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

Gu Yunshan had no idea how many he had killed.

All he remembered was that the blade grew duller and duller. That broadsword had been with him for eight years, from the Great Wall to Shanghai, the blade dulled and sharpened again and again.

Now, it's really worn out. The blade is full of nicks and chips, like a saw. The blade is covered in blood, indistinguishable between the Japanese soldiers' and his own.

His arms grew heavier and heavier, as if filled with lead or bound with stones. Each swing of the knife required the utmost strength.

The bayonet was still stuck in his left shoulder. The Japanese soldier had stabbed it in, piercing through the gap between his shoulder blade and collarbone, and it was lodged in the bone. He hadn't had time to pull it out, and he didn't have the strength to.

With each swing of the knife, the bayonet ripped through his flesh, the pain making his vision blur. But he gritted his teeth and kept hacking. One slash, then another, and yet another.

Blood flowed from his forehead into his eyes, but he didn't wipe it away. He just squinted with his left eye, his right eye fixed on the yellowish-brown waves in front of him.

That wave, one after another, seemed endless, inexhaustible. One row fell, and two more surged up. Like locusts, like ants, like a nightmare that could never be eradicated.

Suddenly, a bullet struck his shoulder. Not his left, but his right. It went in through his left shoulder and came out through his back. He only heard the gunshot when blood spurted out.

The gunshot came from two hundred meters away, muffled and distant, like something coming through a thick quilt. But the bullet was real, and the pain was real.

Two hundred meters away, behind a bombed-out house.

Japanese Major Masaki Yamada lowered his gun, a slow smile curving his lips. He had been aiming for a long time.

He noticed this man the moment Gu Yunshan first stood up to counterattack. The Chinese officer had a bandage on his left arm and held a large, blunt-bladed sword in his hand.

He charged ahead, cutting down at least seven or eight Imperial Army soldiers. His movements were no longer standard, his steps were unsteady, but he kept charging, kept hacking, kept killing.

Yamada's scope had been following him the whole time. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time. He was waiting for the Chinese officer to make a mistake, waiting for him to stop and catch his breath, waiting for him to turn around—no, he wouldn't turn around. This man never turned around.

Yamada waited for twenty minutes, and finally, it happened. When the Chinese officer cut down the ninth soldier, his right shoulder was completely exposed. There was no cover, no shield, just one man, one knife, standing in that pile of corpses.

Yamada held his breath, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

"boom--"

Gunshots echoed through the ruins. Beside him, a young Japanese soldier whispered, "Major, did you hit him?"

Yamada didn't answer. He raised his binoculars again and looked at the Chinese officer. He waited to see the man fall—shot in the shoulder, crippled if not dead.

He aimed the bullet perfectly. He could even picture the Chinese officer falling to the ground.

He waited.

Gu Yunshan did not fall.

The moment the bullet struck him, his body jerked violently, as if he had been shoved hard. Blood spurted out, splattering on the broadsword, on his hands, and on his face.

His knees bent, and his body leaned forward, almost kneeling down.

But he did not kneel.

He braced himself with the knife. The large, blunted knife had its tip embedded in the dirt, and its hilt pressed against his chest.

He stood, leaning against the knife. Blood streamed down his chest from the hilt, seeping into the soil, into the blood-soaked earth. But he stood.

Through Yamada's binoculars, the person was still standing. He paused, thinking he was seeing things. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The person was still standing. Leaning against the knife, standing.

How is that possible? How could someone still be standing after being shot?

The young soldier beside him was also stunned: "Major...he...he didn't fall?"

Yamada didn't answer. He gritted his teeth and raised his gun again. He was going to fire another shot, aimed at his head, at his heart, at any reason he could still stand.

Through the scope, the crosshairs pressed against the Chinese officer's chest. His finger was on the trigger, ready to pull it—

But he didn't deduct it.

Because it was too late.

Too many Chinese soldiers were rushing toward their brigade commander, blocking his firing angle.

These soldiers came from trenches, from shell craters, from pools of blood. Some had lost arms, some were blind, some dragged broken legs, some were covered in wounds. But they charged forward.

"Travel seat——!!!"

The first one to rush over was a seventeen or eighteen-year-old boy soldier. His face was covered in blood, his eyes were swollen shut, and his left arm hung at his side, probably broken as well.

But he rushed to Gu Yunshan's side, using his thin body to shield him. His body was as thin as a stick, as if a gust of wind could topple him over. But he stood there, like a wall.

"Travel seat——!!!"

The second one to rush forward was a veteran, shot in the left leg, running with a limp, each step feeling like walking on a knife's edge. But he threw himself to Gu Yunshan's other side, using his body to shield him. His back was covered in shrapnel wounds, still bleeding, but he didn't care.

"Travel seat——!!!"

The third, the fourth, the fifth. One after another. Some had broken arms, so they used their bodies to shield others. Some were blind, so they spread their arms to shield others. Some could barely stand, so they threw themselves on the ground, using their backs to shield others. They formed a circle around Gu Yunshan. They used their own bodies to build a wall. A wall of flesh and blood.

Gu Yunshan leaned against his knife, looking at the people surrounding him. He looked at their young, wounded, but bright eyes. In those eyes were fear, exhaustion, and bloodshot eyes from not sleeping for three days and three nights. But more than anything, there was something he had seen countless times—a stubbornness that would not back down even in the face of death.

"You..." His voice was very soft, so soft it seemed to dissipate in the wind, "What are you doing..."

The child soldier cried, laughing through his tears. Tears streamed from his swollen eyes, mingling with the blood on his face, leaving streaks of white blood. "Commander, we can't let you die alone."

The old soldier smiled too, a forced but genuine smile. "Commander, you've led us through three days of fighting; it's our turn to protect you."

Gu Yunshan looked at them, at their laughter. He laughed too. As he laughed, blood welled in his mouth. The blood flowed down his chin, dripping onto the hilt of his knife. But he continued to laugh.

"Okay," he said softly, "then let's do it together."

He gripped the knife hilt tightly. His hand had little strength left; his fingers trembled, his wrist trembled, his entire arm trembled. But he held on. He straightened his body. Blood was still flowing from his chest, the bayonet was still embedded in his left shoulder, and blood was still seeping from the gunshot wound in his right shoulder.

But he stood. He stood in the middle of this human wall, on this land bought with blood, among those who risked their lives to protect him.

The wind blew from the east, across this scorched earth, across the corpses, across this wall of people. It whipped their tattered uniforms, the bloodstains on their faces, and the words yet to be spoken.

A young soldier suddenly spoke. His voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something. But his question silenced everyone.

"Leader, do you think... people in future generations will know about us?"

No one spoke. Only the sound of the wind. Only the distant bugle calls of the Japanese army. Only the heavy, weary, yet persistent breathing.

Gu Yunshan looked at him. He looked for a long time. He looked at that young face, at those eyes that hadn't yet been completely destroyed by the war. Then, he smiled. That smile was calm. Calm as if he were saying something that had already been destined.

"Yes, it will," he said. "It definitely will."