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

"The second challenge: Climbing Sheshan Mountain—"

"Finish."

General Wang Kangmei's voice rang out through the loudspeaker.

At the mountaintop, silence fell instantly.

Everyone was listening to that number.

Number of people who reached the summit: 872.

Number of eliminated: 1,128.

No one cheered.

Nobody celebrated.

Those who were standing looked at those who were sitting on the ground.

Those sitting on the ground looked at those standing.

silence.

Eight hundred and seventy-two.

Of the more than two thousand people, eight hundred and seventy-two fought their way out.

We are one step closer to 1937.

Congratulations!

Wang Kangmei's voice continued.

"You gave your blood, your sweat, your lives—"

"In exchange, I qualified for the next level."

He paused.

"The third level—"

"Five kilometers of primary and secondary forest".

"It's not a park."

"It's a real wilderness."

"The vegetation density is extremely high, and the visibility is less than five meters."

"There are swamps, poisonous snakes, and wild boars in the forest."

"besides--"

He paused.

"The booby traps and mines laid by the enemy."

"Now, you have eight hours of rest time."

"Then, let's go!"

Eight hundred and seventy-two people stood there.

Standing in the moonlight.

Standing in the wind.

Standing in that place—a place where blood, sweat, and tears had just been shed.

Wang Kangmei's voice rang out again:

"And during this break—"

"You can see that too—"

He paused.

"What was happening in 1937."

Everyone stopped breathing.

1937 years.

What is happening now.

It's not text from a history book.

This is not footage from a documentary.

This is what is happening right now.

It is what is happening right now—in that time and space, where people are bleeding, dying, and risking their lives to protect.

Wang Kangmei's gaze fell on Bian Yun.

Bian Yun took a step forward.

The trans-temporal device in his hand emitted a ghostly blue light.

The light grew brighter and brighter.

Like a star that fell from the past to the present and is now heading towards the future.

Light spread across the night sky.

Like a giant screen.

Like a window leading to another world.

The image began to appear.

Shanghai, 1937.

It was still dark. The sound of cannons had been going on for three days and three nights without stopping.

Liuhang, a small town on the northern outskirts of Shanghai, is now the eastern gateway to the entire Songhu battlefield.

It guards the highway from Baoshan to downtown Shanghai, like a bolt between the Japanese 11th Division and Wusong.

With Liu Xing gone, Baoshan's flank was completely exposed.

If Baoshan is lost, Luodian cannot be defended.

If Luodian is lost, the entire eastern part of Shanghai will be like a flood breaking through a dam—flowing out in a torrent.

Therefore, this place must be defended. Defend it with your lives.

On the positions of the 021st Brigade of the 18th Army, the smoke of battle turned the sky grayish-yellow. The trenches had been bombed beyond recognition; some had collapsed, some had been filled in, and some were filled with corpses.

The brigade originally had 5,000 people, but now it has less than 2,000.

Brigade Commander Gu Yunshan crouched in the trench, his left arm in a sling, the bandage soaked with blood. His uniform was torn in several places, and his face was covered in soot, only his eyes remained bright. He clutched a pair of binoculars in his hand—one lens was broken, so he could only see with one eye.

"Commander, the Japanese are coming up again." The adjutant's voice came from the side, hoarse like a broken gong.

Gu Yunshan didn't answer. He raised his binoculars and looked ahead. On the field, plowed countless times by artillery fire, tanned figures were gathering. Not just a company, not just a battalion—but two regiments.

The Japanese 11th Division consisted of two regiments: the 43rd Infantry Regiment and the 44th Infantry Regiment, with a total strength of over 6,000 men, equipped with heavy artillery, tanks, and aircraft.

They landed at the mouth of the Yangtze River and advanced southward with a clear objective: to break through Liuhang, advance straight to Baoshan, and then take over the entire city of Shanghai.

The commander of the 43rd Regiment was Hiroshi Oshima, 45 years old, a veteran of the Russo-Japanese War who had spent three years in Northeast China. He stood behind a bombed-out civilian house, looking at the Chinese positions opposite him through binoculars. After watching for a while, he lowered the binoculars, a slight, contemptuous smile playing on his lips.

