills of the third floor of the bank building, and onto every young, dirty face.

Bian Yun stood on the rooftop and took something out of the "space" that connected the two time periods.

It's not a weapon, it's not medicine.

It is a flag.

The wind came the moment the flag was unfurled.

It wasn't the bloody wind of a battlefield, but the warm evening breeze blowing from the river in the twilight of August.

red.

A bright, almost blinding red.

The cloth fluttered and billowed in the wind—five golden stars on the flag shone brightly in the sunset.

Bian Yun gripped the flagpole. It was a lightweight alloy pole, made with technology from 2025, lighter than any flagpole of this era, yet strong enough to withstand fierce winds.

He inserted it into a crack in the concrete on the roof and secured it with gravel.

Then take a step back.

Downstairs, everyone looked up.

Zhao Dashan was feeding a young soldier water, the bowl of water stopping in mid-air.

Wang Tiezhu was holding the Maxim gun, his finger still on the trigger, but his eyes were fixed on the rooftop.

Liu Xiao stood in front of the broken window, the cigarette in his hand long since extinguished, unaware that the ash had fallen onto his military uniform.

Eighty-seven people, eighty-seven pairs of eyes.

And Yao Qingying, who was rushing from the front lines to join the bank building—all six hundred-plus people suddenly raised their heads.

They had seen many flags.

But what lies before me...

"This is..." Yao Qing murmured.

"The national flag of the People's Republic of China." Lu Bei stood beside him, his voice soft, "The five-star red flag."

The wind picked up.

The flag was fully unfurled in the twilight; red like blood, but more fiery; gold like light, more dazzling than the setting sun.

A young soldier suddenly burst into tears.

He didn't make a sound, but tears streamed down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth; they tasted salty.

He remembered the old locust tree at the entrance of his hometown village, his mother waiting for him under the tree, and his mother saying to him when he left home, "Child, come back soon."

Now he knows—

This country will have a new flag.

And under this banner, countless mothers will wait for their sons to come home.

Under the flag, Liu Xiao looked at the flag.

I watched it for a very long time.

Then he reached out, his fingertips trembling, and gently touched the edge of the flag.

A tear rolled down his cheek without warning.

He turned abruptly and, facing all the brothers in the fortifications who could still stand, roared with all his might:

"Brothers! Look carefully!"

"This is—"

He pointed to the red flag, his voice choked with emotion, but every word struck the ground:

"This is what we risked our lives for—"

"The New China!"

Inside the fortifications, including those who had just arrived to join Yao Qingying.

More than 700 soldiers, covered in wounds and emaciated, stood up in unison.

They were looking at the red flag.

Look at those five stars.

Some people started to cry.

Some people started laughing.

Some people were both crying and laughing.

The sixteen-year-old soldier—the one in Chen Shitou's unit—suddenly raised his old rifle and shouted with all his might:

"Long live the new China!"

More than seven hundred voices, hoarse, strained, and choked with sobs, joined in the roar:

"Long live the new China!!!"

The communication terminal at Bian Yun's waist suddenly lit up with a green light.

After a crackling sound of electricity, a suppressed excitement and a noticeably trembling voice rang out:

"This is 2025...This is 2025..."

"Comrade Bian Yun, Comrade Lu Bei...we have received your message..."

"I saw it all..."

The sound stopped, as if someone had taken a deep breath:

"Long live the new China!"

2025, an underground command center.

On the huge screen, two images were displayed.

On the left is a high-resolution satellite map showing the real-time topography of the Baoshan area in 1937.

On the right is the first-person perspective transmitted by the camera on Bian Yun's chest.

The image was somewhat shaky, but eerily clear: sunset, ruins, fluttering red flags, and young faces looking up from below.

General Wang Kangmei stood in front of the screen.

He had been standing there for half an hour.

The old man's hand trembled slightly the moment the red flag was unfurled.

The moment the communication was established and Academician Yuan An's voice came through the speaker, everyone in the command center—staff members, technicians, and combat personnel—stopped what they were doing.

They were looking at the screen.

Looking at that national flag from 2025, fluttering on the rooftop from 1937.

Looking at those soldiers in tattered uniforms, their faces stained with blood, yet gazing up at the flag.

A young female technician suddenly covered her mouth, turned around, and rushed out of the command center. A suppressed, heart-wrenching cry came from outside the door.

No one blames her.

Because everyone's eyes were red.

Everyone is saying: Long live the new China!

General Wang Kangmei sat in front of the communications station.

At that moment, he looked at the red flag on the screen and at the soldiers.

"Comrade Bian Yun..." he spoke again, his voice more steady, "I am Wang Kangmei. Your current positions are synchronized."

"Yao Qingying and Liu Xiaolian, a total of about seven hundred people, right?"

On the rooftop, Bian Yun pressed the call button: "Yes. There are thirty-seven wounded, three of whom are seriously injured. I will bring them back to the new China."

"Received." Wang Kangmei's voice choked with emotion.

"Tell them...tell every brother..."

"Later generations...have never forgotten."

Bian Yun turned on the speakerphone after saying this.

So that sentence, amplified through the terminal, resounded throughout the area surrounding the bank building, reaching the ears of more than seven hundred people:

"Tell every brother—that the world will never forget."

silence.

Then there's Zhao Dashan.

This 42-year-old veteran suddenly opened his throat and shouted with all his might:

"Did you hear that?! The future generations haven't forgotten! They haven't forgotten—!!"

"I haven't forgotten—!!" Wang Tiezhu roared back.

"I haven't forgotten—!!" Shuanzhu roared, tears streaming down his face.

"I haven't forgotten—!!!"

More than seven hundred voices burst forth from hoarse throats and wounded chests, colliding and creating a wave of sound.

The sound shattered the last few pieces of glass remaining on the roof.

The last wisp of smoke in the sky was dispersed...