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

Inside the two-story building made of bluestone, an angel stood before a makeshift operating table.

The operating table was actually just two square tables placed together, covered with several layers of fairly clean sheets.

On the other side, Xiao Hubei and Yao Lin lay on the makeshift bed next to each other, breathing steadily, their chests rising and falling slightly with the rhythm of the life support system.

Their wounds have been treated, and they have survived.

But there are many more people in front of the operating table.

From the positions on the north bank of Luodian, wounded soldiers were continuously brought in. Some were carried on stretchers, and some were carried by their comrades.

The angel's eyes were bloodshot, but her hands moved without the slightest hesitation. Cleaning, suturing, stopping the bleeding, immobilizing...

But there were too many people.

Moreover, some of the wounded soldiers simply did not want to live.

"Let me go... let me go..."

A soldier with shrapnel tearing through his abdomen struggles to get up from the operating table.

His intestines were exposed, wriggling outside the wound with each movement. With each movement, more blood gushed out.

"Comrade, don't move!" the angel pressed him down. "I'm treating your wounds!"

"Don't worry about me..." The soldier's eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, his voice weak but resolute, "I can't go on living... Let me go to the battlefield... and take another Japanese soldier... It would be worth dying for..."

"You will survive!" For the first time, the angel's voice wavered, not with anger, but with a kind of urgency. "Our brothers on the front lines will survive! We will all survive!"

She used force to press the soldier back onto the table, and with her other hand quickly injected a sedative:

"Now, please let me perform the surgery on you."

"Please let me...save you."

The needle pierced the vein, and the medication was injected. The soldier's struggles gradually ceased, and his eyes slowly closed. In his last moments before losing consciousness, he murmured:

"Mother...I'm sorry..."

The angel's hand paused for a moment.

Then, she took a deep breath, picked up the scalpel, and continued.

The entrance to the small building.

There is no door here—the original wooden door was blown away in the shelling, leaving only an empty door frame.

But right now, there are thirteen people standing here.

The 9th Platoon, 7th Company, 3rd Battalion, consisted of thirteen people.

But they can no longer be called a "class".

Because everyone has wounds.

Squad leader Li Dajiang had a bullet piercing his left arm, which he haphazardly wrapped with a torn piece of his uniform sleeve, the blood soaking through the cloth and turning it blackish-red.

He was carrying a tiger-head broadsword, not a standard weapon, but a family heirloom. The hilt was engraved with the character "王" (king), and the blade had several nicks and chips.

Beside him, the deputy squad leader of Class 9 had been hit in the right leg by shrapnel and was unable to walk, so he sat on the ground with his back against the door frame.

He was holding a Type 96 light machine gun in his arms—it was actually out of bullets, and the barrel was red-hot, but he just held it, as if it were his last resort.

The others were more seriously injured.

Some of the ribs were broken, and each breath felt like being cut by a knife.

Some people's eyes were almost blinded by the smoke and fire, and they could only vaguely see light and shadow.

Some had their hands burned, their skin charred black, and they couldn't even hold a gun.

But they all held "weapons" in their hands.

Is it a weapon?

A soldier was holding a rifle, but the barrel of the rifle was bent into an arc—probably from hitting something.

Another soldier was holding a bayonet, but the blade was broken in the middle, leaving only half of it.

There was another one, holding only a sharp brick in his hand—it was pried off the wall, its edges sharpened to be used as a dagger.

The youngest was huddled in the corner at Li Dajiang's feet.

His name is Shuanzhu, a soldier from Henan. He is seventeen years old by the traditional Chinese age reckoning, but he is probably only sixteen in reality.

His left shoulder was pierced through by a Japanese bayonet. The wound was simply stuffed with a rag, but blood kept seeping out, staining half of his body red.

"Class monitor..."

Shuanzhu suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a heavy Henan accent, and also a childlike, undisguised sob:

"Do you think... in my next life... I can still be my mother's child?"

He raised his head, tears mingling with the black ash and blood on his face, leaving two clear streaks as they streamed down.

"My life... is almost over... the only person I've ever wronged... is my mother..."

"When I left home... my mother chased after me to the village entrance... and gave me two boiled eggs... they were still hot..."

"I said... after we drive the Japanese devils away... I'll come back... and build her a big brick house... so she can eat white flour buns every day..."

"But now..." Shuanzhu's voice choked. He lowered his head, looking at his bleeding shoulder, at the wounded uncles and brothers around him, at the ruins outside the door soaked in blood and fire, and large tears fell to the ground.

"I can't go back..."

"I'm going to die here..."

Li Dajiang turned around.