"The Chinese army's positions are completely destroyed." He turned to his staff officer and said, "After a day and a night of shelling, their trenches should have been leveled. One more charge and we can take them."

The staff officer nodded: "The colonel is right. Their forces are exhausted, and their morale has collapsed."

Hiroshi Oshima shook his head: "The Chinese army has never had any morale. They're just a bunch of farmers in uniform, armed with weapons twenty years behind ours. It's a miracle they can hold out for three days." He raised his wrist to check his watch. "Notify the 44th Regiment to launch a simultaneous attack at 6:00 PM. Two regiments, flanking from both sides, to annihilate them in one fell swoop."

"Hai!"

Through Gu Yunshan's binoculars, the ochre-colored figures grew denser and denser. He put down the binoculars and looked around.

In the trenches, his soldiers were watching him. Their young faces were obscured by the smoke of battle. Some had wounds, some had swollen eyes, and some had cracked, bleeding lips. But everyone was watching him.

"Brigadier." A voice came from the side. It was Zhao Desheng, the battalion commander of the Second Battalion, a man in his early thirties from Shandong, a burly fellow. His left leg was wounded by a bullet and wrapped with a strip of cloth; he stood beside Gu Yunshan, leaning on a cane. "The Japanese are charging again. Two regiments, at least six thousand men."

Gu Yunshan looked at him: "Are you scared?"

Zhao Desheng laughed. It was an ugly, but forced laugh: "I'm afraid. Afraid the Japanese won't come up."

Gu Yunshan smiled too. He stood up, dusted himself off, turned around, and faced the soldiers. His gaze swept over every face—over the young, tired, wounded, yet still bright eyes.

"Brothers," he began, his voice not loud, but clear to everyone in the silent trenches. "Our 021st Brigade has been holding this position for three days. Five thousand men, how many are left?" He paused, "Less than two thousand."

No one speaks.

"We're almost out of bullets. We've almost run out of grenades too. We only have one heavy machine gun left that can still fire. As for artillery—it's long gone." His voice was calm, as if he were talking about someone else's business.

"But the Japanese still have six thousand men. They have cannons, planes, and tanks." He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone. "So, tell me, how do we fight this battle?"

Silence. Then, Zhao Desheng spoke.

"Commander, this battle is easy." Everyone looked at him. He leaned on his cane, standing ramrod straight, with that unsightly smile on his face. "They have six thousand men, we have two thousand. On average, each of us can fight three. That's enough."

Gu Yunshan looked at him: "Had enough?"

Zhao Desheng nodded: "That's enough. Killing three is enough. Killing four is a bonus."

Gu Yunshan smiled. It was a bitter, yet radiant smile. He turned to face everyone: "Did you hear that? Battalion Commander Zhao said, killing three is enough. Killing four is a bonus."

He took a deep breath: "Then let's do something today—make a profit."

In the trenches, smiles began to appear on the young faces. Not happy smiles, but the kind of smiles that showed they knew they were going to die, but weren't afraid to die.

A young soldier stood up, drew his bayonet from his waist, and nocked it to the muzzle of his rifle. His face still held a youthful innocence; he looked no more than seventeen or eighteen. "Brigadier, I can't do math, but I know that killing one isn't a loss, killing two is a bonus."

Another veteran leaned against the trench, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and said slowly, "I've killed two already, that's enough. Killing one more today would be a bonus."

A soldier with shrapnel wounds to his face wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve and laughed: "Make one? I'll make three."

Gu Yunshan looked at them, at their laughter, at those fearless eyes. He took a deep breath and drew the large knife from his waist. The cloth strips on the hilt were soaked with blood, and the blade was chipped in several places, but he gripped it tightly.

"Brothers," he began, "today, we will not back down."

No one spoke. Everyone was watching him.

"If we retreat further, we'll reach Baoshan. If we retreat from Baoshan, we'll reach Shanghai. If we retreat from Shanghai—" He paused, "we'll reach Nanjing."

"We cannot let the Japanese devils set foot in Nanjing."