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

Masaki Yamada put down his sniper rifle.

He stood behind the bombed-out house, looking through the binoculars at the person still standing there.

The Chinese officer was still bleeding from his chest, dark red liquid still seeping from the gunshot wound in his right shoulder, and the bayonet still lodged in his left shoulder. Yet he stood there, leaning against a blunted broadsword, on this land already soaked in blood.

Yamada's lips twitched. He hated this kind of person. He hated people who were invincible, people who died standing up, people who made you feel like you hadn't won even when you had already lost.

He had seen many Chinese soldiers like this, in Northeast China, in North China, in Shanghai. They wore tattered uniforms, carried outdated weapons, and ate moldy rations. But they were not afraid to die. They charged forward, fell down, charged forward again, and fell down again. Like a tide, like wild grass, like a nightmare that could never be eradicated.

"I will personally cut off his head."

He turned and looked at the dozen or so Japanese soldiers beside him. Some of the soldiers looked at him with excitement, some with nervousness, and some were still trembling—the counterattack just now had terrified many of them.

The Chinese officer, leading several hundred wounded soldiers, repelled their attack three times. Three times. Fear still lingered in the soldiers' eyes. Yamada's gaze swept over them, and he said coldly, "Gentlemen, get the tanks."

He pointed to the three Type 89 medium tanks behind him. These steel behemoths stood there silently, their gun barrels still smoking, their tracks stained with mud and blood. They were the pride of Imperial industry, their most reliable partners on the battlefield.

"We must make the Chinese understand—" he said, word by word, "that flesh and blood cannot stop the iron torrent of the Imperial Army."

Three tanks started up simultaneously. The roar of the diesel engines shook the ground, causing rubble to fall from the ruins.

Masaki Yamada climbed onto the turret of the middle tank, stood behind the observation window, and rested his hand on the machine gun. His military sword hung at his waist, gleaming coldly in the sunlight. The wind blew from the east, lifting the hem of his uniform and revealing the scar on his face.

Beside him, a young officer whispered, "Major, they only have a few hundred men, and they're almost out of ammunition. We could just charge straight in, why bother..."

Yamada didn't look at him, his eyes fixed on the position ahead. The position he had bombarded for three days and three nights, the position soaked in blood, the position that still hadn't been captured. "I want them to see with their own eyes," his voice was cold, "how their commander died."

The tank began to advance. Its tracks rolled over gravel, over craters, over the corpses that had not yet been collected, slowly pressing towards Liu Xing.

Liu Xing's position.

Gu Yunshan stood there, watching the approaching steel mass. Three tanks, followed by infantry. A dark, menacing swarm, like a pack of wolves drawn by the scent of blood.

The tank's cannon slowly rotated, its dark muzzle aimed at the position. The infantrymen's bayonets gleamed coldly in the sunlight, densely packed like a moving forest of knives.

He looked down at his hands. They were still trembling. Not from fear, but from having slashed so many times that his muscles had lost their grip. He wiped his hands on his clothes, turned, and walked deeper into the trench.

There, lying there, are people who will never be able to stand up again.

The seriously wounded were huddled together. Some had broken legs, some had lost arms, and some had their abdomens ripped open by shrapnel, their intestines spilling out. They lay on the ground, in pools of blood, in the air they breathed with their last remaining strength.

No one cried out in pain, no one made a sound, only heavy breathing and the occasional suppressed groan.

Gu Yunshan crouched down and took the last few grenades from his waist. Seventeen grenades—he counted them one by one and placed them next to the seriously wounded. The wooden handles of the grenades were soaked with sweat and blood, making them slippery, but he placed them steadily.

"Commander..." A wounded soldier with both legs broken looked up, his voice barely audible, as if squeezed from his throat, "What... can we still do?"

Gu Yunshan stared at him for a long time. The face was young, with prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and chapped lips.

But his eyes were still bright. Gu Yunshan shoved a grenade into his hand. "When the Japanese tanks come up," he said softly, as if afraid of disturbing something, "pull."

The wounded soldier looked down at the grenade in his hand. It was heavy and cold. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles turning white. Then he smiled. "Good," he said. Just one word.

Zhao Desheng lay beside a pile of rubble. His left leg was gone, empty below the knee. Strips of cloth were tied haphazardly, still seeping blood that had soaked through them, turning them a dark red. But his eyes were still bright.

