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

The battlefield gradually quieted down. The three tanks were still burning, billowing black smoke, like three silent tombstones, standing crookedly on this land that had been plowed by artillery fire for three years.

On the Chinese positions, those in gray-blue uniforms began cleaning up the battlefield. Some picked up Japanese rifles, wiped the blood off their clothes, pulled back the bolts to check the magazines, keeping the ones with bullets and throwing the unloaded ones aside.

Some people squatted on the ground, scavenging for ammunition. They reached into the ammunition boxes of the Japanese soldiers' corpses, took out the brass bullets one by one, and stuffed them into their own pockets.

Some soldiers carried their wounded comrades back to the trench, two men carrying one, carefully stepping over shell craters and rubble. The groans of the wounded were very soft, as if afraid to disturb something. Exhausted, but alive. The joy of being alive was stronger than anything else.

Gu Yunshan stood at the front line, still holding the large, blunted sword in his hand. The blood on the blade had dried, forming dark red scabs, and the nicks on the blade looked like a row of jagged teeth in the twilight.

He gazed at the soldiers of later generations in the distance for a long time, so long that the wind blew up and down the corner of his clothes, then down and up again.

Then he turned around, preparing to return to the trench.

Thirty meters behind him, among a pile of Japanese corpses, one body moved.

The body lay face down on the ground, its face buried in the dirt, its uniform covered in blood.

His name was Tanaka Ichiro, 21 years old, a private first class in the 43rd Regiment. He had been in the army for two years, fighting his way from North China to Shanghai, enduring scolding from his superiors and receiving praise from his comrades.

Later, all he wanted was to live and go home, get married, and open a general store.

The explosion had knocked him unconscious.

When he woke up, he was surrounded by dead bodies. His ears were still ringing, he was seeing double, and his mouth was full of the taste of blood. But he was awake.

He lay there, motionless, like a stone, like a real corpse.

Chinese soldiers are cleaning up the battlefield. Footsteps come from the left, the right, and the front. Someone is speaking; their voice is hoarse and weary.

Someone is coughing, coughing so hard it looks like they're going to cough up their lungs.

Someone was dragging a corpse, and the sound of the corpse rubbing against the ground was like sandpaper grinding against sheet metal.

Tanaka lay there, his heart pounding as if it would explode. His gun was still there, right beside him. A Type 38 rifle; the bayonet was gone, the scabbard was empty, but the gun was still usable. Three bullets left.

His fingers, slowly, very slowly, touched the gun. The cold metallic touch reminded him of the well water in his hometown during winter, and of the miso soup his mother cooked.

He slowly pulled the gun back, inch by inch, without making a sound. His movements were slow, as slow as performing a silent play without an audience. He pointed the gun at the man—the Chinese officer.

A bayonet was embedded in his left shoulder, his chest was covered in blood, and he held a large, blunted sword in his hand.

He stood there, his back to them. Only thirty meters away. Tanaka's finger was on the trigger. His breath stopped, his heart stopped, the whole world stopped. Only that man's back, clear as a mountain in the scope.

Thirty meters, and he can't hit it? No, he can. He's the third-best shooter in the regiment; he can hit a target two hundred meters away, and he could hit a person thirty meters away with his eyes closed.

On the battlefield, Zhao Desheng squatted at the edge of the trench, bandaging the wound on his leg.

It was called bandaging, but it was really just haphazardly tied with strips of cloth. Blood was still seeping in, soaking the cloth strips and turning them dark red.

But he didn't feel any pain. He had just killed seven Japanese soldiers and gained four more—it was worth it. He lowered his head, wrapped the strip of cloth around himself again, tightened it, winced in pain, but didn't make a sound. He raised his head, wanting to see where the brigade commander was.

Then he saw it. The Japanese soldier. Lying among a pile of corpses, his gun pointed at the brigade commander's back.

Zhao Desheng's pupils contracted sharply, as if pricked by a needle or burned by fire. He opened his mouth, wanting to shout. But his throat felt blocked by something, as if a wad of cotton was stuffed in his throat, as if an invisible hand was choking him.

He wanted to shout "Guest," "Watch out," "Get down!" But the words got stuck in his throat; he couldn't utter a single sound. Because it was too far away.

Because by the time he shouted it out, the bullet had already arrived. Because the Japanese soldier's gun was already pointed at the brigade commander's back.

His eyes were wide open, the dark muzzle of the gun reflected in his pupils. That muzzle was like a bottomless abyss, like a gate to hell.

His mind went blank, with only those three words echoing in his ears: It's too late, it's too late, it's too late.

Gu Yunshan stood there, oblivious to everything. He only felt exhausted, a kind of exhaustion that seeped from his very bones, as if all his strength had been drained away.

I hadn't slept for three days and three nights. The bayonet in my left shoulder still ached, as if someone was stirring it with a red-hot iron rod. The hole in my chest was still oozing blood, sticking my uniform to my skin. Every movement felt like tearing off a layer of skin.

But he stood there, on the front line, on this land that had been won with his life.

He turned around, preparing to return to the trench. Then, he saw Zhao Desheng's eyes. Those eyes were wide open, the pupils filled with terror, as if he had seen a ghost, as if he had seen the end of the world.

Gu Yunshan was stunned. He had never seen Zhao Desheng with such an expression before. How could this veteran who had followed him for eight years, who had fought his way from the Great Wall to Shanghai, who had killed seven Japanese soldiers and still smiled and said "it was worth it," have such an expression on his face?

Thirty meters away, Tanaka's finger was on the trigger. His breathing stopped, his heart stopped, and the whole world stopped.

A cruel, triumphant smile curved his lips, a smile that seemed to indicate he was about to take revenge.

His lips parted, uttering the words he had repeated countless times in Northeast China, North China, and Shanghai:

"Go to hell, you Chinese!"