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

Gu Yunshan raised his broadsword, its blade gleaming coldly in the smoke: "Today, we'll hold this place. We'll hold it until our last breath, until our last bullet is fired, until our last drop of blood is shed. But Liu Xing—" he said, enunciating each word clearly, "cannot be lost."

No one spoke. But everyone gripped their guns tightly.

Zhao Desheng was the first to raise his gun: "Second Battalion, prepare for battle!"

The battalion commander raised his rifle: "First Battalion, prepare for battle!"

The battalion commander raised his rifle—his left arm was severed and slinged in place, but he raised it with his right hand: "Third Battalion, prepare for battle!"

In the trenches, the young, weary, wounded bodies slowly rose. They leaned against the edge of the trenches, their guns pointed forward. That yellowish-brown sea was approaching.

At exactly six o'clock. The Japanese attack began.

This was not a probing attack, nor a small-scale harassment. It was a full-scale assault—two regiments, over six thousand men, pressing in from both flanks simultaneously. Infantry in front, tanks behind, and heavy machine guns providing flank suppression.

The earth trembled. The air burned. That yellowish-brown wave, like locusts, swept across Liuhang.

Hiroshi Oshima stood in the command post at the rear, binoculars in hand, watching the advancing tide. A smile played on his lips. Victory was assured.

"Colonel," the staff officer beside him said, "the 44th Regiment has broken through the outer perimeter of the Chinese army's left flank."

Hiroshi Oshima nodded: "Tell the 44th Regiment not to stop. Push straight in and cut off the Chinese army's retreat."

"Hai!"

Through Gu Yunshan's binoculars, the yellowish-brown waves drew ever closer. Three hundred meters. Two hundred meters. One hundred meters. He put down the binoculars and grabbed the light machine gun beside him.

"beat--!!!"

Gunfire erupted. Not sporadic, but all the guns—firing simultaneously.

Rifles, light machine guns, and the last remaining heavy machine gun—all the guns that could still fire spewed fire simultaneously. Bullets rained down on the yellowish-brown waves. The Japanese soldiers at the forefront fell in swathes like wheat cut down by a sickle.

But the Japanese soldiers behind them kept charging. They stepped over the bodies of their comrades and continued their charge, because they knew that the enemy's firepower wouldn't last long.

Gu Yunshan also knew.

After firing a magazine, he glanced at the ammunition box as he reloaded. It was almost empty. He gritted his teeth: "Grenade—!!!"

Dozens of grenades were thrown simultaneously, exploding amidst the Japanese charging formation. The mud and blood kicked up by the explosions mingled together, like a black rain.

But there were too many Japanese soldiers. One fell, two more came to its aid. Two fell, four more came to its aid.

Zhao Desheng lay prone at the edge of the trench, firing his last bullet. He looked down at the empty chamber. He lowered the rifle and drew his bayonet from his waist. He stood up, facing the surging, yellowish-brown tide. His legs were still bleeding, but he stood, ramrod straight.

"Brothers—!!!" he roared, "The time has come—!!!"

In the trenches, the soldiers who had run out of bullets stood up. Some gripped bayonets, some broadswords, some entrenching tools, and some held—a sharp piece of broken brick. They stood at the edge of the trenches, like a wall. A wall built of flesh and blood.

Gu Yunshan looked at them, at those young, wounded, but bright eyes. He smiled.

"Brothers," he said, "today, let us—"

He raised the large, blunted sword:

"kill--!!!"

They charged out. Not in defense, but in a counter-charge. Two thousand against six thousand. Bayonets against tanks. Flesh and blood against steel. But they charged. Leading the charge was Zhao Desheng, his leg bleeding, but he ran faster than anyone else. He plunged a knife into the chest of a Japanese soldier, pulled it out, and plunged it into another.

A Japanese officer charged at him, sword in hand. Zhao Desheng dodged to the side and slashed the officer's neck with his own sword. Blood splattered all over his face, but he didn't wipe it away and continued forward.

Ahead of him, an old soldier was shot in the shoulder, and his gun fell to the ground. He didn't pick it up; instead, he lunged forward, grabbed a Japanese soldier, and bit down on his throat. Blood gushed from his mouth, but he didn't let go. The Japanese soldier screamed and fell to the ground.

Through Hiroshi Oshima's binoculars, the Chinese soldiers were charging. Not retreating, not fleeing, but charging. Two thousand men, out of ammunition and supplies, were charging towards six thousand fully armed men. His hands began to tremble. Not from fear, but because—

He had seen many Chinese troops. In the Northeast, in North China, in North China. Those troops usually fired a few shots and ran away. But these men were different.

"Colonel!" A staff officer's voice came from the side, tinged with panic, "The 44th Regiment's left flank has been counterattacked, and their advance is stalled!"

Hiroshi Oshima gritted his teeth: "Tell the 44th Regiment not to stop! They only have two thousand men, and they've run out of ammunition! They won't last much longer!"

"Hai!"

Zhao Desheng cut down his fifth Japanese soldier. But his knife got stuck in the ribs of another Japanese soldier and he couldn't pull it out.

He loosened his grip, picked up a Type 38 rifle from the ground, and continued stabbing with the bayonet. The sixth head, the seventh head.

Gu Yunshan and Zhao Desheng stood together. They were positioned opposite each other.

Gu Yunshan raised his broadsword and continued forward. One strike, then another, and yet another. He didn't know how many heads he had chopped off; he only knew that the blade was becoming duller and duller, and his arm was growing heavier and heavier.

Then he heard shouts. Not commands in Japanese, but in Chinese.

"Travel seat——!!!"

He turned around. Behind him, the soldiers were still following him. One, two, ten, a hundred.

Some people were bleeding, some were falling down, but immediately someone helped the fallen people up.

They were all there, all following him.

"Travel seat——!!!"

"Travel seat——!!!"

"Travel seat——!!!"

Gu Yunshan smiled. He turned around to face the yellowish-brown ocean.

"Brothers—!!!" he roared, "Follow me—!!!"

"kill--!!!"

He rushed out. Behind him, everyone else followed. Two thousand men, out of ammunition and food. Two thousand men who knew they were doomed. Two thousand—

Those who are unwilling to withdraw...