Gu Yunshan crouched down and placed two hand grenades beside him. Zhao Desheng looked down at them and chuckled. The smile was unsightly; his lips were chapped and his teeth were yellow, but it was genuine. "Seven," he murmured, "Four made. Enough."

He paused, clutching the two grenades to his chest as if they were precious treasures. "Two more, and I'll make six." His eyes lit up. "Sir, do you think I can make six?"

Gu Yunshan looked at him, at this veteran who had followed him for eight years. From the Great Wall to Shanghai, from platoon leader to company commander, from two legs to one. He patted Zhao Desheng on the shoulder. "Yes," he said.

Zhao Desheng laughed, a laugh like a child. "Then I'll wait."

A young soldier lay in the corner. His name was Jin Qingyun, from the Third Company, and he was only nineteen years old. His right arm had been severed by shrapnel and was bound with strips of cloth; blood was still seeping out. His face was covered in blood, indistinguishable from his own. But his eyes were still shining.

Gu Yunshan placed a hand grenade beside him. Jin Qingyun didn't take it. He looked at Gu Yunshan, his lips trembling, his chin trembling, his whole body trembling.

"Traveler..." His voice was very soft, as if he was afraid of being overheard, "I don't want to die."

Gu Yunshan looked at him, at this nineteen-year-old boy. His face still had downy hair, his eyes still held fear, and his voice still trembled with sobs.

He wanted to say, "You won't die," he wanted to say, "You'll come back alive," he wanted to say, "After the war, I'll send you home." But he couldn't say it. Because Jin Qingyun's wounds were too severe. He had seen that wound too many times. With wounds like that, one couldn't survive.

Jin Qingyun suddenly laughed. It was an ugly laugh, tears still on his face and snot running down his nose, but his laugh was bright. "Commander, I was just kidding." He picked up the grenade with his left hand, the movement was slow, his fingers were still trembling, but he gripped it tightly.

"I'm not afraid to die." He clutched the grenade to his chest, like he was holding a hot bun. "I just...miss my mother a little."

Gu Yunshan stood up. He looked at the seriously wounded soldiers—some clutching grenades, some gripping bayonets, some holding broken bricks. They lay there, in pools of blood, amidst the smoke of battle. But their eyes shone brightly.

He took a deep breath, turned around, and walked back to the front line of the position.

The Japanese tanks are getting closer and closer.

The sound of the tracks rolling over the ground was like muffled thunder, like drumbeats, like the footsteps of death.

"Traveler!" a voice came from the side.

Gu Yunshan turned his head. It was a young soldier, seventeen or eighteen years old, with a youthful face. His left arm was in a sling, and he clutched five hand grenades in his right hand—they had been taken from a seriously wounded soldier. His hand was trembling, but his eyes were bright.

"Traveler, I'm going to blow it up." His voice was calm, as calm as if he were saying, "I'm going to get some water."

Gu Yunshan looked at him: "What's your name?"

"Li Shitou." The young soldier smiled. "From the Third Company, from Hebei."

"Stone..." Gu Yunshan murmured. He thought of Jin Qingyun, who had said "I miss my mother a little," and Zhao Desheng, who had said "I made four out of seven."

"Stone, are you afraid?" he asked.

Li Shitou shook his head, then nodded. He looked down at the grenades in his hand—five of them, tied together with leg wrappings, the fuses twisted into one strand. "I'm afraid," he said, "but I'm even more afraid of the Japanese invading."

He looked up at Gu Yunshan. "My mother said, a soldier can't be afraid to die." His voice trembled, but every word was clear. "Commander, I'm off."

Gu Yunshan looked at him, at this nineteen-year-old boy. He wanted to say "Don't go," he wanted to say "Wait a little longer," he wanted to say "Let me go." But he said nothing. Because he knew that someone had to go. Someone had to risk their life to stop those tanks. Someone had to use their flesh and blood to crash into that steel.

He reached out and patted Li Shitou on the shoulder. The hand was heavy, like a mountain pressing down on him. "Shitou," his voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grinding iron, "come back alive."

Li Shitou smiled. It was a bright smile. "Sir, if I don't come back, please tell my mother a message for me." He paused, then continued, "Just say—Shitou didn't let her down."

Then he turned around, grabbed the five grenades, and rushed out of the trench...