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

At the front line of Liu Xing's position, Lei Gang lay prone behind a pile of sandbags, holding up binoculars.

That yellowish-brown wave is surging in, not a test, not a small-scale disturbance, but a full-scale attack.

Infantry, a dark mass of infantry, at least three thousand men, swarming like locusts.

There were at least ten tanks, Type 89 medium tanks, their gun barrels gleaming coldly in the morning light, their tracks rumbling as they rolled over the mud.

"The Japanese tanks and infantry arrived pretty quickly!" Lei Gang put down his binoculars and turned to look at Lin Mo, who had just returned from the clock tower ruins.

Lin Mo held the sniper rifle in his arms, leaning against the trench; the barrel was still smoking.

His face was expressionless, like a knife that had just killed someone and was now sheathed: "If one comes, kill one. If two come, kill both."

Opposite Liu Xing, in front of the Japanese army's lines, stood Naojiro Tenma, commander of the 10th Infantry Brigade, atop a tank.

He wore white gloves, held a military knife in his hand, and the morning light shone on his face, on his gold-rimmed glasses, and on his fanatical eyes.

Before him stood three thousand fully armed Japanese soldiers, a dark mass of them.

"Gentlemen," his voice rang out through a makeshift loudspeaker.

"Today, we will take Liuhang. Liuhang is the last line of defense for the Chinese army on the eastern front. Take Liuhang, and Baoshan will be ours. Take Baoshan, and Shanghai will be ours. Take Shanghai—" He paused, his saber pointing to the sky.

"China is ours!"

Three thousand Japanese soldiers shouted in unison:

"Long live the Emperor!!!"

"Long live the 11th Division!!!"

"Long live Commander Yamamuro Munetake!!!"

"Long live Brigadier General Naojiro Tenma!!!!"

The faces of these Japanese soldiers shone with fanaticism.

They always believed that they were imperial warriors, invincible.

Naojiro raised his sword, the blade flashing in the morning light. His voice boomed from his chest: "Attack—!!!"

Three thousand Japanese soldiers marched forward simultaneously. Ten tanks started up at the same time, their engines roaring, their tracks grinding through the mud and crushing the gravel.

On Liu Xing's position, those men in gray-blue uniforms lay prone in the trenches, watching the surging tide. Some gripped their guns tightly, some gritted their teeth, and some closed their eyes.

A young soldier from Shaanxi named Zhou Xiaoming, seventeen years old, still had a childish look on his face.

He lay prone at the edge of the trench, looking at the yellowish-brown waves, at the tanks, at the bayonets, his voice trembling: "The Japanese... this is a full-scale offensive."

Chen Shitou lay beside him, gripping the gun tightly. His Adam's apple bobbed, and his voice was so soft it was as if he were asking himself:

"This time... can we really hold on?"

Although they had support from later generations and those amazing weapons, ultimately, there were too few of them.

Those earthen-yellow figures, like locusts in autumn, were densely packed together.

Beside him, an old soldier spat. The old soldier's surname was Liu, and his name was Liu Laosi. He was from Sichuan and had fought for five years, from Sichuan to Shanxi, from Shanxi to Henan, and from Henan to Shanghai.

He has a scar on his face, running from the corner of his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth, left from a bayonet fight last year.

He glanced at Chen Shitou, his eyes not filled with mockery, but with something indescribable.

It felt like heartache, helplessness, and a reflection of myself five years ago.

"What are you afraid of?" His voice was hoarse, with a heavy Sichuan accent.

"The Japanese aren't three-headed and six-armed. One shot and they're dead." He patted the rifle in his hand. The stock of the rifle was worn white, the handguard was full of dents, and the rifling inside the barrel was almost worn down.

"I've killed eight Japanese devils with this gun. I'll kill two more today, making it ten."

His fingers traced the eight barbs on the butt of the gun, each bar representing a life.

Chen Shitou looked at him, gripped his gun tightly, and spat, imitating Liu Laosi.

"I'm not afraid," he said.

Zhao Desheng leaned against the trench, his face deathly pale.

He chuckled.

"Exactly, what's there to be afraid of? Killing one is enough. Killing another one is a bonus."

An old soldier leaned against the trench, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

I smoked half of it, then quickly put it out.

This is his last one.

He squinted, watching the surging tide.

His eyes showed weariness and numbness, but not fear.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth, held it in his palm, and carefully placed it in his jacket pocket, as if it were a precious treasure. He patted his pocket and smiled.

"After this battle is over," he said, his voice very soft, as if he were saying it to himself, "I'm going to finish it off."

