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

Gu Yunshan watched the Japanese soldiers surging towards Liuhang and stood up. He patted the dirt off his hands, grabbed his gun with one hand, and pulled the large knife out of the dirt with the other.

The distant, earthen-yellow waves are surging in. It's not a probe; it's infantry, tanks, cavalry, and—

"The Japanese are firing mortars." Lei Gang's voice came from the side.

He had a blade of grass he'd picked up somewhere clenched in his mouth, leaning against the trench, squinting at the distant woods.

There, the Japanese army was setting up artillery.

Gu Yunshan followed his gaze. At the edge of the grove, at least three mortars were being set up. The gunners were busy adjusting the firing angles and moving shells.

These Japanese soldiers moved very skillfully and quickly, clearly not for the first time.

Gu Yunshan frowned.

"We're hiding inside the positions, the Japanese mortars can't kill us..." He hadn't finished speaking.

Lei Gang waved his hand, interrupting him.

He stood up from the trench, took the blade of grass out of his mouth, and threw it away.

Then, he shouldered the rocket launcher. There were still some shells left in the launcher, and he was going to use one now.

"Brigadier," he grinned, a smile like a child's, "I'll give you a performance—"

He said it word by word: "One shot, three hits."

Edge of the woods. Japanese mortar position.

The gunner's name was Kimura Ichiro, a sergeant, forty-two years old, and he had fought in many battles.

He squatted next to a Type 92 infantry gun, holding binoculars in his hand, looking at the Chinese positions in the distance.

The mist hadn't yet dissipated, but those gray-blue figures were already visible. They were reinforcing the fortifications, carrying sandbags, preparing to face death.

A slight smile played on Kimura's lips. "The Chinese," he said softly, his voice laced with contempt, "are still struggling in their death throes."

He lowered his binoculars and patted the cannon barrel beside him. "Gentlemen, prepare to fire. Target: Chinese army's frontal position. Distance: 1200 meters. Firing angle: 45 degrees."

"Hai!" the gunners answered in unison.

The loader was named Masao Tanaka, a private first class, twenty-five years old. He stood beside the cannon barrel, holding the shell, waiting for orders.

He had a smile on his face, the kind of smile that looks like he's about to kill someone.

He fought in China for two years and killed many people.

Kill with cannons, kill with guns, kill with bayonets.

He never felt fear, never felt guilt, because he believed that Chinese people were not human. They were pigs, dogs, things that should be slaughtered.

"Tanaka, hurry up!" Kimura urged.

"Hai!" Tanaka shoved the shell into the breech.

Kimura raised his hand, ready to give the order to fire. His mouth was stretched into a wide grin. His eyes gleamed with a cruel light. His fingers were about to fall.

"shooting--"

Lei Gang, carrying a rocket launcher, knelt on one knee at the edge of the trench. Through the scope, the crosshairs were pressed against the edge of the woods.

Three mortars were lined up in a row. The gunners were busy loading, aiming, and adjusting the firing angle.

They didn't know they were being targeted. They thought they were safe. Because of the distance, because the trees blocked their view,

Because the Chinese army didn't have artillery capable of reaching this point. They did.

Lei Gang will also be there at that time.

His finger was on the launch button.

"You little devils—!" he roared, "Get on the road—!!!"

He pressed the launch button.

The rocket shot out of its launch tube, trailing flames, white smoke, and a blinding flash. It flew over trenches, over barbed wire, over the open field, and towards the woods.

It was so fast that the air was being torn apart, producing a sharp whistling sound.

The distance of 2,200 meters was covered in less than three seconds.

Kimura's hand was still raised. His mouth was still open. He hadn't finished shouting the word "fire."

Then he saw the white light. It was a white light flying from the Chinese positions, trailing fire, trailing smoke, trailing a light he had never seen before.

His pupils contracted sharply. What was that? A shell? It didn't seem like it. A rocket?

The Japanese army also had rockets, but they weren't this small, this fast, or this accurate.

The object rapidly magnified in my field of vision, growing larger and brighter, like a falling sun.

Kimura's mouth was still open. He wanted to shout "Take cover!", "Get down!", "Run!" But his body wouldn't obey him. Because that thing was too fast. So fast that his fear hadn't even had a chance to rise from his heart to his throat.

"boom!!!"

The rocket hit its target.

It didn't hit an open field, nor did it hit the treetops; it hit the ammunition depot. The place where dozens of boxes of shells were piled up—Kimura had deliberately chosen it as a spot on the edge of the woods, a place easily accessible.

That place—where it's exploding right now.

The first explosion was from a rocket. The second was from an artillery shell box. The third, fourth, and fifth explosions—dozens of shell boxes exploded simultaneously.

Fireballs rose one after another, like fireworks during a festival, but ten thousand times more cruel and bloody.

The cannon barrel was blown away, tumbled in the air, fell, and crashed to the ground, hitting people.

The wheels were blown to pieces, and fragments of wood flew like knives, slicing through people's throats, faces, and eyes.

Human limbs were blown into the sky—arms, legs, heads—flying through the air, falling, and scattering on the ground.

Sergeant Kimura's body was thrown into the air by the shockwave, like a falling leaf, like a rag doll. He tumbled three times in the air before crashing to the ground, slamming into a pile of still-burning shell boxes.

His eyes were still open, staring at the sea of ​​fire, at the exploding shells, at the battlefield he could never return to. His mouth was still open, the unfinished word "strike" forever stuck in his throat.

Masao Tanaka, the private first class who was holding the shell, the man who never felt guilty about killing, was lying in a shell crater twenty meters away.

His ears were ringing, his vision was blurry, and his mouth was full of blood. He struggled to his feet, wanting to run, to escape, to get out of this hell.

But as soon as he stood up, a piece of shrapnel flew over and cut his neck.

His head flew up. In the air, he saw the burning forest, his comrades still running, and that light—the light that flew from the Chinese lines and led him to hell…