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

The shell exploded in Yamamoto's arms.

It's not a slow explosion, it's an instantaneous explosion.

Flames burst forth from his arms, like a rising sun.

It swallowed up Yamamoto, that Japanese devil, swallowed up the cannon, swallowed up everyone around, and swallowed up all the shells piled on the ground.

One shot, two shots, a dozen shots.

One after another, one sound after another, fireballs rose up one after another, like fireworks during a festival, but ten thousand times more cruel and ten thousand times more bloody than fireworks.

Yamaguchi's body was torn apart by the flames. He didn't even have time to scream before he was blown to pieces.

The cannon was blown away; the barrel flew into the air, spun, and fell, killing another Japanese soldier.

The ammunition boxes were blown to pieces, and fragments flew in all directions, like a rain of iron, like a rain of death.

The Japanese soldiers next to the mortar were instantly engulfed by flames, overturned by the shockwave, and torn apart by shrapnel.

Some Japanese soldiers were blown away, some were burned to a crisp, and some were buried in the mud with only one hand sticking out, and that hand was still moving.

Lin Mo's shot just now blew up the shell in Yamaguchi's arms, sending seven or eight Japanese soldiers away.

One shot, seven or eight heads, beautiful.

But he didn't smile, or even show any expression. It was no different from before, shooting two or four with one shot.

They are all targets, all numbers, all things that should be eliminated.

His crosshairs never stopped.

Because there were still Japanese soldiers in the woods. And there were cannons.

Deep in the woods, on the edge of the explosion, two mortars remained intact.

They were positioned further away, and the gunners lay prone on the ground.

They were afraid of the sniper, afraid of the bullet that would come from who-knows-where, and afraid of the feeling of waiting to die.

After their initial fear, they went completely insane.

Masao Nakamura lay prone next to a mortar, looking up towards the southeast.

That devil who could shoot through two people with one shot and blow up all the shells with one shot.

He hated him, hated him so much he wanted to grind his teeth and chew his bones to pieces.

He suddenly stood up and picked up a shell.

"Baka..." he murmured, his voice hoarse, "Baka yarou..."

He rushed to the gun barrel and stuffed the shell inside.

"Die——!!!" (Go to death——!!!)

His hand was about to loosen.

Two thousand eight hundred meters away, Lin Mo saw the Japanese soldier stand up.

The Japanese soldier was holding a cannonball, his mouth was moving, and he was shouting something.

Lin Mo didn't need to know that his crosshairs were pressed against that mortar.

"Bang."

The bullet flew out of the gun barrel, traveled 2,800 meters, and passed through the shell in the sergeant's arms.

Nakamura's hand was still not loosened. His mouth was still open, his eyes were still wide open, and he hadn't had time to say the word "ne" in "die ne".

Then, the shell in his arms exploded.

Then, the secondary explosion!

This time, all the shells exploded at the same time.

The ammunition boxes exploded like firecrackers, one after another, one after another.

Fireballs rose one after another, each one bigger and brighter than the last.

The two mortars were blown away.

A Japanese soldier was blown into the air. His body tumbled in mid-air, his arms and legs outstretched, like a kite blown by the wind.

Another Japanese soldier was also blown into the air. His body was lighter, and he flew even higher. He had no legs, no arms, only his torso, which tumbled in the air.

He flew over the treetops, over the thick smoke, over the burning sky.

Then he fell down, landing on a charred tree, hanging from a branch, swaying back and forth.

The woods finally fell silent. The gunfire stopped, the explosions stopped, the screams stopped.

Only the flames were still burning, only the thick smoke was still billowing, and only the shattered corpses lay scattered on the ground.

That grove of trees, the place they thought they could hide in, the place they thought they could fight back, became a crematorium.

No Japanese soldiers were still alive; there wasn't even a single intact corpse, nor a single cannon that was still usable.

These Japanese soldiers are free.

They no longer had to be afraid, no longer had to run, and no longer had to wait to die.

Once you're dead, you won't have to be afraid of anything anymore.

Two thousand eight hundred meters away. Lin Mo lay there, his eyes pressed against the scope.

He swept across the woods, across the still-burning wreckage, across the corpses scattered on the ground.

There are no living people in his crosshairs.

They're all dead.

He looked away from the scope, picked up the sniper rifle, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he spoke, his voice barely a whisper, as soft as the wind.

"Leave no one alive."

He turned and disappeared into the ruins, heading towards the Chinese positions...