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

On the Chinese position, everyone was stunned. The soldiers in their gray-blue uniforms stood in the trenches, mouths agape, eyes wide, staring at the still-burning wreckage of the tanks.

Zhao Desheng, dragging his broken leg, lay prone at the edge of the trench, watching the sea of ​​fire.

His mouth was open, as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't utter a word. He had fought for eight years, from the Great Wall to Shanghai, and had seen artillery shells, hand grenades, and explosive charges.

But he had never seen anything like it before. An iron pipe, a "meteor," a tank—and that was it.

In the blink of an eye, the tank that had been charging forward was reduced to two pieces of scrap metal. His mind went blank, as if he had been struck by a meteor.

A young soldier murmured, "What...what is that..." His voice was very soft, as if he was afraid of disturbing something.

His eyes were wide open, his lips were trembling, and his hands were shaking. No one could answer him.

Because no one had ever seen anything like it. They had seen Japanese tanks, those iron giants, things with steel plates so thick they couldn't be penetrated. But they had never seen anything that could split a tank in two with a single shot.

An old soldier leaned against the trench, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His hand trembled, and the cigarette fell to the ground, but he didn't pick it up. He just stared at the burning tank wreckage for a long time. The cigarette lay in the mud, stained with blood and ash, but he didn't even glance at it.

Then he laughed. It was an ugly laugh, his face full of wrinkles, a mixture of black ash and blood, but it was bright. Bright like the laugh he gave when he first joined the army and hit the bullseye for the first time.

"Good heavens..." he muttered, "One shot... just one shot..." He reached out to pick up the cigarette, but pulled his hand back halfway. He stared at Lei Gang, at the still-smoking pipe, for a long time.

"This thing... is more effective than the gun I've been firing for eight years."

Gu Yunshan stood there. He still held the large sword in his hand, blood still dripping from it, drop by drop, falling to the ground and seeping into the soil. But he forgot to swing the sword, forgot to charge, forgot that he was still standing on the battlefield.

He just stared at the flames, at the tank blown in two, at the man in strange clothes carrying an iron pipe. Smoke was still rising from the man's shoulder, the iron pipe was still hot, and the tank was still burning.

His mouth was open, as if he wanted to ask something, but he couldn't. Because what he was seeing was beyond anything he had experienced in his thirty-six years of life.

A shell, could blow a tank up like this? Just one shell? Just one shell? He had fought in three years of war, seen countless shells and explosions, but he had never seen anything like this.

That speed, that flash of light, that power to tear steel apart. Only one thought remained in his mind: What is this thing? Where did it come from? Who is this person?

Lei Gang stood up. The rocket launcher was still smoking, the blue smoke drifting out of the launch tube and slowly dissipating in the air.

He took a deep breath, turned around, and faced Gu Yunshan. Facing this brigade commander covered in blood, leaning against his broadsword, facing those eyes—eyes that had been stained by the flames of war for three years, yet still shone brightly.

"Brigade Commander Gu!" His voice was loud enough to be heard throughout the entire position, even by the Japanese soldiers who were still in a daze. "Descendants of the past, report for duty!"

Gu Yunshan looked at him. He looked at the unfamiliar clothes, grayish-green with strange patterns. He looked at the unfamiliar iron pipe, still smoking and emitting heat.

Looking at this person who rushed out of the smoke of battle, young and unfamiliar, with eyes as bright as red-hot iron, his lips trembled, his chin trembled, his whole body trembled.

It wasn't because of the cold, but because—he understood. The words "future generations" were like a bullet, piercing his chest. Not into his flesh, but into his bones, into all his perseverance over the past three years, into all his unspoken hopes.

"The future..." he murmured, "The future..."

Lei Gang nodded. His eyes were also red, but he didn't let the tears fall. "The future. 2026."

Gu Yunshan was stunned. He recalled what Zhao Desheng had just said—"You get out of here alive and see what happens to the future for us."

