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

"Lin Mo, stop playing around! The Japanese are charging! Those tiny tanks are coming!"

Lei Gang's voice exploded in the headphones.

Lin Mo glanced in Lei Gang's direction.

He nodded, indicating that he understood.

In the woods, the Japanese soldiers were still lying on the ground.

They had only one thought in their minds: to live, to live, to live.

But they didn't know that the unseen devil was watching them from 2,800 meters away.

Lin Mo's crosshairs swept across the low-lying area, across the heads huddled together.

He counted them; there were still dozens left.

He could kill them all with one shot each, but it would take time, bullets, and he would have to fire them one by one.

His finger was on the trigger, but he didn't pull it. Because it wasn't worth it.

Those Japanese soldiers were no longer worth him firing them one by one.

Lin Mo was waiting, waiting for a better opportunity, a chance to eliminate all the Japanese devils at once.

At the same time, Lei's words just now also made Lin Mo realize that his time was running out.

Those tanks, those infantry, and that surging, yellowish-brown tide are the real threat.

These people in the woods were just remnants of the army.

But he couldn't let these Japanese soldiers go, because if he did, they would get back up, take over the pillbox, and aim at Liu Xing's position again.

Now, he needs to conserve bullets and increase efficiency.

To let those dozens of Japanese soldiers run out on their own—is to invite them to their deaths.

"Bang."

The bullet flew out of the gun barrel, traveled 2,800 meters, and flew over the head of a Japanese soldier.

The Japanese soldier was lying behind a tree, his face buried in the mud.

Suddenly, he heard gunshots, very close, as if they were right next to his ear.

Then, he felt a chill on his head, and something flew past his scalp.

He reached out and touched it, feeling a bald patch of scalp. His hair was gone, sliced ​​off by a bullet. If he had been just an inch lower, his head would have been gone.

Then he started screaming, screaming like a pig being slaughtered.

「あああああ——!!!」

The scream echoed through the woods like a knife, slicing through the silence.

The Japanese soldiers lying prone heard the scream. They didn't know what had happened, but they knew that someone else had died.

No, he's not dead. That Japanese soldier is still alive, still yelling.

But that scream was more terrifying than death.

"Bang."

Another bullet. This time, it hit a Japanese soldier's ear.

The bullet flew from his side, severing the base of his left ear. The ear flew off and landed in the nearby dirt, still moving.

Blood gushed from his ear piercings, smearing his face and streaming down his cheeks, into his mouth—salty and fishy. He covered his ears, rolled on the ground, and screamed in agony.

「あああ——!!!」

"Erが——!!!"

"Earache い——!!!"

Fear spread like a plague. The Japanese soldiers lying on the ground began to tremble and shudder, and began to crawl deeper into the woods.

They didn't know when they would die, where the next shot would land, or what game the devil was playing.

He could have killed them, but he didn't. He shaved their heads, beat their ears, and toyed with them like a cat with mice.

"Terror...terrible..."

「鬼だ……あいつは鬼だ……」

"Assist...Assist..."

Xiao Lin lay on the ground, touching his bald head. His fingers were still trembling, and his scalp was still shaking.

He dared not look up, dared not move, dared not make a sound. He feared that the next bullet would not just rip off his hair, but his head.

He was afraid of that devil; he'd had his fun and didn't want to play anymore. He was afraid of death. He didn't want to die. He was only twenty-three, not yet married, not yet able to take care of his parents, not yet able to go back to Hokkaido to see that sea.

His tears streamed down his face, mingling with mud and blood. But he dared not cry out loud; he simply lay there, weeping silently.

Fear can spread. But when fear reaches its extreme, it transforms into something else—anger.

A sergeant suddenly stood up. His name was Masao Yamaguchi, a sergeant, thirty years old, who had fought in many battles. He had fought from Manchuria to North China, and from North China to Shanghai.

He had fought many battles, and he thought he was no longer afraid of death.

But today, he was afraid. He was afraid of the unseen demon, afraid of the bullet that flew from who-knows-where, afraid of the feeling of waiting to die.

His face was covered in blood—not his, but the blood splattered on his face by the man next to him whose ear had been cut off.

The blood was still warm, flowing down his cheeks and into his mouth, salty and fishy.

"Baka—!!!" he roared, his voice ripped apart, like the howl of a trapped beast, "Baka yarou—!!!"

He turned to face the Japanese soldiers who were still lying prone.

His eyes were filled with anger:

"We are warriors of the Empire! When have we ever suffered such humiliation! When have we ever died so miserably! Lying here waiting to die is worse than fighting that devil!"

Those who were lying down raised their heads. Some Japanese soldiers were still trembling, some were still crying, but some Japanese soldiers began to stand up.

One head, two heads, three heads. Fear is contagious, and so is anger.

They looked at Yamaguchi, at the sergeant, at his blood-soaked face. They remembered their own identities—Imperial soldiers, Imperial Army warriors, soldiers of the Black Card Army.

They shouldn't be lying here waiting to die, they shouldn't be crawling like worms, they shouldn't be so scared of an unseen demon that they wet their pants.

"That's it! Let's fight that devil—!!!"

「Killしてやる——!!!」

"Ichio Kazuya——!!!"

They stood up like madmen and ran toward the cannons that had been thrown down.

There were also three Type 92 infantry guns and dozens of shells. They had plenty of shells, and although they couldn't pinpoint the sniper's exact location, they knew the general direction—southeast.

With so many shells hitting in that direction, you're bound to get one hit. One hit is enough.

Like a pack of wild dogs driven to the brink, they burst out of the low-lying area and ran towards the cannons.

The fastest runner was Yamaguchi; he was the first to reach the cannon. He grabbed the barrel and forcefully adjusted the firing angle. His eyes were bloodshot, he was cursing, and his face was covered in blood.

"Baka yarou—!!!"

Other Japanese soldiers followed. Some carried shells, some adjusted the firing angle, and some loaded them.

"Morning——!!!" (Hurry——!!!)

"Ban をよこせ——!!!" (Bring the cannonball over——!!!)

"Southeast direction—!!!"

"Send them all!!!"

Two thousand eight hundred meters away, Lin Mo lay prone, his eyes pressed against the scope. In his crosshairs, the Japanese soldiers were running towards their artillery positions. Some were carrying shells, others were adjusting the firing angle, and still others were loading them.

They ran very fast, their faces showing fear, anger, and a kind of dying madness.

Lin Mo's lips slowly curved into a smile, a faint, cold one. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

He wanted to send those Japanese devils and their cannons to their deaths.

His finger was on the trigger.

But they didn't deduct any, because it wasn't enough. The Japanese troops weren't concentrated enough.

He wanted to wait, wait for more Japanese soldiers to surround them, and wait for the most opportune moment.

Yamaguchi picked up a shell, his face contorted in rage. His face was covered in blood, his eyes were bloodshot, and his lips were trembling.

He held the shell as if it were his last hope, as if it were his last ounce of anger. The shell was heavy and cold; he held it as if it were a hot potato.

"Kill you all——!!!"

He walked to the cannon barrel and shoved the shell in. A grotesque grin spread across his face.

Just as he was about to let go, he heard a gunshot. It was far away, very soft, like a clap of hands.

Then he saw the bullet. It flew from the southeast, trailing light, trailing wind, trailing death.

It didn't hit his head, it didn't hit his chest, it hit the shell in his arms...

"Nani—?" (What—?)