This man in his thirties, who was usually so fierce that even the green recruits dared not look him in the eye, had unusually soft features on his face at this moment.

He squatted down, right in front of Shuanzhu.

Then, with his uninjured right hand, he reached around the back of Shuanzhu's neck and gently pulled the child into his arms.

"Silly child."

Li Dajiang's voice was gentler than Shuanzhu had ever heard before, even carrying a slightly hoarse warmth:

"You have a long life ahead of you."

"The war isn't over yet, how do you know you're going to die?"

He paused, tightened his grip, and spoke with a more steady voice, like a rock:

"As long as the squad leader is here, you won't die."

"I'm really going to die—"

Li Dajiang raised his head, his one eye sweeping over every wounded but determined brother inside and outside the door frame, and uttered each word with a sharp, resolute tone:

"He's also the class monitor, so he should die first."

"The squad leader is dead, the vice squad leader will take his place."

"If the deputy squad leader dies, the veteran will take his place."

"All the veterans are dead—"

He looked at Shuanzhu, at the youngest child, and a grim, yet unusually resolute, smile appeared on his lips:

"It's your turn now."

So, don't be afraid.

"If the sky falls, the tall ones will hold it up."

"Our Class 9 isn't completely wiped out yet."

Just then.

A soldier from Sichuan, named Zhao Chuan, had exceptionally sharp ears and was nicknamed "Hearers Who Can Hear the Wind."

He suddenly raised a finger and lowered his voice:

"Squad leader, there are suspicious footsteps outside."

"The Japanese devils are coming."

Li Dajiang immediately stood up and listened intently.

really.

From the direction of the street ruins came faint, deliberately light footsteps. Not one person, but a group. Mixed in with the sound of metal scraping.

It was probably the sound of a bayonet hitting bricks and stones.

"How many people?" Li Dajiang asked.

"At least twenty or thirty," Zhao Chuan judged. "Their footsteps are very light; they're trying to sneak up on us."

Li Dajiang nodded.

He looked down at the tiger-head broadsword in his hand.

The blade was bent, and the blade itself had several cracks—from when I was cutting the Japanese soldiers.

But this knife doesn't actually belong to him.

It belongs to his brother.

The character "王" (king) on ​​the hilt of the knife was soaked in blood and could no longer be seen.

Li Dajiang wiped the blade with his sleeve and suddenly laughed:

"The river."

He spoke to the knife as if it were a brother:

"This is your knife."

"Borrow my brother's money—"

"Kill a few more Japanese soldiers."

Outside the small building, thirty meters behind the ruins.

Koji Ishida crouched behind a half-collapsed brick wall, peering out at the small blue stone building.

"Nakamura," Ishida called to a private next to him in a low voice.

Private Nakamura, whose name was called, shuddered, almost crying out, but quickly covered his mouth, stammering, "Ha...hai!"

"Go ahead." Ishida pointed to the eerily quiet little building thirty meters away. "Go open the door and see what's going on inside."

Nakamura's face turned deathly pale in an instant, his lips trembling as he stammered, "Captain... Captain... I... I'm all alone?"

"Yes, you." Ishida's tone left no room for argument. "Go investigate. That's an order."

"But Captain... what if there are Chinese soldiers inside..." Nakamura's voice trembled uncontrollably... "I... I..."

"What are you afraid of?" Ishida said impatiently, but forcibly suppressed his anger. "We're right behind you, what are you afraid of? Thirty meters away, we can come to your aid at any time."

He paused, looking at Nakamura's terrified expression, then his eyes darted around, and he changed his tone—

This is the "art of managing subordinates" he learned from Brigade Commander Katayama Riichiro: carrots and sticks.

"Nakamura-kun," his voice softened, even carrying a hint of encouragement, "I know you're afraid. But this is your chance to make a name for yourself. Look how many men died in the charge just now? If you can find out the situation here, it will be a great achievement. After we take Shanghai, I will personally recommend you for a promotion, a rich reward, and to bring glory to your ancestors. It all happens today."

Nakamura's expression kept changing.

I was terrified, truly terrified. That small building was like the mouth of a giant beast, its interior a bottomless abyss of darkness, reeking of blood and death.

But... a promotion and wealth? Bringing glory to one's ancestors?

He thought of his dilapidated fishing village, his mother's hunched back, and the girl next door who broke off her engagement because he was poor...

Seeing his expression, Ishida knew the time was right, and added softly, his voice turning cold:

"Of course, you don't have to go."

"But to cower in the face of battle and disobey military orders... according to military law, is to be a deserter."

Ishida leaned close to Nakamura's ear, his voice like the flicking of a viper's tongue:

"You know what happens to deserters, right?"

