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

On the battlefield, the smoke of battle had not yet dissipated. Tanks blown in two were still burning, billowing black smoke and smelling of burning.

Shrapnel was scattered all over the ground, along with fragments of tracks, armor wreckage, and rifles and canteens abandoned by Japanese soldiers, all lying haphazardly on the scorched earth.

The Japanese soldiers who were charging just moments ago had already run far away, not daring to even look back.

Just then, a person emerged from the smoke and fire.

He was also in military uniform. Not the grey-blue of 1937, but the camouflage of 2026. The gray and green patches, illuminated by the flames, resembled a breathing jungle.

His face was covered in soot, streaks of white sweat, but his eyes shone like knives, like newly sharpened knives, like knives that could cleave through the darkness of the past three years.

He was holding a person in his arms. A young, thin person covered in blood.

Lu Bei. He emerged from the smoke of battle.

He walked steadily. Every step he took was firm, as if he were measuring this land, as if he were telling this land—the future has come, the people of the future have come with the power of the future.

His combat boots crunched on the gravel, the sound particularly clear on the silent battlefield, like drumbeats, like a heartbeat, like some kind of solemn ceremony.

The person in my arms had been shot in the left leg and the right shoulder, and was covered in blood. The gray-blue military uniform was soaked in blood, turning dark red, and the left leg of the trousers was torn open, revealing a wound that was still bleeding.

But his chest was still rising and falling. Very faint, but still rising and falling. Like a candle flame in the wind, like a withered leaf in the rain, but still there.

"He's still breathing." Lu Bei's voice was calm, but tinged with relief—a relief hidden beneath the calm, like an undercurrent beneath a layer of ice.

"The bullet didn't hit any vital organs." He looked down at the young face. The face was covered in blood, the eyebrows were smeared with blood, there was a cut on the bridge of the nose, and the lips were dry and cracked. But the contours of the face still had a childlike quality, with prominent cheekbones and a jawline that had not yet hardened.

"Li Shitou," he called his name.

Stone didn't answer. His eyes were closed, his face as white as paper, but a faint smile still lingered on his lips. He was smiling when he blew up the tanks. And now, he was still smiling. That smile, as if etched onto his face, seemed to be telling everyone—I have no regrets, I am not afraid to die.

Lu Bei carried him to the rear of the position. "Su Qing, prepare for first aid!"

Su Qing burst out of the smoke. Not walk, but rush. Her neat short hair swept across the smoke in an arc, like a swallow skimming the water.

She was wearing the same camouflage uniform as Lu Bei, but with an extra medical kit around her waist, bulging and filled with things that didn't exist in this era.

Her eyes were bright, as bright as stars, but not in a gentle way; they were sharp. It was the kind of brightness that comes from standing on the operating table for over ten hours and still being able to make precise incisions; it was the kind of brightness that comes from witnessing countless life-and-death situations and still remaining calm.

She rushed to Lu Bei's side, squatted down, and opened the medical kit. Hemostatic powder, antibiotics, plasma substitutes, portable life support system—she took them out one by one and laid them out on the ground, as neatly as if she were on a military parade.

The bottles and jars gleamed coldly in the smoke of battle, seemingly out of place in this war-torn world, yet they brought a strange sense of peace.

"Put it here." She pointed to a relatively flat patch of ground beside her, a patch free of gravel and bullet casings, which she had smoothed with her foot.

Lu Bei gently placed the stone down, as if setting down a fragile piece of porcelain. Su Qing's hand was already outstretched, pressed against the stone's neck, checking its pulse, pupils, and wounds. Her fingers were long and steady, and her posture on the stone's neck was as professional as if she were handling any other patient.

"A penetrating wound to the left leg, but no arteries were damaged. Soft tissue injury to the right shoulder, the bullet has exited." Her voice was fast, but every word was as clear as if carved by a knife, as if issuing instructions in an operating room. "Excessive blood loss, requires an immediate transfusion."

She pulled a bag of blood plasma substitutes from her medical kit; the pale yellow liquid sloshed around inside. The needle pierced the back of Shi Tou's hand; it was as thin as a hair, yet as hard as a steel needle.

Stone's skin was very thin, and his blood vessels were very fine, but Su Qing inserted the needle in one go. The pale yellow liquid began to drip, drop by drop, flowing into Stone's blood vessels through the transparent tube.

Her fingers were as steady as a machine and as fast as the wind. Bandaging, immobilization, injection, monitoring—every movement was precise to the millimeter, every step as smooth as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times.

