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

On the battlefield, Masaki Yamada stood there, staring at the disabled tank. His legs trembled, his hands trembled, his whole body trembled.

"Major!" The staff officer's voice came from the side, trembling slightly, "The tank... can't move."

Yamada gritted his teeth, trying to banish those images from his mind. "Let the second and third vehicles move forward!"

"Hai!"

The second tank continued forward. Its tracks rolled over gravel and craters.

Gu Yunshan stared at the tank, at the approaching steel mass. The bayonet was still embedded in his left shoulder, blood was still seeping from the gunshot wound in his right shoulder, and the wound in his chest had gone numb; he could no longer feel the pain.

He looked down at his hands. They were still trembling. Not from fear, but from having slashed too many times, from having lost too much blood, from having not slept for three days and three nights.

He gripped the large knife tightly. The cloth strips on the hilt had long since come undone, revealing a slippery, blood-soaked wooden handle, but he held it firmly.

"Brothers," he began, his voice hoarse like sandpaper grinding iron, "the stone is gone."

Behind me, no one spoke. There was only heavy breathing, the sound of wind whistling through bullet holes, and the distant sound of tank tracks grinding against the ground.

"He single-handedly blew up a tank." He paused. "Was it worth it?"

Silence. For only one second.

"Worth it," a voice answered. It came from the left, hoarse but firm.

"Worth it!" came another voice from the right.

"Worth it—!!!" More voices came from every corner of the trenches. Some were hoarse, some were shrill, and some were choked with sobs. But together they formed a wall, a wall built of sound.

Gu Yunshan smiled. It was a terrible smile. His lips were chapped, his teeth were yellow, and his face was covered in scabs.

But there was something in that smile. Pride, a pride only those who have led troops understand. He raised his broadsword, its blade gleaming coldly in the smoke. "Then let's—blow up another one."

He turned around, ready to rush out of the trench.

But a hand grabbed him. It was his adjutant. The adjutant's surname was Shen, and his name was Shen Qinghe. He had followed him for five years, from the Great Wall to Shanghai. His eyes were red, and there were tears in his eyes, but they didn't fall. His hand was very steady, as steady as if it were nailed to Gu Yunshan's arm.

"Commander," the adjutant said, his voice calm, as calm as if he were commenting on the weather, "you cannot die. If you die, Liu Xing will truly be gone."

Gu Yunshan looked at him. He looked at that young face, at those bloodshot eyes, at this brother who had been with him for five years.

"I'll go." The deputy driver let go of his hand.

He grabbed a bundle of grenades from the trench—the last bundle Li Shitou hadn't had time to use. Five grenades, bound together with leg wrappings, the fuses twisted into one.

He held the bundle of grenades in his arms like he was holding a newborn baby. Then he turned around.

"Lieutenant!" Gu Yunshan shouted.

The adjutant stopped and turned around. That glance was brief, but Gu Yunshan remembered it for a lifetime.

"Commander," the adjutant said, "remember this for me, my name is Shen Qinghe." He smiled, "Don't end up without even leaving a name behind."

Then he rushed out of the trench.

When Shen Qinghe rushed out, he didn't think about anything. He only had one thing on his mind—to blow up that tank.

His mind was empty, as empty as a wasteland plowed by artillery fire. But his heart was full, so full it was about to overflow.

He recalled meeting the brigade commander for the first time five years ago at the Great Wall. Back then, he was just a recruit, barely able to hold a rifle steady.

The captain patted him on the shoulder and said, "Kid, don't be afraid. Stay with me, you won't die."

He believed it. He followed him for five years, from the Great Wall to Shanghai, from recruit to adjutant. The brigade commander hadn't lied to him; he really hadn't died. But today, he might die.

He wasn't afraid of death. He just had some regrets—he hadn't gotten married yet, hadn't taken care of his parents in their old age, and hadn't seen the Japanese invaders driven away.

But he didn't regret it. He thought of Li Shitou, and that Hebei boy who was afraid of pain. If he wasn't afraid, why should I be?

He ran even faster. Bullets whizzed past his ears, but he didn't dodge. Shrapnel grazed his face, but he didn't stop. Blood flowed from the wounds, into his mouth—salty and fishy.

He ran very fast, as fast as the wind, as fast as an arrow, as fast as a cannonball. Because he knew that if he was even a step too slow, it would be too late.

