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

On the Chinese side, Lei Gang saw the Japanese soldier who wasn't quite dead yet.

He stood in the trench, rocket launcher still on his shoulder, introducing the weapons of later generations to his comrades from 1937.

As he spoke with great enthusiasm, he pointed to the still-smoking iron pipe and said that this thing could penetrate the armor of any tank, that it wouldn't be the most advanced in 2026, and that they had something even more powerful that they hadn't brought.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the "corpse." The "corpse's" finger was on the trigger. The "corpse's" gun was pointed at Gu Yunshan.

His pupils contracted slightly, but that was all.

He didn't shout, didn't move, didn't even frown. He just stood there, watching.

Because Lei Gang knew that Gu Yunshan wouldn't die.

Standing next to Su Qing, Lu Bei was helping to organize medical supplies.

He put the used medicine bottles into a garbage bag, tightened the jar of hemostatic powder, and put a protective cap on the antibiotic needle.

His gaze swept across the battlefield, over the corpses, and over the smoke of battle.

Then he saw the Japanese soldier and the gun.

But his expression didn't change. He just continued tidying up the medical kit, zipping it up completely, and patting it twice.

Dong Yi saw it. He stood at the edge of the position, silent as a knife. His eyes never left the pile of corpses, his eyes like two bottomless wells, like two unsheathed knives.

These three military kings from later generations all saw it.

But none of them moved, none of them shouted, and none of them reminded Gu Yunshan.

Because they know they don't need it.

Tanaka's finger was pressed on the first trigger.

Press down a little more, and the bullet will fly out.

Then, he died. Not from being stabbed, not from being shot, but—his head suddenly exploded.

Like a watermelon being hit by a hammer, bursting open instantly.

Blood sprayed out, splattering onto the corpses beside him, onto the soil, and onto the gun that hadn't yet pulled the trigger.

Gunfire erupted only then. It didn't come from the positions, but from a very, very far place, from a place they couldn't see.

Zhao Desheng was stunned. His mouth was still open, and he hadn't uttered a word yet; those three words were still stuck in his throat—"Passenger seat," "Be careful," "Lie down."

But that Japanese soldier was already dead.

He stared blankly at the corpse, at the still-smoking bullet hole, and at the slowly dissipating blood mist.

His mind went blank, as if he had been pierced by that bullet.

Who fired the shot?

Where was the shot fired?

How was the gun fired?

He had fought for eight years and seen countless dead bodies—beheaded, stabbed, blown to pieces. But he had never seen anything like this—a single shot to the head from a great distance.

He turned his head and looked at the position.

Gu Yunshan stood there and heard the gunshot. The sound came from behind him, from a great distance, like a stone thrown into a deep well, like a tile scraping across ice.

He turned around and saw the Japanese soldier's corpse with its head blown open.

He paused for a second, just one second.

Then, he turned around and continued walking, toward the trenches, toward those who were still alive, toward the soldiers who were watching him.

He didn't look back at the corpse again. Because it was unnecessary.

At this moment, two kilometers away, on the ruins of a destroyed water tower.

Lin Mo lay there. His body was almost one with the ruins, his camouflage uniform peeking through the rubble.

In front of him lay a gun. It was long, heavy, and cold.

The QBU-202 anti-materiel sniper rifle has a matte black finish, a long barrel, and a large scope.

Lin Mo looked away from the scope and slowly exhaled.

At 2,000 meters, with a wind speed of level 3, the target was lying prone, with less than 20 centimeters of his head exposed—not much bigger than a fist.

He took 0.3 seconds to aim, 0.1 seconds to fire, and the bullet flew for 1.8 seconds.

hit.

He reached out and gently touched the barrel, from the base to the tip.

Then he picked it up, hoisted it onto his shoulder, turned around, and disappeared into the ruins.

No one saw him come, and no one saw him leave.

Only the corpse with its head blown open proved that he had been there.

On the battlefield, Zhao Desheng finally came to his senses. He looked at the Japanese soldier's corpse with its head blown open, at the still-smoking bullet hole, and at the dissipating blood mist.

"Good heavens..." he murmured, "That marksmanship... amazing..."

He turned his head and looked at Lei Gang, at this man from the future who carried iron pipes and blew up a tank with a single shot.

"Brother," he asked, "are all the people of your generation... this powerful?"

Lei Gang laughed. "Not all of them are that good. It's just that he's particularly good at sniping; everyone has their own specialty."

"However, two thousand meters is child's play; it's far from his limit."

"This is nothing."

His voice was so loud that everyone nearby could hear it, and Zhao Desheng's ears were ringing.

Zhao Desheng stared wide-eyed:

"Two thousand meters? That's child's play! Hey buddy, what's his name?"

"Lin Mo".

"Lin Mo..." Zhao Desheng murmured, chewing the name in his mouth like a hard candy.

"I'll remember it." He kept the name in his heart, like remembering a benefactor, like remembering a brother, like remembering a debt of gratitude he would have to repay later.

Su Qing squatted down next to the stone and continued bandaging it.

Her face was expressionless, as if the gunshot and the Japanese soldier who had been blown in the head were just a passing breeze or a falling leaf.

But there was a smile on her lips.

That was the exhilaration of seeing a comrade-in-arms precisely kill the enemy.

At this moment, Gu Yunshan walked back to the trench and looked at his brothers.

"Brothers," he began, his voice hoarse, like sandpaper grinding iron, but every word was clear.

"Did you see that? People from later generations, two kilometers away, got blown to the head with a single shot."

He paused, letting the words linger in the air a little longer, letting them reach everyone's ears and hearts.

"From now on, we'll have snipers too. From now on, the Japanese won't dare show their faces again. From now on—"

He raised his broadsword, a broadsword with a blunt blade, cracked and on the verge of falling apart.

The knife was covered in scabs and the blade was full of nicks, but it gleamed in the twilight when it was raised.

"We don't need to be afraid of their guns anymore. Because our guns have a longer range, are more accurate, and are more ruthless."

In the trenches, smiles appeared on the young faces of the soldiers.

That was a smile that hadn't appeared in a long time.

It's the kind of smile that comes from knowing you won't have to risk your life anymore.

It's the kind of smile that comes from knowing someone is standing behind them, someone is protecting them.

They laughed loudly and shouted:

"good--!!!"

"Brothers from later generations—!!!"

"Awesome!!!"

"Two thousand meters—!!!"

"One shot—!!!"

"head shot--!!!"