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

On Liu Xing's position, Lei Gang held up his binoculars, his gaze piercing through the smoke, locking onto the person who jumped off the tank and ran in the middle of the column.

Gold-rimmed glasses, white gloves, a military knife, and a uniform that was clearly more refined than that of ordinary soldiers—with general's stars on the collar, trimmed cuffs, and binoculars and a map bag hanging at his waist.

"That guy with glasses," he muttered, "is an official. He's pretty good at hiding, and he runs pretty fast."

He put down his binoculars and turned to Lin Mo: "Lin Mo, did you see that? The guy with glasses, who jumped out of the car. He must be a high-ranking official."

Lin Mo lay prone on the trench, his sniper rifle resting on a sandbag. His eyes were pressed against the scope; through the crosshairs, he could see the man weaving among the soldiers, sometimes left, sometimes right, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, like a startled rabbit.

His finger rested on the trigger, ready to pull it at any moment.

"I saw him." His voice was calm. "It's no use. I'll just snipe him."

His finger was on the trigger, ready to pull it.

"Don't kill him."

Su Yue's voice came through the communication device:

Lin Mo's fingers stopped.

"Let him watch," Su Yue continued, "watch his tanks explode one by one, watch his soldiers fall one by one, watch his 10th Brigade perish."

She paused, then said, "Let him live in fear. Then let him die."

Lin Mo nodded. He removed his finger from the trigger.

The Qilin tank's cannon barrel was slowly rotating. Su Yue sat inside the turret, her eyes pressed against the sight, her fingers resting on the fire button as if on a feather.

Within the crosshairs, two Type 89 medium tanks are traveling in a straight line.

They were standing one in front of the other, less than thirty meters apart.

The tracks rolled over the mud, the gun barrel swayed from side to side, and the vehicle bounced between the shell craters.

The first vehicle was painted with the number "531", and the second one was "532".

They are arranged in a straight line, like two beads strung together.

"Two tanks, lined up in a straight line," she said softly, as if talking to herself. "In this situation, use armor-piercing rounds."

Her lips curled up slightly, a very faint smile.

"One shot, two vehicles."

Her finger pressed the launch button.

"Thump—!!!"

The roar of a 125mm smoothbore cannon is not a "boom," but a "thud"—a low, heavy, muffled sound like the earth coughing.

A huge ball of flame spewed from the cannon muzzle, illuminating the entire position.

The shell flew out of the cannon barrel at such a speed that the eye couldn't keep up.

The commander of the first Japanese tank was Tanaka Ichiro, a captain.

He stood inside the turret, half his body sticking out, holding up binoculars.

A smile played on his lips, for he was getting closer and closer to the Chinese position, and victory was drawing ever closer. He thought to himself, this attack will surely take down Liu Xing.

He was thinking that after the war was over, he would go back to Tokyo and have a good drink.

He was thinking that he hadn't replied to the letter from home yet, and his wife had asked him when he was going back.

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

The light was so bright that he couldn't open his eyes. His pupils contracted sharply, and he opened his mouth to shout "Enemy attack!" but it was too late.

The beam of light had already struck his tank.

The armor-piercing projectile penetrated the tank's frontal armor like a red-hot iron rod piercing tofu. Sixty-five millimeters of steel plate were as thin as paper in its presence.

As it burrowed in, it made a sharp, piercing sound, like fingernails scraping against glass.

Tanaka heard that voice.

That was the last sound he ever heard in his life.

The driver of the Japanese tank numbered 534 was named Kinoshita Masao, and he was quite lucky.

The moment the armor-piercing shell hit him, he was thrown out of the turret by the shockwave.

Kinoshita Masao flew up into the sky headfirst, so his eyes were looking down.

He witnessed this scene—

That Type 94 tank that he was so proud of.

Blasted!

"boom!!!"

It wasn't the explosion of an armor-piercing shell, but rather the secondary explosion of a shell inside the tank.

The shells, neatly stacked on the ammunition rack, exploded one after another like firecrackers.

Flames spewed out of the turret's observation window, from the armor seams of the hull, and from the gaps in the hatches.

The car body split in two from the middle.

Within a dozen meters of the tank, the Japanese soldiers who were charging in a combined arms assault were closely following the No. 531 tank.

They were used to it. From Northeast China to North China, from North China to Shanghai, they had always fought like this.

Tanks drove in front, infantry followed behind. Bullets couldn't penetrate the tanks' steel plates, and artillery shells couldn't destroy their armor. The flesh and blood of the Chinese could not stop the steel torrent.

They thought it would be the same this time.

A Japanese soldier named Masao Ono, twenty years old, had only been in the army for a year.