Ten meters. Eight meters. Five meters. The tank was getting closer and closer. He could see the mud on the tracks, the rivets on the armor, and the Japanese insignia on the turret.

Just then, he pulled the fuse.

White smoke billowed from the grenade bundle, hissing as it passed.

He used all his strength to throw the grenade at the tank.

Then his body could no longer support him and he collapsed.

When he fell to the ground,

He smiled. The smile was calm, as calm as a student who had finished their homework, as calm as a farmer who had finished their work, as calm as someone who could finally rest.

"boom--!!!"

The second tank also stopped. Its tracks were blown off, its road wheels flew off, and the vehicle jolted violently, tilting to one side. Thick smoke and flames billowed from the vehicle, like a blooming flower.

Masaki Yamada stood there, watching the second tank billow black smoke. His mouth was open, but he couldn't speak.

Two. Two Chinese soldiers, two bundles of grenades, two tanks. They risked their lives for two tanks.

His body started trembling again.

He recalled what he had just said—"Flesh and blood cannot stop the iron torrent of the Imperial Army."

Now, he dared not think that way anymore. Because those flesh and blood bodies were using their own lives to tell him—it was possible.

Flesh and blood can withstand a torrent of steel. With one's life, one can.

His mind was filled with the adjutant's smile. Not a ferocious smile, not a mad smile, but a calm smile, the kind that made death seem like a very ordinary thing.

That kind of laughter was more terrifying than Li Shitou's. Because Li Shitou's laughter contained hatred and anger. But that adjutant's laughter contained nothing. Only calm. Only one kind of calm—a calm that comes from seeing through life and death, a calm that cares about nothing.

Yamada's legs buckled, and he almost knelt down. He grabbed the tank next to him to steady himself.

On the position, Gu Yunshan stood there, watching the flames of the second tank burning.

His tears finally fell. Not from grief, but because—his soldiers, his soldiers, had not died in vain.

Shen Qinghe, his adjutant for five years. He remembered the first time Shen Qinghe called him "Commander," his voice tinged with timidity and admiration. He remembered the first time Shen Qinghe fired a gun, his eyes closed as he pulled the trigger, the bullet soaring into the sky. He remembered the first time Shen Qinghe was wounded, wincing in pain but still smiling and saying, "It's nothing."

He remembers it all. But now, that person is probably gone.

He turned to face those who were still alive.

Eight hundred and thirty-one people—how many are left? He didn't know. He only knew that there were still people, that some could still stand, that some could still fight.

"Brothers," he said, his voice hoarse, "Stone and his lieutenant blew up two tanks."

No one spoke. But everyone was watching him. Some eyes were red, some swollen, some squinted into slits. But all eyes shone brightly. Like fire, like lamps, like stars that would never go out.

"There's one more," he said, pointing to the last tank. "Who's coming?"

"I'll do it!"

A furious roar came from the rear of the position. The sound was like a thunderclap, a thunderclap, a heavy hammer blow, striking everyone's heart. Everyone turned to look in that direction.

A figure burst forth from the smoke of battle. Not from the trenches, but from behind the lines. Not dressed in a grey-blue uniform, but in a camouflage pattern no one had ever seen before.

He wasn't carrying a large sword; he was carrying something—something no one had ever seen before. It was long and thick, like an iron pipe.

The thing was carried on that man's shoulder, like a small cannon. It gleamed coldly in the sunlight, like a coiled snake.

Lei Gang.

He rushed out.

He carried the man-portable anti-tank rocket launcher and charged out from behind the position. His face was covered in sweat and ash, but his eyes shone like red-hot iron.

He ran very fast, as fast as the wind, as fast as lightning. As he ran, he shouted, "Make way—!!!"

Everyone made way. The soldiers in the trenches automatically parted to make way. They didn't know who this person was, what clothes he was wearing, or what weapon he was carrying.

But they stepped aside. Because they recognized those eyes. Eyes like Li Shitou's, eyes like Shen Qinghe's. Eyes that feared no death.

Lei Gang rushed to the front of the trench and knelt on one knee. He slung the rocket launcher over his shoulder, aimed through the scope, and saw the crosshairs pressed against the side of the tank. That was the tank's weakest point, its thinnest armor. He held his breath, his fingers resting on the fire button.

"You little devils—" he roared, his voice ripped apart, "Grandpa will send you to the Western Paradise—!!!"