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

Lei Xiong pressed the launch button.

In that instant, the world changed. The rocket was launched from the launch tube. It wasn't the dull "boom" of an artillery shell, nor the sharp "bang" of a bullet; it was a tearing sound.

The sound of air being torn apart, the sound of flames being ejected, the sound of death being released. That sound was like cloth being ripped apart, like metal being broken, like the sky being cleaved open.

The rocket, trailing a long plume of flame, flew like a shooting star from the Chinese positions in 1937 towards the yellowish-brown waves.

Its speed was so fast that the eyes couldn't keep up, and the brain couldn't react. One hundred and fifty meters in less than half a second.

Less than half a second later, Masaki Yamada stood atop the tank turret, sword in hand, ready to give the order to charge.

His mouth was open, his knife was raised, and his eyes were fixed ahead. His military knife gleamed coldly in the sunlight, and the slight sneer from before still lingered on his face.

He wondered, now that the tanks had passed, how long could the remaining soldiers on the position hold out? One minute? Two minutes?

Then he saw the shooting star. It flew out from the Chinese lines, trailing fire, smoke, and a light he had never seen before.

It's not a cannonball; cannonballs aren't that straight. It's not a bullet; bullets aren't that big.

The object rapidly magnified in my field of vision, growing larger and brighter, like a falling sun.

His pupils contracted sharply. What was that?

The thought flashed through his mind, but before it could take shape, the thing arrived.

It was moving too fast, so fast that his fear didn't even have time to rise from his heart to his throat.

His mouth was still open. He wanted to shout, to hide, to jump off the tank. But his body wouldn't obey him. Because he knew it was too late.

The rocket hit its target.

Moreover, it hit the seam between the turret and the hull—the weakest point in the armor.

That spot is the tank's neck, the most fatal part of the entire vehicle.

The shaped charge's metal jet forms a thin stream with a temperature of thousands of degrees Celsius at the moment of explosion, like a red-hot knife cutting through a steel plate.

It didn't just explode; it penetrated. The armor that the Type 78 tank was so proud of was torn apart, melted, and pierced through like paper. The rocket had entered the tank's interior.

Then, an explosion.

It wasn't an ordinary explosion; it was a secondary detonation of ammunition inside a confined space. The shells inside the tank were detonated.

Thirty-seven millimeter shells and seven-point-seven millimeter machine gun shells all exploded simultaneously. The shells were neatly stacked on the ammunition rack, like rows of coffins.

Now, they exploded. Flames spewed from every crevice—from the turret's observation windows, from the armor seams of the hull, from the gaps in the hatches, from every exit that could be found.

The tank was like a tin can that had been stepped on by a giant; its turret was flung into the air, rolled twice in mid-air, and then crashed to the ground, creating a large crater.

The vehicle exploded in the middle, breaking into two pieces. Steel fragments, blood and flesh remains, and burning fuel mixed together, spraying into the sky and then falling back down.

Like a blooming, blood-red flower. The fragments fell to the ground, landing on the surrounding Japanese infantry; some screamed, some fell.

Masaki Yamada stood atop the turret. Before he could even jump, the shockwave ripped his body apart the instant the rocket struck.

He didn't just fall; he vanished. The rocket pierced the seam between the turret and the hull, and the explosion occurred right beneath his feet. The shockwave, rising from below like a giant hand, tore him apart.

His lower body remained inside the turret and was engulfed by flames.

His upper body flew into the sky, soaring more than ten meters high before landing.

The saber flew into the air, spinning and spinning like a bird with a broken wing, before falling and embedding itself in the soil.

His hand was still hanging from the hilt of the knife. That hand was still gripping the hilt tightly, his knuckles white.

His mouth was still open, retaining the expression of his last moments before death.

That expression held fear, bewilderment, and a kind of confusion—a bewilderment he never understood, even in his death.

He fought for twenty years, from Northeast China to North China, and from North China to Shanghai. But he had never seen such a weapon.

None of the Japanese soldiers inside the tank escaped; they all died inside.

The driver sat in the cockpit, at the very front of the tank. A jet of metal passed over his head, slicing him in two.

It wasn't from left to right, it was from top to bottom. His left side was still leaning against the seat, his right hand was still gripping the control lever, and his right foot was still on the accelerator.

His right side was gone. Vaporized. Instantly vaporized by that jet of metal at thousands of degrees. No blood, no flesh, only a charred black mass.

His left eye was still open, looking at the observation window in front of him, looking at the area outside the window—the position he thought was within easy reach.

His right eye was gone. His face was half human, half charred. His mouth was still open, as if he wanted to shout something, but he would never be able to.

The gunner was sitting on the left side of the turret. When the ammunition exploded, he was leaning over the sights, ready to fire.

His eyes were still glued to the scope, his finger still on the fire button. Then, the explosion came.

The 37mm shell exploded to his right. His body was engulfed in flames and burned to a crisp in an instant. Not slowly, but instantly.

His skin charred in a fraction of a second, his muscles turned to ash in the next, and his bones shattered in the second after that. His posture remained unchanged; he was still lying on the scope, still in the aiming position.

But that person was gone. Only a charred skeleton remained, lying on the scope.

The tank commander was sitting on the right side of the turret.

His position was closest to the explosion. The instant the ammunition detonated, the shockwave slammed him against the armor plating. The force was so great that his bones were shattered into dust.

It wasn't broken, it was shattered. The ribs were shattered into dozens of pieces, the spine into hundreds of segments, and the skull into more than a dozen pieces.

His body was like a bag of broken bones, covered by a layer of skin. His eyes were still open, the pupils reflecting the last thing he had seen—

That flame, that orange-red, hellish flame that spewed from the ammunition rack.

The loader was crouching beside the ammunition rack. At the moment of the explosion, his hand was still gripping the shell, about to push it into the breech.

His movements were very standard; they were movements he had practiced countless times.

His expression was very focused, just like when he was loading ammunition.

Then, the shell exploded. Right there in his hand.

This is really awkward...