He followed behind the tank, crouching low, holding his gun, moving quickly.

He had a smile on his face because the tanks were moving forward, and so was he, as the Chinese positions drew closer and closer.

He recalled the village chief raising his wine glass and saying before the expedition:

"Ono-kun, you are the pride of our village."

He remembered the amulet his mother had given him and said:

"Take this with you, and Amaterasu will protect you."

He held the amulet in his palm and pressed it against his chest.

He believed that the Empire's tanks were invincible.

At least, when it comes to fighting Chinese people, we are invincible.

There was also an old Japanese soldier following closely behind the side of the tank, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes squinting.

He fought for more than a decade and saw many Chinese positions crushed by tanks.

He had no doubt that the Empire's tanks were invincible. He patted the tank's armor; the steel plates were cold, thick, and hard.

He smiled and flicked his cigarette ash. "Keep up,"

He said to the Japanese soldier next to him, "Stay close, the bullets won't hit us."

The captain of this infantry-tank combined arms squad is named Watanabe Ichiro.

He walked directly behind the tank, holding a military knife in his hand and shouting "Forward!"

His face wore an arrogant smile, the kind of smile that belongs to a conqueror.

He looked down on the Chinese, their rifles, their positions, and their lives.

He turned around and shouted to the soldiers behind him, "Quick! Follow the tanks! Go on a killing spree on the Chinese positions—"

He didn't finish his sentence. Because the white light arrived.

"boom--!!!"

The tank exploded.

Masao Ono was following behind the tank, closest to it. At the moment of the explosion, he saw the white light, saw the tank inflate like a balloon, and then explode.

Only one thought occupied his mind—how could this be? How could the Empire's tanks be destroyed? How could the Chinese have such weapons?

He didn't have time to think a second thought, because the shockwave had already thrown him away.

After reaching the highest point, he began to fall. The fall accelerated.

He landed in a pool of burning oil. That oil was tank fuel, the blood of the empire's steel behemoth.

They splashed on him, set his clothes on fire, set his skin on fire, set his hair on fire.

He screamed and rolled on the ground, trying to put out the fire. But he couldn't. The fire grew bigger and bigger, burning fiercer and fiercer.

His voice grew softer and softer. Then, it stopped. His body curled up into a ball, like a piece of charred wood.

The amulet lay there, still smoking.

Masao Takahashi followed a little distance from the side of the tank. He saw the white light and heard the loud bang. A thought flashed through his mind—impossible.

Then, shrapnel came flying. A piece of shrapnel the size of a palm sliced ​​off half of his head. On the remaining half, his mouth was still open, his cigarette was still dangling from his lips, and his eyes were still wide open.

His body remained standing for two seconds before collapsing. The cigarette lay on the ground, still smoking.

His eyes were still fixed on the tank, on the fireball, on the burning wreckage. He couldn't believe it. He refused to believe it until his death.

How could the Empire's tanks possibly be destroyed?

Ichiro Watanabe walked directly behind the tank, holding a military knife in his hand. He hadn't finished speaking; the word "penetrate" in "cannot be penetrated" was still stuck in his throat.

Then the tank exploded. A piece of debris flew in and severed his right hand.

That hand, still holding the military knife, flew out and landed three meters away, the tip of the knife embedded in the soil.

Then a second piece of debris flew in and sliced ​​off his left leg. He fell, kneeling on the ground, kneeling in the blood-soaked mud.

His eyes were fixed on the tank, on the fireball, on the burning wreckage.

His mouth was moving, as if he were saying "impossible".

He fought for eight years and never imagined that the Empire's tanks would be destroyed by the Chinese.

He fought for eight years and never imagined that he would die on this land.

Even more Japanese soldiers were caught in the blast wave of the tank explosion.

A Japanese soldier following behind the tank had his internal organs shattered by the shockwave.

Several Japanese soldiers were splattered with burning oil, rolling on the ground like lit candles, screaming in agony. They rolled three times and then lay still.

Those Japanese soldiers who thought tanks were impenetrable fortresses and that the Chinese couldn't penetrate them were now lying on the ground.

Some were burning, some were smoking, some were charred, some were still twitching, and some were no longer moving.

Their eyes were filled with disbelief.

Even in death, they couldn't believe it. How could the Empire's tanks possibly be destroyed?

How could the Chinese possibly have such a weapon?

But no one answered them.

Only the wind blows across that still-burning land.

Only the flames crackled and popped.

Oh, and Kinoshita Masao, who's still flying in the sky, is the one that flies the highest.

Now, he begins to fall.

He landed in that sea of ​​fire, amidst that still-burning pile of wreckage—

Screaming, screaming...

Turning to ashes, remaining on this land...