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

Gu Yunshan talked about those weapons he had never seen before...

Their gazes slowly shifted away from Lei Gang, Lu Bei, Lin Mo, and Su Qing.

He looked at his soldiers again.

In an instant, he recalled many past events.

The 201st Brigade of the 18th Army originally had 5,000 men.

Five thousand men, five thousand guns.

Now, there are fewer than two thousand people.

Among them were veterans brought down from the Great Wall, new recruits from North China, and scattered soldiers gathered from Shanghai.

Each person had less than ten bullets; some had only two or three left, and some had only one bullet stuck in their chambers—that was for themselves.

The brigade had seventeen grenades left, neatly stacked in the corner of the trench, like seventeen coffin nails ready to explode at any moment.

The heavy machine gun is completely broken. That Maxim gun had been with them for three years, from the Great Wall to Shanghai. When the barrel got red-hot, they would pour urine on it, let it cool down, and then fire again. Now, it's completely broken.

On the other side stood 20,000 Japanese troops. They had cannons and tanks. They had an endless supply of canned food and an inexhaustible supply of bullets.

Even so, Gu Yunshan still roared loudly, howling towards the sky:

"Brothers, there are 20,000 Japanese soldiers on the other side—"

Are you scared?

No one spoke. The wind blew over the trenches, carrying the smell of gunpowder and acridity, and ruffled their tattered clothes.

Zhao Desheng was the first to speak:

"Commander, what are you afraid of? Those three tanks just exploded, didn't they? And those hundreds of Japanese soldiers ran away, didn't they?"

He stretched out his hand, pointing tremblingly at Lin Mo:

"We still have him. Three kilometers away, a headshot. What's there to be afraid of?"

The seventeen or eighteen-year-old Shaanxi soldier also spoke up:

"Sir, I'm not afraid. I just miss my mother a little."

He looked down at the gun in his hand, a gun longer than his arm, with a crooked "stone" character engraved on the stock—his name, which his mother, who was illiterate, had someone carve.

"But my mother said that soldiers can't be afraid of death. I listened to my mother." He raised his head and smiled. The smile was childlike, revealing two missing front teeth.

The old soldier with the broken leg smiled, a crumpled, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, soaked in blood, but he couldn't bear to throw it away.

He spoke slowly, as if discussing a crop harvest:

"What's there to be afraid of? I've already killed seven, that's enough. Killing one more would be a bonus."

He took the cigarette out of his mouth, looked at it, and then put it back in; he couldn't bear to throw it away.

Gu Yunshan looked at them, at their laughter, at that fearless laughter. He looked intently, as if he wanted to etch the laughter of these soldiers into his heart.

"Alright. Then we'll hold out here. We'll hold out until reinforcements arrive, until the Japanese retreat, until—" He paused, then spoke each word like a nail driven into the soil, into everyone's heart, "until his last breath."

"As for the 11th Division on the other side? If one comes, kill one. If two come, kill both."

"And behind us are the generations to come. For the generations to come—have come to keep their promise."

He turned his head again, looking at Lei Gang, Lu Bei, Dong Yi, Lin Mo, and Su Qing. Those people from the future, those wearing strange clothes, carrying strange weapons, and using strange medicines.

They stood there, amidst the smoke and twilight, like five trees transplanted from the future.

They were also wounded, their faces were covered in grime, and their eyes were bloodshot. But they stood, just like him.

Lei Gang looked at Gu Yunshan, then at the men in gray-blue uniforms, at those still alive, still afraid, still standing, and spoke loudly:

"Not only us, but also new support will arrive from 2026 in a dozen hours."

He held up the rocket launcher, the still-smoking iron pipe that had blasted a tank with a single shot. "And now, we have rocket launchers, sniper rifles, antibiotics, blood plasma. We also have—"

He paused, then his lips parted into a wide, enormous grin, a grin as if he had stolen the most valuable treasure in the world.

"Five secret weapons!!!"

"A huge secret weapon!!!"

On the battlefield, everyone was watching him.

A secret weapon? What secret weapon?

Lei Gang laughed heartily: "But we can't say it now. If we do, it won't work anymore. Just remember this—no matter how many Japanese devils come, we'll kill them all. If we can't kill them all, there will be more in future generations. Fourteen billion people, killing 20,000 Japanese devils, can't we kill them all?"

