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

Liuhang, Japanese camp. The division command post was brightly lit. Maps hung on the wall, densely marked with red and blue symbols, like an overly woven net. A sand table was placed in the center, filled with small flags—those that hadn't been planted on the Liuhang position during the day.

Yamamuro Munetake stood before the sand table, his face ashen. That ashen color wasn't from anger, but from resentment.

He had already paced around the command post more than a dozen times. With each lap, his expression grew more grim, and with each lap, the staff officers lowered their heads further.

Then, he exploded.

"Baka yarou—!!!"

"Yamada Masaki, あいつは俯立たずだ!!!"

His voice was like a cannon blast:

"Three tanks and five hundred Imperial warriors couldn't even defeat a bunch of defeated remnants! He still has the nerve to die?! He should come back alive, kneel before me, and commit seppuku!"

"Baka! Baka! Baka—!!!"

No one dared to speak. The staff officers lowered their heads, staring at their toes, wishing they could bury their heads in the sand table.

The chief of staff huddled in a corner, hiding himself in the gap between the filing cabinet and the wall, wishing he could become a shadow.

After he had finished cursing, he was panting heavily, holding onto the edge of the sand table. His gaze swept over everyone, like a knife, like an arrow, as if he wanted to nail these worthless people to the wall, to the sand table, to Liu Xing's land where he could never plant a flag.

"You—" His voice was low, as if squeezed out from between his teeth.

"Someone tell me, why? Why couldn't three tanks and five hundred men take down a crippled Chinese brigade?"

No one answered. The staff officers, those who usually talked so eloquently in war meetings, were now like chickens with their necks choked, unable to utter a single word.

Yamamuro Munetake's eyes narrowed.

His fingers tapped on the sand table, once, once, and again.

Just then, a man stepped forward. It was Major General Naojiro Tenma, commander of the 10th Infantry Brigade. Forty-seven years old, he wore gold-rimmed glasses, the lenses gleaming a bluish light under the lamp, making him look like a civil servant, a professor.

While everyone panicked, his glasses reflected the fallen flags in the sand table after the surgery, as well as Yamamuro Munetake's ashen face.

He walked to the sand table, stood there, and looked at Yamamuro Munetake. "Division Commander," he began, "the weapons the Chinese are using this time seem... a bit off."

Yamamuro Munetake's eyes narrowed even more, becoming just slits. "Hmm? Tell me more."

Naoki didn't answer immediately. He squatted down, picked up a torn piece of the battle report from the ground, looked at the words on it, and then put it down. It contained words like "tanks," "annihilation," and "Major Yamada."

He stood up, looked at the sand table, at the fallen flags, and at Liu Xing's position.

He had seen that location many times—on maps, through telescopes, and in his dreams. But never before had it felt so unfamiliar to him.

"Originally, the Chinese soldiers and our weapons and equipment were far inferior. It was basically an industrialized country crushing an agricultural country. Their rifles were Hanyang rifles, which were from the Qing Dynasty, and even the rifling was worn down. Their machine guns were Maxim guns, which were twenty years old and would jam after firing for a while. Their artillery was captured from us, and every shell they fired was one less available, and once they were all gone, they were gone."

But today—it's different.

Yamamuro Munetake's brows furrowed.

Naoki pointed to the model tank on the sand table that had been blown in two. The model was made of wood, painted a light brown color, and had a small flag stuck on it.

At this moment, it was tilted to one side, the turret and the hull separated, like a toy that had been broken apart by a giant.

"What destroyed Major Yamada's three tanks? It wasn't explosives, it wasn't grenades, it wasn't an anti-tank gun. Those things can't break a tank. Those things can't blow off a turret. Those things can't—blow a Type 89 medium tank in two with a single shot."

He looked up at Yamamuro Munetake:

"I saw someone rush out of the Chinese positions, carrying an iron pipe. From that pipe, a shell was fired. The shell trailed fire, smoke, and a light I had never seen before. Then, the tank exploded. Not penetrated, but shattered. Not destroyed, but wiped out."

Yamamuro Munetake's brows furrowed deeply. He moved his hand away from the edge of the sand table and put it behind his back.

Naojiro Tenma continued, "And that sniper, I don't know the exact distance from which he fired, but it must have been very far."

"At this distance, one shot can blow our soldier's head off."

"Gentlemen, think about it. Our Type 38 rifle has an effective range of 460 meters. Our snipers have to lie on the ground to calculate wind speed, humidity, and ballistics. They have to hold their breath and wait for their heartbeats to slow down."

"I feel like their men don't even need to aim; they can just fire one shot, and that's enough."

"In the end, it's because that Chinese guy is just too powerful."

"Or is it because of that weapon?"

He paused, each word like a stone hitting the ground, "Division Commander, everything that just happened is not right, not right at all."

The command post was as quiet as a tomb.

The staff officers finally raised their heads.

People started whispering, their voices like mosquitoes buzzing or mice gnawing on wood.

"Where did the Chinese get those kinds of weapons?"

"Could it have been given to us by the Soviets?"

"Impossible, the Soviets themselves didn't have that kind of thing."

"American?"

"The Americans wouldn't give that kind of weapon to China either..."