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

Suddenly, Lin Mo, who was lying prone on the battlefield and was a man of few words but ruthless courage, spoke:

"On the other side of the woods, there were a few Japanese soldiers setting up artillery."

Upon hearing this, Lei Gang immediately roared, "I'll do it!"

But Lin Mo stopped him:

"Your portable rocket launcher is running low on ammunition."

"2800 meters, here I come!"

Meanwhile, deep in the woods, in a relatively open clearing.

Three Type 92 infantry guns are being erected with great effort.

The gunners were sweating profusely, some carrying shells, others adjusting the firing angle, and no one spoke.

They all heard the explosion.

The explosion that sent Sergeant Kimura and his cannon flying into the air still makes their ears ring and their hands tremble.

The artillery commander here is Ono Ichiro, a sergeant major, forty years old, and a veteran of many battles. He fought from Manchuria to North China, and from North China to Shanghai. The scar on his face is from Northeast China, the missing finger is from North China, and the old wound on his right ear is from Shanghai.

He crouched behind a large tree, holding up binoculars, watching the Chinese positions in the distance. The explosion, which felt like divine retribution, had just occurred right before his eyes.

He saw the fireball, the loud bang, the cannon barrels that were blown away, and the corpses.

His legs were shaking, his hands were shaking, and his heart was pounding as if it would explode. But he couldn't back down. If he did, he would be shot by his own people.

Because if he retreats, he'll be a deserter. Because if he retreats, all the glory he's ever had will be gone. Now,

We have no choice but to continue.

To bolster his courage, Ichiro Ono muttered to himself:

"Chinese people..." he said, his voice filled with fear.

"You bombed Kimura's cannons, but you can't bomb mine. I'm here, 2,800 meters away. Your cannons can't reach here."

He put down his binoculars, patted the barrel of the cannon beside him, and looked at the other Japanese soldiers:

"Gentlemen, hurry up. Once the cannons are set up, I want them to know what real artillery fire is like."

The gunners quickened their pace.

The loader was named Koji Yamamoto, a private first class, twenty-eight years old. He stood beside the gun barrel, holding a shell, waiting for orders. The shell was heavy and cold; he held it as if it were a hot potato.

He fought in China for three years without ever feeling fear or remorse. He killed people—with artillery, with guns, with bayonets.

But the explosion just now frightened him.

"Yamamoto, hurry up!" Ono urged, his voice filled with impatience and fear.

"Hai!" Yamamoto skillfully shoved the shell into the breech, but his hands were shaking and the shell almost fell out.

Ono straightened up, and then he spoke, his voice loud:

"Gentlemen, this round of shelling is meant to let the Chinese know that the Imperial Army's artillery fire is unstoppable. They destroyed three of our cannons, so we will use thirty shells to raze their positions to the ground. They killed dozens of our artillerymen, so we will use hundreds of shells to scatter their ashes into the sky. The Imperial Army is invincible. No matter how powerful their weapons are, they can't reach 2,800 meters. No matter how accurate their snipers are, they can't see us."

"Because we are the Imperial Army. The Imperial Army's artillery fire covers everything. The Imperial Army's will crushes everything. The Imperial Army's—"

His voice abruptly stopped. Not because he didn't want to speak anymore. It was because his head suddenly exploded, spraying blood mist that splattered on the cannon, on Yamamoto Koji's face, on the shells, and on the still trembling gunners.

Ono's body remained standing for two seconds. In those two seconds, there was nothing left on his neck except a large, dark, gaping hole, still oozing blood.

Then he fell, falling straight forward and crashing into the cannon, landing right next to Yamamoto Koji's feet.

Blood gushed from the hole, soaking the ground, the soil, the fallen leaves, and the shells that hadn't yet been loaded into the cannons.

Two thousand eight hundred meters away. Behind Liu Xing's position.

Lin Mo lay there, his body almost blending into the ruins.

In front of him was the gun. A QBU-202 anti-materiel sniper rifle, with a matte black finish, a long barrel, and a large scope.

12.7 mm caliber, effective range 2,500 meters. The one he just fired, 2,800 meters. Beyond range.

But he fired. Because he was Lin Mo. Because his gun was called Silence.

Because Lin Mo is never silent.

He looked away from the scope.

At 2,800 meters, with a wind speed of level 4 and relatively high humidity, the target was standing with less than 20 centimeters of his head exposed – not much bigger than a fist.

He aimed in 0.5 seconds, fired in 0.1 seconds, and the bullet traveled for 2.3 seconds. Hit. He

Then, Lin Mo picked up the gun, slung it over his shoulder, turned around, and disappeared into the ruins.

He came silently, and no one saw him leave.

Only the gunner with his head blown off proved that he had been there.

The woods were deathly silent.

Only Ono's body lay there, only the gunners stood there.

At that moment, Yamamoto Koji stood there, his face covered in blood. It wasn't his blood, it was Ono's.

He watched as Ono's body slowly collapsed, his head already gone.

Then he heard the gunshot. It came from a very, very far place, very far, but very accurate.

One sound was enough. One sound was enough to blow the little wild man to smithereens.

"Sniper... sniper... Chinese sniper..."

He threw away the shell and turned to run.

His legs were shaking, but he ran very fast, as fast as a hare being chased.

He was shouting, shouting so loudly that the whole forest could hear him, so loudly that the gunners who were still in a daze came to their senses.

"run--!!!"

"A Chinese sniper—!!!"

"Run! Run!"

Some people ran after it, some lay on the ground, some hid behind trees, and some squatted next to the ammunition boxes with their heads in their hands, trembling all over.

Those cannons are abandoned. Those shells are left unloaded.

No one listened to the unfinished verse about the "Imperial Army."

At this moment, only a cacophony of fearful Japanese could be heard:

"Where--!!!"

"I can't see it—!!!"

"have no idea--!!!"

"Where did he get that call from?!"

"Two thousand eight hundred meters—!!!"

"impossible--!!!"

"Ono is dead—!!!"

My head's about to explode!!!

"run--!!!"