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

Lin Mo emerged from the smoke and fire with a relaxed expression, as if he were walking on his own floor.

He carried the sniper rifle on his shoulder, like carrying a silent sword.

He walked past the Japanese corpses without even glancing at them. He walked past the still-burning wreckage of tanks without a second glance. Those scrap metal, those dead men, weren't worth a second look.

He walked onto the Chinese position, into the midst of those men in gray-blue uniforms, and up to the soldiers who were watching him.

Lei Gang was the first to go forward. He strode over, the rocket launcher still slung over his shoulder.

His face was beaming with a smile, a smile as loud as thunder. "Lin Mo, that shot was brilliant!" His voice was so loud that the soldiers next to him covered their ears.

Lin Mo glanced at him, nodded, and then said:

"What I excel at is sniping from 3,000 meters away."

He glanced at the Japanese soldier's corpse, its head blown open. The body lay there, the hole in the back of its head black, the blood no longer flowing. "Only two kilometers."

Lei Gang was stunned for a moment, his mouth agape and his eyes wide, as if he had choked.

Then he burst into laughter, laughing so hard he almost cried.

He slammed the rocket launcher into the ground, making the ground shake. "You really aren't modest!"

He smiled and shook his head: "But seeing you come out, I'm relieved."

His voice suddenly lowered, as if he were telling a secret.

"Because no enemy can play dead under your nose. Your appearance means that all the Japanese devils on the battlefield are dead."

Lin Mo nodded. "Completely dead."

At this moment, Gu Yunshan walked over. He stood in front of Lin Mo, looked at the man, at his calm eyes, and at his silent gun.

The gun was very long, longer than any gun he had ever seen. It had a large scope on the barrel, the lens of which gleamed with a bluish light in the twilight.

He didn't know what the gun was called, but he knew it could blow a person's head off from two kilometers away. He had fought countless battles and seen countless guns, but he had never seen anything like it.

"Brother from the future," he said, his voice hoarse, "thank you. That shot saved my life."

Lin Mo looked at him, at the brigade commander covered in blood, and at the large, blunted sword.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice soft but steady.

He paused, as if considering what to say. "From now on, I will stand here. Behind you. Any Japanese soldiers who try to launch a sneak attack will be instantly killed if they show their faces."

He spoke slowly, each word clear, as if making a promise, as if taking a vow.

Gu Yunshan looked at him, at those calm eyes, at that silent gun, at this person from the future. He smiled and nodded. "Okay," he said, just one word.

Then he turned to face the men in gray-blue military uniforms.

His smile slowly faded, like the setting sun, like the receding tide, like a knife slowly sheathing itself.

His gaze swept over every face, over the young, tired, and tear-streaked faces. His voice lowered.

"Brothers. We won that battle just now. But—" He paused, letting the word "but" linger in the air so everyone could hear it. "We only repelled a small group of Japanese troops."

Silence fell over the battlefield.

The laughter stopped.

The cheers stopped.

Those who were still looking at Lin Mo turned their gazes back to Gu Yunshan, the brigade commander who had fought for three years.

They knew the brigade commander was about to get down to business. Whenever the brigade commander spoke in that tone, it meant he was about to get serious.

"The 11th Division of the Imperial Japanese Army, a standing division, codenamed 'Zen-tsuji'. Its soldiers came from the Shikoku region of Japan and were known for their ferocity and tenacity."

His voice was loud, yet calm:

Division Commander: Lieutenant General Munetake Yamamuro. He had participated in the Russo-Japanese War and spent many years in Northeast China, familiar with Chinese army tactics.

He paused, his gaze growing even heavier, as heavy as lead.

"The 11th Division comprises two brigades: the 10th Infantry Brigade, commanded by Major General Naojiro Tenma, and the 22nd Infantry Brigade, commanded by Major General Yoshio Kuroiwa. Each brigade consists of two regiments, each with 2,500 to 3,000 men. Adding the division's directly subordinate artillery, cavalry, engineer, and supply regiments, the total strength of the entire division is—"

He said, word by word, "More than 20,000 Japanese soldiers."

On the battlefield, there was no sound. Even the wind had stopped, and the burning of the tank wreckage could no longer be heard. Only Gu Yunshan's voice echoed in the air.

Twenty thousand Japanese soldiers—that number felt like a stone hitting everyone's heart.

Zhao Desheng sat in the trench, his mouth open, as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't utter a word.

He killed seven Japanese soldiers and gained four, feeling it was worth it. But he could never kill all 20,000 Japanese soldiers in his lifetime. He lowered his head, looking at his trouser leg that was now bandaged, and said nothing.

An old soldier leaned against the trench, a cigarette still in his mouth, unlit.

His hands were trembling, and the cigarette was trembling too. He had served in the army for eight years, fighting from the Great Wall to Shanghai. He had seen great scenes, seen Japanese soldiers charging, and seen planes bombing.

But he had never seen 20,000 Japanese soldiers. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't.

The young soldier, the one who had just asked "What is that?", stood there, his legs trembling. His lips were pale, his eyes were wide open, and his hand gripped his gun so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He wanted to say "fear," he wanted to say "how can we fight 20,000 Japanese soldiers," he wanted to say "can we still survive?"

But he didn't say anything because he saw the brigade commander still standing and that the brigade commander's chest was still bleeding.

If even the brigade commander isn't afraid, what is he afraid of?

Gu Yunshan stood there, looking at the silent crowd. He knew what they were thinking, and what they were afraid of.

He fought for three years, and he knew what 20,000 Japanese soldiers meant. It meant a tide, it meant locusts, it meant an endless enemy to kill.

But he was still standing.

"Brothers," he began, his voice hoarse but steady, "twenty thousand Japanese soldiers, a lot. Too many for us to kill."

He paused, letting the words linger in the air a little longer. "But—"

He raised the greatsword, the one with a chipped blade, cracked and on the verge of falling apart. The scabs on the blade darkened in the twilight, and the nicks on the blade resembled a row of teeth.

But when it was raised, everyone saw it.

"We have brothers from the next generation. They have guns that can shoot heads off from 2,000 meters away, cannons that can blow up tanks, and medicines that can save lives."

His voice grew louder and louder, like thunder and the beating of drums.

"They have something—something we've never had."