"Military tribunal, trial, and then—"

He made a shooting gesture:

"Bang."

Nakamura's body stiffened abruptly.

Deserter? Executed?

He could almost see himself tied to a pillar, riddled with bullets.

No...don't...

"Ha...hai!" Nakamura managed to squeeze out two words, his voice hoarse, "I...I'll go!"

He seemed to have used all his strength to say this decision.

"Very good." Ishida patted him on the shoulder, a "gratified" smile on his face. "Go, Nakamura-kun. The Empire is proud of you."

Nakamura took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

He unslung the rifle from his back and checked it—there were still five bullets in the chamber. This reassured him somewhat.

Then, he bent down, like a startled mouse trying to sneak into the granary, and tiptoed toward the small blue stone building.

step.

Two steps.

Three steps...

Their footsteps were so light that they were almost inaudible.

But he could hear his own heartbeat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was like a drumbeat, so loud that he suspected his teammates 30 meters away could hear it.

We're getting closer and closer to the small building.

Twenty meters.

Fifteen meters.

ten meters...

He could see the building more clearly now. The bluestone exterior was riddled with bullet holes and charred burn marks. The windows on the second floor were gone, like empty eye sockets. On the first floor, there was only one door, pitch black, like a mouth waiting to devour him.

five meters.

Three meters...

Nakamura's palms were sweaty and slippery, making it almost impossible for him to hold the gun. His heart was pounding in his throat.

The smell of blood and a strange medicinal odor wafted from the doorway and entered his nose.

There are people inside.

There must be someone there.

And there's more than one.

He heard extremely faint, suppressed breathing. And... a faint sound of metal gently rubbing together?

Is it a gun? Or a knife?

Nakamura wants to turn back.

want to escape.

I don't care about military law or execution; I just want to get away from this hellhole, as far away as possible.

But Ishida's cold eyes seemed to be staring at him from behind.

Deserters...executed...

"Ha ha……"

Nakamura let out a series of incoherent gasps from his throat to bolster his courage.

He forced a smile—a stiff, more painful smile than a grimace. Even though he knew the person inside couldn't see, he smiled nonetheless, as if it could dispel some of their fear.

Finally, he reached the doorway.

My toes touched the stone steps of the threshold.

It's cold.

He stopped and listened intently.

The breathing sounds inside... seem clearer now?

Nakamura took a deep breath, inhaling only the stench of blood.

Then, he stretched out his right hand, which trembled like a leaf falling in the wind, and pushed it forward.

The door opened, and Nakamura's body began to involuntarily lean forward with the movement of his hands.

Neck stretched out, head craning forward, eyes wide open, trying to see the darkness inside the doorway—

In that very instant.

Something moved in the darkness.

It's not an illusion of light and shadow.

It's not the wind that's moving.

It was real, and it carried murderous intent—

The blade moves!

A tiger-headed broadsword suddenly slashed down from the shadows above the door frame!

From top to bottom, accompanied by the sound of the wind.

It's aimed at Nakamura's head!

A cold glint flashed in the dim light of the blade.

The curled notch on the blade, for a fleeting moment, resembled the fangs of a wild beast.

Nakamura's eyes widened suddenly!

He saw it!

I saw it clearly!

I saw that massive, death-inducing blade fall from above!

He saw the eyes behind the knife—like two pieces of red-hot, poisoned iron, burning with a hatred he couldn't understand, yet which made his soul tremble!

I saw my own face, distorted and grotesque from extreme fear, reflected in those eyes!

He wanted to shout.

I want to scream.

I want to hide.

I wanted to pull my head back in.

I want to lean my body back.

But it was all too late.

The tiger-headed broadsword has already fallen.

It carries the force of Mount Tai pressing down.

With a resolute determination to sever all ties.

「いいえ……(No……)」

Nakamura only had time to utter this one word.

Then--

puff!

The sound of the blade cleaving through the skull was dull and crisp.

Like splitting open a ripe watermelon.

The blade cleaved into Nakamura's head from the top and out from his chin, almost splitting him in two.

Blood gushed out like a fountain, splattering on the door frame, on the ground, and on Li Dajiang's face.

"Thump."

A heavy, muffled thud.

Private First Class Nakamura's body slammed against the threshold.

His head was split in two and tilted to either side.

Half inside, half outside.

Inside, the single eye on the severed head still stares.

He stared into the darkness inside the door.

He glared at the Chinese soldier who had sent him to hell with a single blow.

Li Dajiang!!!

(When writing the last three characters, Li Da Jiang!!!, the author couldn't help but dance and cheer...)