The surrounding soldiers were all stunned. They had never seen such a way of saving a life. There was no disinfectant liquor, no red-hot iron to cauterize the wound, and no gauze stuffed into the wound to stop the bleeding.

There were only bags of clear liquid, tubes of white ointment, and a small box-like object stuck to the stone's chest with green numbers jumping on it. The numbers jumped like a heartbeat, like some kind of code they couldn't understand.

"What...what is that..." a veteran murmured, his voice so soft it was as if he were afraid of disturbing the green numbers.

No one answered him. Because no one knew. All they knew was that the two people who had just been on the verge of death had begun to look better, their breathing had become steady, and the bleeding had stopped.

Stone's fingers moved. His eyelids trembled, blood clots clinging to his eyelashes, fluttering like butterfly wings. Slowly, slowly, they opened. Light pierced his eyes; he squinted, then opened them again.

He saw it—smoke, flames, tank wreckage. And then, familiar faces. Some were crying, some were laughing, some were both crying and laughing. But they were all looking at him.

Gu Yunshan squatted beside him. The brigade commander. He was covered in blood, the bayonet still embedded in his left shoulder, the cloth strip on the hilt soaked through and turned a dark brown with blood. But his eyes shone, bright as a blade, a blade that had never been extinguished in the past three years.

"Brigadier..." Stone's voice was very soft, as soft as the wind, "You...are you all dead?"

Gu Yunshan was stunned. He looked at Shi Tou's pale face, at his unfocused eyes, and at the faint smile still lingering on his lips.

Then he laughed. As he laughed, tears streamed down his face. He reached out and gently patted the stone's head. Not hard, but loud. The "smack" was particularly crisp in the smoke, like a slap on a watermelon, like a pebble falling into water.

"What nonsense are you talking about!" His voice was hoarse, but full of energy. It was hoarse because he had been shouting for three days, and full of energy because he had won.

"We blew up the Japanese tanks!" He pointed to the still-burning wreckage of the tank, its turret tilted to one side, its hull split in two, flames still seeping out from the cracks. "See? Three tanks, all blown up. And those Japanese soldiers around the tanks, some are dead, some have escaped."

Stone's eyes widened suddenly. Just moments ago, those eyes seemed veiled in mist, but now the mist dissipated, revealing the light beneath.

He struggled to sit up, but Su Qing held him down. "Don't move." Her voice was soft, but firm, like she was speaking to a patient on an operating table.

Stone didn't listen. He tilted his head and looked at the tank wreckage. He saw it.

I saw the tank whose tracks he had blown off; the vehicle was leaning to one side, and the tracks lay sprawled on the ground like dead snakes.

I saw that the tank that the adjutant had blown up was still smoking, the smoke was black and thick like ink.

I saw the tank that had been blown in two by that person in strange clothes; the turret had flown more than ten meters away, and the hull had split in two.

Seeing the backs of those Japanese soldiers still running, getting farther and farther away, getting smaller and smaller, like a pack of wild dogs that had been spanked.

His mouth slowly parted. A smile. A hideous, bloodied smile, yet as radiant as the sun. That smile stretched open the scabs on his face, revealing the tender, pink skin beneath.

"Really, Brigade Commander..." His voice trembled, like a harp string in the wind, "This is truly..."

He couldn't go on. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the blood on his cheeks, and flowed into his ears.

He didn't wipe it away; he just laughed and cried, looking at the burning tanks, at the Japanese soldiers still running, and at the sky he thought he would never see again.

"Don't talk," Su Qing's voice came from beside her. "You need treatment." Her voice was calm. But her hands didn't stop; they were busy bandaging, injecting, and monitoring the fluctuating green numbers.

Stone turned his head and saw her. She had short, neat hair, wore a strange military uniform, and had something he had never seen before stuck to her chest. The thing was small and square, with a string attached to it, the other end of which was connected to a small box.

Her eyes were bright, as bright as stars. But not in a gentle way; they were sharp, like the tip of a scalpel, like the crosshairs in a scope.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Su Qing didn't answer. She just continued bandaging, continued administering injections, and continued trying to save his life.

Just then, more people emerged from the smoke and fire.

Dong Yi. He emerged from the firelight, walking even more steadily than Lu Bei.

His face was expressionless, like a sheathed knife, its sharpness not outwardly apparent, but you knew it was sharp.

