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

2025, Eastern Theater Command General Hospital, three underground special medical areas.

"Three injured, suffering penetrating abdominal wounds, open lung injuries, and severe injuries to both lower limbs!"

"Operating Room Number One, preparing!"

"Activate Units Two and Three!"

The stretcher was lifted smoothly and quickly transferred along a dedicated passage. Bian Yun tried to get up, but a warm and strong hand pressed down on her shoulder.

"Lie down," General Wang Kangmei's voice sounded above him. "You're tired."

Bian Yun then realized that the entire underground transfer area was packed with people.

Doctors and nurses in white coats, military officers of various ranks in military uniforms, and several academicians with gray hair.

Everyone was looking at him, their eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions: shock, awe, excitement, and a kind of... almost devout focus.

Wang Kangmei stood at the very front.

The old man was dressed in a crisp military uniform, his chest adorned with medals—medals that recorded every step of the country's transformation from poverty to strength.

He slowly raised his right hand.

brush--!

In the entire transfer area, nearly a hundred people raised their hands in unison.

salute.

Bian Yun stood up to return the greeting, her fingertips touching her eyebrows.

He knew that this gift was not for him.

It is for everyone under that red flag in 1937.

Bian Yun was taken to the observation room.

It's not a ward, it's an observation room—an entire wall is covered with screens displaying live feeds from three operating rooms.

Operating room number one, the man who was shot in the abdomen. Laparoscopic minimally invasive surgery in 2025 saved his life.

In 1937, such an injury meant certain death.

Operating room number two, a soldier with a punctured lung. Extracorporeal membrane oxygenation (ECMO) has temporarily replaced his lung function.

In operating room number three, the soldier with severe injuries to both lower limbs was only nineteen years old. In 1937, he would either bleed to death or have his limbs amputated.

But now, the severed blood vessels have been reconnected.

It can be saved.

The leg can be saved.

Wang Kangmei, Yuan An, and several other key personnel entered the observation room.

Bian Yun sat up and took the chest-mounted camera off his chest. It had recorded the entire battle at the bank building, the moment the red flag was raised, and the shouts of more than seven hundred people.

Academician Yuan An took the camera with both hands, his movements careful, as if he were holding a fragile piece of porcelain.

"The data here..." the old academician's voice trembled, "is real history. It's history from a first-person perspective."

He turned to leave, to analyze and study these images that spanned time and space.

"Old Yuan," Wang Kangmei called out to him.

The old man turned around.

Wang Kangmei looked at him, then at Bian Yun, and then her gaze swept over everyone in the observation room:

"The videos inside—" he said, word by word, "are not edited or processed in any way."

"Upload".

"Let 1.4 billion Chinese people see this."

A brief silence fell over the observation room.

A diplomat standing in the corner, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, hesitated before speaking:

"Sir, regarding the video from last time... Japan has lodged seven 'solemn protests.' The Ministry of Foreign Affairs summoned our ambassador for three consecutive days to protest against the 'distortion of history' and 'incitement of hatred.'"

He paused, his voice even lower:

"If this content... is uploaded, especially the part about the red flag... the other side might take a more aggressive reaction."

Wang Kangmei did not answer immediately.

He walked to the huge glass window of the observation room. Outside the window was the passageway of the underground base, where soldiers moved back and forth in orderly steps, their gazes resolute.

"Young Zhang," the old general spoke, his voice calm, "how many years have you been in the army?"

The diplomat stands at attention: "Twenty-one years, sir."

"Twenty-one years," Wang Kangmei repeated.

"Then you should remember—in 2012, at the height of the Diaoyu Islands dispute, Japanese right-wingers clamored to 'sink Chinese maritime surveillance ships.' What did we do?"

"We... have dispatched maritime surveillance vessels for routine patrols. We have also sent warships to conduct exercises in the nearby waters."

"In 2016, there was the South China Sea arbitration case. They said they wanted to 'enforce the arbitration ruling.' What did we do?"

"The three major fleets have assembled in the South China Sea for live-fire exercises."

Wang Kangmei turned around, looking at the diplomats and then at everyone in the room:

"Now, we have the J-20 stealth fighter, the Fujian electromagnetic catapult aircraft carrier, and the Dongfeng-41 missile that can strike any corner of the world."

"And some people—" he paused, a faint, cold smile appearing on his lips, "still want to use 1937 thinking to scare China in 2025."

The old general walked up to the diplomat and patted him on the shoulder:

"Videos need to be uploaded more than just."

"Comrade Bian Yun's third time travel—" He looked at Bian Yun, "is being broadcast live throughout."

"Live nationwide. Live globally."

"What if Japan doesn't agree..."

Wang Kangmei's voice suddenly turned cold, each word like steel hitting the ground:

"Then fight until they agree!"