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

Standing on the tank, Masaki Yamada saw the man who had rushed out.

A young, thin Chinese soldier, his left arm still in a sling, was charging towards the tank, clutching a bundle of grenades.

That figure, amidst the smoke and fire, resembled a reed swaying in the wind, poised to break at any moment.

But he ran very fast, so fast that Yamada was reminded of the Chinese officer from earlier—equally thin, equally reckless, and equally unsettling.

A cold smile curled at the corner of Yamada's lips. "Overestimating yourself." He raised his pistol and aimed at the man. The muzzle moved slightly with the running figure, his finger on the trigger, feeling the cold metal.

"Bang--!!!"

Gunshots rang out atop the tank. Li Shitou was hit in the left leg; a spray of blood erupted from his calf, and his body lurched to the left, staggering and nearly falling.

But he didn't stop. He gritted his teeth, dragged his wounded leg on the ground, and kept charging forward. He limped like a rabbit with a broken leg, but his eyes were still fixed on the tank, on the man in officer's uniform on the turret.

Yamada frowned. Why wasn't this person down yet? He fired another shot.

"Bang--!!!"

Li Shitou was shot in the right shoulder. Blood gushed from his shoulder, flowing down his arm and staining his entire sleeve red. The bundle of grenades wobbled in his arms, almost falling off.

He abruptly lowered his head, clamped the fuse between his chin and pressed the bundle of grenades tightly against his chest. His chin trembled, his lips trembled, his whole body trembled, but he didn't stop.

Blood gushed from his shoulder, trickling down his arm and dripping onto every inch of ground he ran across. A trail of bloody footprints followed in his wake.

Ten meters. Eight meters. Five meters—

Masaki Yamada's finger was on the trigger, but he didn't fire. He watched the man approaching, the blood-stained face, the eyes. Those eyes reminded him of the Chinese officer from before. The same eyes—fearless, ready to die with you.

His finger froze on the trigger, and his breath caught in his throat for a moment. He suddenly felt a fear he had never felt before—not fear of death, but fear of someone who was not afraid of death.

"Fire—!!!" he roared, his voice cracking, "Fire—!!!"

The Japanese infantrymen beside the tank simultaneously raised their rifles. A dozen or so Type 38 rifles, their muzzles aimed at the approaching figure. They pulled the triggers.

But it was too late. Li Shitou had already rushed to the tank. With his last bit of strength, he pulled hard the fuse of the grenade.

White smoke billowed from the grenade bundle, hissing like the breath of death. He threw the grenade at the tank's tracks. That spot was the tank's most vulnerable point.

The moment he threw the grenade, Li Shitou looked up and saw Yamada Masaki on the tank.

Laughed.

That smile was hideous. His face was covered in blood, his lips were cracked, and his teeth were stained red with blood. But there was something in that smile. There was hatred, there was pride, and something—something that Yamada would never forget for the rest of his life.

"You little devils—" he roared, his voice ripped apart, as if he had used up all the strength in his life, "Fuck you—!!!"

"boom--!!!"

The explosion engulfed everything. The left track of the Type 89 tank was blown off, the road wheel flew off, slammed to the ground, bounced up, and fell again. The vehicle jolted violently, tilting to one side like a giant beast with a broken leg. Thick smoke and flames billowed from the vehicle, choking anyone who saw them.

Masaki Yamada was thrown off the tank by the shockwave and crashed heavily to the ground. His back hit the ground, and it felt as if his internal organs had been displaced.

His ears were ringing, his vision was blurry, and his mouth tasted of blood. He struggled to his feet, knelt on the ground, and looked at the tank.

The track broke, and it can't move.

The Chinese soldier had also fallen to the ground, his fate unknown.

Beside the wrecked tank, Yamada knelt, trembling all over. Not because of the pain, but because he had seen it.

He saw the man's eyes—even at the very last moment before the grenade was pulled, those eyes were still smiling. A fearless smile. That smile was etched into his mind like a nail, impossible to remove.

On the front lines.

Gu Yunshan saw it.

I saw Li Shitou rush out, I saw him get shot, I saw him clamp the fuse with his chin, I saw him pull the fuse, I saw him blow up the tank.

I saw him—fall down.

His eyes reddened. Red like glowing iron. But he didn't shed a tear. He stood there, looking at the disabled tank, at the stunned Japanese soldiers, at the peace that a nineteen-year-old boy had bought with his life.

The wind blew from the east, lifting the hem of his clothes, the dried scabs on his face, and the tears that hadn't yet fallen.

"Stone," he said softly, his voice hoarse like sandpaper grinding iron, "I'll talk to your mother for you."

Behind them, the surviving soldiers stood in the trenches, staring at the destroyed tank and the still-burning flames. No one spoke.

But some gripped their guns tightly. Some gripped their bayonets tightly. Some chambered the last bullet.

An old soldier said softly, "That kid Shi Tou... is usually most afraid of pain. He even grimaces when he gets a shot."

Another veteran nodded: "Yeah, I'm afraid of pain. Last time I got a small scrape, I cried for ages."

The old soldier smiled, and as he smiled, tears streamed down his face. "But he wasn't afraid to die."

He raised his gun and aimed it at the stunned Japanese soldiers in front of him. "Hmm, they're not afraid to die."