Can they kill them all?

Can they kill them all?

These five words, these three words exploded in the air above the position.

Zhao Desheng was the first to shout: "Kill them all—!!!"

The old soldier took the cigarette from his mouth, squeezed it in his hand until the tobacco was squeezed out. "Kill them all—!!!"

The young soldier, the one whose legs were trembling, gripped his gun tightly, his knuckles turning white. "Kill them all—!!!"

The sound grew louder and louder with each bang, like ocean waves, like a mountain collapsing, as if it were going to overturn the sky.

Gu Yunshan stood there, listening to the shouts and watching the laughter.

Tears streamed down my face once more.

He has lost count of how many times he has cried today.

But he didn't wipe it away; he just let it flow. Flowing on this battlefield, flowing on this land won with lives, flowing among these people who are still alive.

Night fell. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, its cold light spilling onto the battlefield.

The Chinese soldiers who were still able to move began to reinforce the fortifications.

Some people were digging trenches, some were building sandbags, and some were cleaning their guns, polishing the barrels until they shone, loading bullets one by one into the magazine, and securing bayonets to the muzzle.

No one spoke, but everyone was doing the same thing—preparing.

Prepare for tomorrow's battle, prepare for the 20,000 men who are about to arrive, prepare to trade this life for a few more Japanese soldiers.

Gu Yunshan sat in the trench, leaning against the large sword. The blade was embedded in the soil, and the hilt pressed against his back, cool and hard.

But he leaned on it, as if leaning on a person, as if leaning on a memory.

A bayonet was still stuck in his left shoulder. The cloth strip on the handle was soaked in blood and turned dark brown. The tip of the knife was stuck in the bone, and every movement caused excruciating pain.

But he didn't pull it out. Because if he did, he would bleed even more.

He still has to fight, he still has to stay here, and he still has to wait for future generations.

He closed his eyes, then opened them, then closed them again, then opened them again.

Lin Mo lay prone on a piece of ruin at the front of the position, holding the sniper rifle.

His body blended into the ruins, like a stone covered in moss.

His eyes were pressed against the scope, looking at the darkness in the distance. In that darkness, there were Japanese soldiers, many Japanese soldiers, cannons, and tanks.

But they dared not show their faces, because he was there, because his gun was pointed at the darkness, because he would shoot if anyone dared to show their faces.

Lei Gang sat in the trench, holding the rocket launcher. The rocket launcher only had five shells left.

But Lei Gang was not afraid, because in the future, there would be even more people, more shells, and more hope.

He looked up at the moon, which was round and bright, shining on the battlefield and on his face.

He wondered if the moon in 2026 would be just as round and bright. He thought of those still waiting on the training field, those who couldn't come, and those waiting for their next journey.

He smiled. "Just wait," he said softly, his voice as light as the wind, "it will be your turn soon."

The moon rose, higher and higher, brighter and brighter.

Gu Yunshan opened his eyes. He looked at the moon, which was round and bright, like a mirror or an eye.

He recalled seeing a similar moon three years ago at the Great Wall.

At that time, he still had two eyes, he still had five thousand soldiers, and he still believed that he could drive the Japanese out soon.

Now, he has less than two thousand soldiers left, and he is still defending, waiting, and fighting.

But he didn't regret it. He pulled the broadsword out of the mud and placed it across his knees. The bloodstains on the blade gleamed dark red in the moonlight, like a frozen river.

He wiped the blade with his sleeve, slowly and carefully, as if polishing a family heirloom. Then, he stuck the knife back into the soil, leaned against it, and closed his eyes.

He's too tired; he needs to rest for a while.

Tomorrow, there will be more fighting. Tomorrow, the Japanese will come again.

But today, he won. His soldiers won. Future generations will win.

The wind blew from the east, light and warm, blowing across his hair, across the scabs on his face, and across his shoulder where a bayonet was stuck.

Like a hand, like a sigh, like a call from a very, very far place.

He smiled in his dream, a very soft, faint, but genuine smile.

He dreamt of his soldiers, the dead, the living, and the still laughing.

He dreamed of that knife, that large knife with a blunt blade, cracked edges, and about to fall apart.

He dreamt of the afterlife, a future without Japanese invaders, a future with 1.4 billion people, a future that came to keep the appointment...