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

At the edge of the trench, Lei Gang was the first to leap out. With his left hand gripping his family heirloom sword and his right hand digging into the mud, he leaped out of the trench like a beast unleashed, charging directly at the two hundred-plus Japanese soldiers.

Behind him, Gu Yunshan followed suit and rolled out. He carried the large, blunt-bladed sword on his shoulder; the blood on the blade hadn't dried yet, but he rolled very quickly.

Zheng Feng followed behind Gu Yunshan, holding a rifle with a bayonet fixed to the muzzle.

One, two, ten, a hundred—Chinese soldiers surged out of the trenches like a flood bursting its banks. They roared and ran, charging towards the more than two hundred Japanese soldiers who were surging towards them.

Eight hundred people, eight hundred lives, eight hundred knives, eight hundred hearts set on killing the Japanese devils.

Lei Gang was at the very front. His eyes were fixed on the Japanese soldier at the front—a sergeant with a fierce face, holding a military knife and shouting "Banzai!"

When the Japanese soldier saw Lei Gang charging towards him, he also rushed over, his military knife aimed at Lei Gang's head. Lei Gang did not dodge. He sidestepped the knife, and at the same time, he swung his right hand—his family heirloom sword—upward.

A flash of light, like a silver lightning bolt. "Thud—" The blade sliced ​​into the Japanese soldier's chin and emerged from the top of his head.

Blood spurted out, splashing all over Lei Gang's face, hot and smelling of blood. Lei Gang didn't wipe it off, kicked the corpse aside, and continued charging forward.

"Zheng Feng—!!!" he roared, his voice like thunder, "This knife—is effective—!!!"

Gu Yunshan was to Lei Gang's left. His broadsword was slashing at a Japanese soldier's neck; the blade cut halfway in and got stuck in the cervical vertebra, unable to be pulled out.

He didn't pull it out, but kicked the Japanese soldier to the ground, picked up a Type 38 rifle from the ground, and stabbed another Japanese soldier in the chest with the bayonet.

The Japanese soldier screamed, blood gushing from his mouth, his eyes widening like a dead fish, and his body went limp.

Gu Yunshan pulled out his bayonet, and blood dripped from the tip of the blade onto the soil.

Zheng Feng was to Lei Gang's right. His bayonet was plunged into the stomach of a Japanese soldier, who was clinging to the bayonet, preventing him from pulling it out. His intestines were squeezed out of the wound and hung on the bayonet, slippery and sticky.

Zheng Feng didn't pull out the gun. He released the weapon, drew the dagger from his waist, and slit the Japanese soldier's throat. Blood spurted out, smearing his face like a bucket of hot water had been poured over him. He didn't wipe it away, picked up the gun, and continued stabbing.

Liu Laosi rushed forward quickly. His rifle had run out of bullets and the butt had broken off. He used the broken butt to smash the Japanese soldier's head again and again.

A Japanese soldier was smashed to the ground, his head split open. The soldier screamed and crouched down, clutching his face. Liu Laosi didn't stop. He kicked the soldier in the chest, knocking him down, then picked up the bayonet from the ground and stabbed it into the soldier's throat.

On the battlefield, shouts of battle filled the air. More than two hundred Japanese soldiers were surrounded, trying to break through to safety, and even attempting to capture Liuhang.

But those men in gray-blue uniforms didn't give them a way to survive.

Eight hundred men, eight hundred knives, surrounded them completely.

One cut, one head.

One stab, one to the chest.

A rifle butt, a skull.

Li Mancang was at the very front. He was from Hebei, specifically Baoding Prefecture. His family had been tenant farmers for three generations. His parents died early, and he was raised by his grandfather.

He served in the army for three years, fighting his way from North China to Shanghai, killing nine Japanese soldiers and sustaining seven wounds. Half of his left ear was sliced ​​off by shrapnel, his right leg was pierced by a bayonet, and a piece of shrapnel remained in his left shoulder, causing him pain on cloudy or rainy days.

But he wasn't afraid of pain; he was only afraid that the Japanese invaded China and that his grandfather would have raised him for nothing.

Just then, Li Mancang stumbled and tripped over a Japanese soldier's corpse.

In that brief moment, a Japanese soldier charged towards them.

The Japanese soldier raised his military knife and stabbed at Li Mancang.

In a panic, Li Mancang could only use his hands to support himself on the ground and move backward.

But then the Japanese soldier's sword came down.

In that instant, many things flashed through Li Mancang's mind. His grandfather's face flashed before his eyes, that face etched with wrinkles by time, those cloudy but warm eyes.

The day his grandfather sent him off to join the army, he gave him two cornbread buns and said, "Mancang, after you drive away the Japanese devils, come back and we'll eat dumplings."

I passed the old locust tree at the village entrance, the well beneath it, and the cool, sweet water in it. I passed the plains of Hebei, the endless wheat fields, the golden waves of wheat like the sea.