At that time, he thought that the future was something very, very far away. So far that it could not be seen, so far that it could not be touched, so far that it could only be imagined.

But now, the future has arrived. Not to watch, but to fight. One shot blew up a tank. He stood there, tears streaming down his face. They mingled with the blood on his cheeks, flowing into the corners of his mouth—salty, astringent, and hot.

He has shed tears many times in his life: before joining the army when he missed home, after joining the army when he saw his brothers fall, when he lost a battle, and when he won a battle.

But this time, it's different. This time, it's joy.

"Future generations..." he murmured, his voice hoarse like sandpaper grinding iron, "Good...so good..."

He gripped his broadsword tightly and stood up straight. Blood was still seeping from his chest, the bayonet was still stuck in his left shoulder, and the gunshot wound in his right shoulder still ached.

But he stood there, on this land that had been won with lives, among those who had guarded it with their blood.

"Brothers," he began, his voice hoarse but every word clear, "do you see? The coming of the afterlife has arrived."

He pointed to the burning tank, the still-rising flames, and the scattered pieces of steel. "One shot, one tank destroyed."

In the trenches, smiles began to appear on the young faces. Not bitter smiles, not forced smiles, but genuine smiles that welled up from the bottom of their hearts. That kind of smile was like the winter sun, like rain in parched land, like—the smile of finally seeing hope after three years of fighting.

Zhao Desheng shouted at the still-burning tanks, shouting to his brothers whom he would never see again:

"Did you see that?!"

"You can close your eyes now—!!!"

Laughter, shouts, and cries mingled together on the battlefield. Those in gray-blue uniforms laughed, shouted, hugged, and wept.

Some people threw their hats into the air, while others hugged each other, laughing and crying at the same time.

Three years have passed. Three years. From the Great Wall to Shanghai, from a full-strength army to a depleted force, from believing in victory to—not knowing if I'll even live to see tomorrow.

Now they saw it. They saw the tank blown in two.

Upon seeing the Japanese troops with combined arms infantry and tanks, they fled like stray dogs.

Gu Yunshan stood there, watching those who laughed, those who cried, those who shouted. His soldiers, his brothers, his men—those who risked their lives to guard this place.

He looked down at the large, blunted sword in his hand. The blade was covered in blood—his own, the enemy's—it was indistinguishable.

He stuck the knife into the soil and leaned it against it:

"Brother from the future," he said softly, as if afraid of disturbing something, "Thank you."

Lei Gang shook his head. He stood there, looking at the brigade commander covered in blood, at these people in gray-blue uniforms, and at this land that had been ravaged by artillery fire for three years.

His eyes turned red, as red as burning iron.

"We are the ones who should say thank you." He pointed to the burning tank, the still-rising flames, and the scattered pieces of steel.

"Without you guarding this place, there would be no posterity." He paused, then said, word by word, "Without posterity—there would be no such cannon shot."

Gu Yunshan stared at him for a long time. Then, he smiled. It was a terrible smile, his face covered in scabs, his lips cracked, his eyes swollen, but there was a sense of relief in them.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

"Brothers from future generations," Gu Yunshan said, "tell me, about future generations—please?"

Lei Gang nodded, nodding vigorously. "Good. Very good. No Japanese devils, no war. The people can eat their fill, the children can go to school, and the young people can freely fall in love. We have aircraft carriers, airplanes, and cannons. No one will dare to bully us anymore."

As Gu Yunshan listened, tears streamed down his face again. But he didn't wipe them away; he let them flow. "Good..." he murmured, "So good..."

He turned his head and looked at the soldiers who were still laughing, at the soldiers who were still crying, and at the soldiers who had closed their eyes and could no longer see any of this.

"Do you hear me?" he shouted to the sky, to those who cannot see him, "The afterlife—is doing well!"

The wind blew from the east, across this scorched earth, over the still-burning wreckage of tanks, and over the people laughing, crying, and shouting. That wind was warm. Like an answer, like an embrace.

Like—a hand reaching out from eighty-nine years later…