He was also holding someone in his arms. Shen Qinghe. Gu Yunshan's adjutant. The one who volunteered to blow up the second tank, the one who rushed out of the trench, lunged at the tank, and was swallowed by the explosion.

He was still alive. He was covered in blood, and his left arm was too weak to lift, hanging limply at his side like a broken tree branch.

But he was still alive. His eyes were open, and a smile played on his lips. That smile, like that of a stone, was ugly, yet radiant.

Dong Yi carried him to Su Qing's side and gently put him down. The movement was as light as Lu Bei's, as if setting down a fragile piece of porcelain.

"There's another one here," Dong Yi shouted.

Gu Yunshan was stunned. He looked at Shen Qinghe, at this brother who had fought alongside him for three years. His adjutant, his messenger, his man who had followed him from the Great Wall to Shanghai.

"Qinghe...you..."

Shen Qinghe looked at him and smiled. The smile was weary, but warm. "Leader,"

His voice was very soft, as if it were drifting from a very far place.

"I didn't die." He lowered his head and looked at the bloody hole in his left shoulder. The blood at the opening had congealed and formed a dark red scab.

"That shot from the Japanese soldier missed." He looked up at Gu Yunshan. "I still owe you a drink. I can't die."

Gu Yunshan smiled. But as he smiled, tears streamed down his face again. He reached out to pat Shen Qinghe's shoulder, but pulled his hand back halfway. He saw the bloody hole and was afraid of hurting him.

Shen Qinghe looked at his hand and smiled. "Go ahead and pat it. It won't hurt."

Gu Yunshan patted it gently, like patting a newborn baby.

Su Qing's hands didn't stop. She pulled out a second bag of blood plasma substitutes from the medical kit, and inserted the needle into the back of Shen Qinghe's hand. The needle was as thin as a hair, but Shen Qinghe didn't even flinch.

Meanwhile, her other hand was already tending to the wound on his left shoulder. She first used scissors to cut open Shen Qinghe's military uniform on his left shoulder, revealing the bloody hole. The edges of the hole were blackened, marks from gunpowder burns. She sprinkled styptic powder on it; the white powder settled on the black wound, and the bleeding stopped instantly, like magic.

The antibiotics were injected, the needle went into the muscle of the upper arm, and the pale yellow liquid was pushed in, minimizing the risk of infection.

The portable life support system was attached to Shen Qinghe's chest, with electrodes glued to his skin and wires connecting it to a small box. Green numbers began to flash, exactly the same as the one on Shi Tou's chest.

Her movements were so fast that the surrounding soldiers couldn't even see what she was doing.

All they saw was that the two people who had just been on the verge of death began to look better, their breathing became steady, and the bleeding stopped.

Stone's lips, which were pale just moments ago, have now regained some color. Shen Qinghe's breathing, which was labored like a bellows just moments ago, is now steady.

"Amazing..." an old soldier murmured, "Truly amazing..."

Another veteran nodded, his mouth agape, "People from later generations... they're truly divine..."

Gu Yunshan stood there, watching Su Qing rescue people. He looked at the unfamiliar things—hemostatic powder, antibiotics, plasma substitutes—rowed on the ground, bottles and jars gleaming in the smoke.

He watched as the two people who should have died slowly came back to life. Color returned to Shi Tou's face, and Shen Qinghe's breathing became steady. On their chests, the green numbers on the two small boxes pulsed like two new hearts.

He turned his head and looked at Lu Bei, Dong Yi, and Lei Gang. He looked at these people from the future, at the clothes they wore, the weapons they carried, and the medicines they used that he had never seen before.

They stood there, amidst the smoke and fire, on this land soaked in blood. Their bodies were wounded, their faces covered in grime, and their eyes bloodshot.

But they stood, just like him.

His lips were trembling, his chin was trembling, his whole body was trembling.

"The future..." he murmured, his voice so soft as if afraid of disturbing something, "The future... is so wonderful..."

He reached out, as if trying to grab something. Lu Bei saw him, walked over, and took his hand. That hand was steady and warm.

"Commander Gu," Lu Bei said, "we've arrived. We've arrived with the power of future generations."

Gu Yunshan looked at him, at those young eyes, those eyes as bright as those of his soldiers. He smiled:

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

He gripped Lu Bei's hand tightly.

It's like holding onto all the perseverance of these past three years.

It's like holding all the hope of this land in your hands.

Like holding the hands of those who can never stand up again.

— Entrust.