Gu Yunshan stood in the trench, holding the large, blunted sword in his hand. The blood on the blade had dried, forming a dark red scab, like a layer of rust.

He watched the surging waves without blinking.

He had witnessed the ferocity of the Japanese army. In Northeast China, in North China, and in Shanghai.

He knew these Japanese devils were very fierce.

It cannot be refunded, nor should it be refunded.

He glanced back.

The soldiers of the 021st Brigade lay prone in the trenches, gripping their rifles, watching him.

They were still watching him, still waiting for his orders, still believing he could lead them to hold this position. He turned back to look at the surging tide.

Lei Gang stood beside him, a rocket launcher on his left shoulder, and a communication button pressed with his right hand; his voice boomed like thunder.

"Electronic warfare and communications expert, our tank crew member, Su Yue, can you hear me?"

A woman's voice came through the communication device. It was very cold: "Received, Lei Gang. Are you trying to deafen me?"

Lei Gang laughed loudly:

"The Japanese tribe has attacked with tanks. You drive the Kirin Tank 104 first, come on—bring plenty of ammunition."

Su Yue's voice rang out:

"Okay, I've set off."

She paused, as if remembering something, "By the way, how is my sister, Su Qing?"

Lei Gang glanced back at the rear of the position. There, Su Qing was squatting beside a wounded soldier, holding hemostatic powder in her hand, moving as fast as the wind.

He turned back and said into the communication device, "The Soviet medics are treating the wounded behind the lines. Come over here quickly—let's give the Japanese a big surprise."

Behind Liu Xing's position, behind a pile of bombed ruins, a Qilin tank stood in the morning light.

It wasn't the Japanese Type 89 tank, nor those tiny, tin-plated tanks, nor those thin-walled cans that could be pierced with a single shot.

It's the Qilin Tank. The ZTZ-104 main battle tank. It has a low-slung hull, sleek lines, composite armor, and a 125mm smoothbore gun. The gun barrel is long and thick, like a steel spear pointing straight to the sky, as if to pierce the sky stained with gunpowder smoke.

The vehicle was painted with digital camouflage, with gray and green patches appearing and disappearing in the smoke, like a lurking beast.

Su Yue stood beside the tank. She was wearing a neat combat uniform, and her short hair was blown by the morning breeze, revealing her young and resolute face.

She patted the turret like she was patting an old comrade-in-arms. "104, time to get to work."

The tank engine roared to life. The sound was deep and resonant, like a sleeping beast being awakened.

The tracks rolled over the gravel, the turret slowly rotated, and the barrel of the 125mm smoothbore gun was aimed at the surging yellowish-brown wave.

Su Yue sat in the cockpit, her hands gripping the control stick, her eyes fixed on the battlefield ahead, on the tanks, on the infantry:

"You little devils," she said softly, her voice as light as the wind, but every word was like a nail, "I'll show you what a tank is."

On Liu Xing's position, those men in gray-blue military uniforms saw the tank.

It emerged from the smoke of battle, like a mythical beast stepping out of a legend.

Zhao Desheng lay there, mouth agape, eyes wide. "What...what is that..." he murmured.

No one answered him. Because no one had ever seen such a thing before.

Chen Xiaogou squatted in the trench, looked up, and saw the tank, the long and thick cannon barrel, and the steel behemoth emerging from the smoke.

"Brigade Commander! Brigade Commander!" He tugged at Gu Yunshan's sleeve. "What's that! Is that our tank?!"

Gu Yunshan stood there and saw the tank. His mouth was open, as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't utter a word.

He had seen tanks. Japanese tanks, German tanks, Soviet tanks.

But he had never seen anything like it before. This kind of tank—just by looking at its appearance, you could tell it could crush Japanese tanks into scrap metal.

The Qilin tank drove to the front line and stopped behind the trench. The gun barrel was raised, pointing at the surging tide.

Su Yue's voice came through the communication device: "Lei Gang, I've arrived."

Lei Gang laughed loudly: "See those? Those tiny tanks."

Su Yue's voice was very soft: "I saw them. Ten of them, Type 89, made of sheet metal."

Lei Gang laughed even harder: "Can you fight?"

Su Yue didn't answer. But her gun barrel rotated slightly. In the scope, the crosshairs were focused on the foremost tank.

Her fingers rested on the launch button. A slight smile played at the corners of her lips. Cold, subtle, and—deadly.

"Lei Gang," she began, "guess how many he can penetrate with one shot?"

Lei Gang was stunned for a moment. Then, he burst into laughter, doubled over. "Su Yue, you're even more ruthless than Lin Mo..."