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

Inside the small building, Fu Hao stood at the door.

The exoskeleton armor she wore was no longer recognizable as its original color.

The black base paint was splattered with the blood of Japanese soldiers.

It was dark red and still dripping down.

From shoulder armor to breastplate, to arm guards, to leg armor—

Every inch of it is stained with the enemy's blood.

The pale blue light patterns on the armor surface flowed silently in the dim light.

Like breathing, like a heartbeat.

The Japanese troops who stormed the brick and stone building—

Twenty-two heads.

They're all dead.

Not one left.

Fu Hao stood there.

She lowered her head.

He glanced at Shuanzhu, who was lying on the ground, both crying and laughing.

That look—

It was as calm as a deep pool.

Bottomless.

But there was a fire at the bottom of the pool.

The firelight was not intense.

Not violent.

But it lasts a long time.

Like the indomitable spirit of the Chinese people, it is passed down from generation to generation and will never be extinguished.

Shuanzhu lay on the ground.

He looked up at her.

Looking at this person who fell from the sky.

Looking at this female soldier, covered in blood yet like a goddess,

His mouth was open, as if he wanted to say something.

But he couldn't utter a single word.

He just stared blankly.

Tears were still on her face.

Mixed with blood and ash, it streamed down his cheeks.

He choked up.

He wanted to say thank you.

I want to know who you are.

Do you mean to say you fell from the sky?

But my throat felt like it was blocked by something.

Not a single word could be squeezed out.

Fu Hao bent down.

Reach out.

That hand was covered in armor, with long, strong fingers.

The warmth of the twist that snapped the Japanese soldier's neck still lingered in my palm.

She grasped Shuanzhu's slender wrist.

Those wrists were as thin as hemp stalks.

skinny.

With one grip, you can feel the bone pressing against your hand.

She grasped it.

Just a gentle lift.

They pulled him up from beside the Japanese soldier's corpse.

It's as light as pulling a feather.

Shuanzhu staggered and steadied himself.

My legs are still shaking.

His body was still trembling.

But Fu Hao's hand was holding his wrist.

That hand was very steady.

As stable as a mountain.

Like the mountain at the entrance of his hometown village.

When he was a child, he often climbed to the top of the mountain to watch the sun set.

That mountain will never fall.

It will never collapse.

Now, this hand gives him that feeling.

"Can you still stand?" she asked.

Shuanzhu nodded blankly.

"Yes...yes..."

He can't even speak properly anymore.

Fu Hao released her grip.

She slowly turned around.

Looking at the people inside the small building.

He looked at Li Dajiang.

He looked at Old Gun.

Look at the stone pillar.

He looked at Old Zhao.

Look at everyone who is still alive.

Look at those people who are covered in blood but are still breathing.

Look at those who were just risking their lives to plug the gap.

She spoke:

"you--"

"We held on."

Li Dajiang leaned against a pillar, panting heavily:

"No……"

He spoke, his voice hoarse like sandpaper grinding iron.

He raised his hand and pointed shakily toward the operating table.

There, the cone-shaped beam of light from the shadowless lamp remained bright.

Like the only lighthouse in the darkness.

The angels are still there.

Still busy.

Her figure was somewhat blurry under the light.

But you can see that she is moving.

In wound cleaning.

Sewage is being stitched up.

They are rescuing people.

She saved people in her own way.

"She held on."

Li Dajiang said.

The sound wasn't loud.

But every word is very clear.

"We are just—"

He paused, catching his breath:

"I shielded her from it."

Fu Hao looked in the direction he was pointing.

Looking at the operating table.

Look at the angel.

Looking at the wounded who had been rescued but were still unconscious.

Then she turned back.

Looking at Li Dajiang.

Looking at the tiger-head broadsword in his hand, its blade dulled.

The blade was stained with blood.

Some of them were Japanese soldiers.

Some of them belong to him.

The blade had several nicks and chips.

There was even a thin crack on the blade.

But he still held on.

They held it very tightly.

It felt like holding the most precious thing in the world.

Fu Hao nodded.

"it is good."

she says.

There is only one word.

But that word carries immense weight.

That is an affirmation of "holding on".

That's the understanding of "protecting her".

That's right—

Respect for all of this.

Inside the small building, a long-lost feeling called warmth permeated the air.

It was a quiet after the battle, a quiet after surviving the catastrophe, a quiet tinged with the smell of blood.

Shuanzhu stood there.

My legs have stopped shaking.

My body stopped shaking.

My heart... seems to have stopped trembling.

He looked down at his hands.

Both hands were covered in blood.

Yes, he is.

There are Japanese soldiers.

Some of them belong to people whose identities are unknown.

He raised his head again and looked at Fu Hao standing there.

Looking at the armor she was wearing, which shimmered with a dark blue light pattern.

Looking at the dark red blood that was still flowing down.

From shoulder armor to breastplate, to arm guards, to leg armor—

Every inch of it is stained with the blood of the Japanese army.

She stood there.

Like a mountain.

Like a god.

Like something falling from the sky...

Shuanzhu opened his mouth.

In a very low voice, I asked:

"Are you... are you a deity?"

The sound was very soft.

He spoke with a Henan accent.

She has a childlike quality.

Fu Hao turned her head away.

Look at him.

The face covered by armor showed no expression.

Behind the goggles, those eyes remained calm.

But in that instant—

Something has been softened.

Like a small crack appearing on a frozen lake surface.

Light was shining through the cracks.

"no."

she says.

Then, she paused.

Added a sentence:

"Just like you."

"Chinese."

Shuanzhu stared blankly at her.

Looking at that face covered in armor.

Looking into those eyes peering out from behind the goggles.

Looking at the three words "Chinese".

Chinese.

Just like him.

Just like them.

Not a god.

It's not a monster.

He is Chinese.

Shuanzhu's lips slowly, slowly, parted into a smile.

He grinned, revealing a big, bright, childlike smile.

That smile pushed aside the tears that hadn't yet dried on her face.

That smile, like the spring sun, shone into this small building filled with the smell of blood.

"That……"

He scratched his head.

They move clumsily.

Silly and simple-minded.

It's like talking to the village elders while resting after finishing work in the fields back home.

"You're really amazing."

He said.

Fu Hao remained silent.

She simply raised her hand.

That hand just snapped the necks of several Japanese soldiers.

That hand just punched and shattered the face of a Japanese soldier.

That hand, covered in black armor, was stained with dark red blood.

But at the moment.

That hand, gently.

It landed on the post.

He gently rubbed his messy hair, which was covered in blood and dirt.

The movements were very gentle.

Very soft.

Shuanzhu was stunned.

He stood there, motionless.

He let that hand rub his hair.

The warmth of that hand penetrated his armor, his scalp, and reached his head.

hot.

warm.

Just like when he was little, his mother would rub his head.

Fu Hao rubbed it a few times.

Then, withdraw your hand.

He didn't say anything more.

She turned around.

I walked towards the door.

Walk towards the angel.

Shuanzhu stood there, watching her back.

He raised his hand and touched his head.

The warmth of that hand still lingers there.

He looked down at his hands.

Looking at all that blood.

Looking at those wounds.

Then he looked up again.

Looking at the gap where she disappeared.

He murmured very softly:

"Chinese……"

"That's amazing."