He couldn't go back. He knew he couldn't go back. But he didn't regret it. He just wanted to kill one more Japanese soldier, just one more, that would be enough.

He gripped his gun tightly, bayonet pointed at the Japanese soldier's chest, ready to charge.

I'll trade my life for that Japanese devil's.

It was nothing more than dying together with the Japanese devils; Liu Mancang wasn't afraid at all.

Then he heard gunshots.

"Bang."

The bullet flew from hundreds of meters away and accurately pierced the Japanese soldier's head.

The Japanese soldier's sword stopped in mid-air, the blade less than five centimeters from Li Mancang's neck.

The Japanese soldier's head exploded.

Red, white, sticky, and scalding hot liquid splashed all over Li Mancang's face.

Li Mancang stood there, stunned. His mouth was open, his eyes were wide, and his face was covered in the Japanese soldier's blood, warm and sweet-smelling.

He looked at the headless corpse, at the military knife lying on the ground,

"I'm not dead..." Li Mancang laughed. But as he laughed, tears streamed down his face.

He turned, picked up the military knife, and wiped the blood off the blade on the Japanese soldier's corpse. Then, he raised the knife and roared:

"kill--!!!"

He charged at the next Japanese soldier, covered in blood, his face and even his eyes were bloodshot.

But he wasn't afraid, because he knew that future generations were watching him. Their guns were protecting him.

He won't die; he'll keep killing, kill one, then kill ten more.

Kill until all the Japanese devils are wiped out, kill until victory is achieved, kill until we can go home and eat dumplings.

On the other side, Li Luotou was pinned down by a Japanese soldier. The soldier was a head taller and stronger than him, his arms wrapped around Li Luotou's neck like iron hoops, and his other hand held a bayonet, the tip of which was aimed at Li Luotou's eyes, pressing down little by little.

Li Luotou used both hands to desperately hold the Japanese soldier's wrist, but he was running out of strength. The tip of the knife was getting closer and closer to his left eye: five centimeters, three centimeters, one centimeter.

He could see every tiny scratch on the tip of the knife and smell the lingering blood on the blade.

The Japanese soldier's face was right above his head, ferocious and twisted.

Many things flashed through Li Luotou's mind. He saw the sorghum field in his hometown of Shandong, the bright red sorghum stalks swaying in the wind like a burning fire. He saw his mother standing at the village entrance seeing him off, her hair white, her back bent, clutching two warm boiled eggs in her hands. "Luotou, come back after the war, and Mom will make you noodles."

He couldn't go back. He knew that this time, he might really die.

But he didn't regret it or feel afraid; he only hated that he hadn't killed enough.

He gritted his teeth, using the last bit of strength he had left, and held on tightly to the Japanese soldier's wrist.

Then he heard a gunshot. It was far away, very faint, like a clap of hands.

"Bang."

The bullet accurately pierced the Japanese soldier's head.

At that moment, the Japanese soldier's bayonet was less than half a centimeter away from Li Luotou's left eye; the tip of the blade had already touched his eyelashes.

But the knife couldn't pierce any further. The Japanese soldier's head exploded. But the Japanese soldier's body was still pressing down on him.

Li Luotou pushed the corpse aside, panting heavily. His left eye could still see; he could still see the sky stained gray by gunpowder, he could still see his comrades still fighting, and he could still see that—the Japanese soldier lying in the distance, his head already gone.

He reached out and touched his left eye, touching his eyelid and then his eye. It was still there, still there.

He's alive, he's still alive.

Since we're alive, let's continue killing the Japanese devils.

"kill--!!!"

"kill--!!!"

"kill--!!!"

The brothers of the 021st Brigade, if they are avenging those brothers who died on the Great Wall, they are avenging those brothers who died in North China, and they are avenging those brothers who died in Shanghai.

It was for those who could never stand up again that the knife was plunged into the chest of the Japanese devils.

In the distance, at the edge of the battlefield, Dong Yi emerged from the smoke of battle. Like a shadow, he moved silently among the corpses of Japanese soldiers.

His eyes remained fixed on that man—the Japanese lieutenant colonel.

Masao Matsumoto stood on a rock, sword in hand, roaring, "Charge! Charge! Charge!"

He howled like a wild boar cornered in a corner, his face contorted, his eyes bloodshot, and his veins bulging.

He was shouting, brandishing his knife, giving orders, and—waiting to die.

He didn't know that death was already standing behind him.

Dong Yi circled around behind him. Ten meters, five meters, three meters.

His steps were light, and he drew a dagger from his waist. The blade was matte black, neither reflective nor dazzling.

The lieutenant colonel didn't notice him because he was too focused—focused on roaring, focused on swinging his knife, focused on—surviving.

He didn't know that he had no way out.

There is only one way out: death.

Dong Yi reached out. He covered the lieutenant colonel's mouth with his left hand, the movement was very light, and with his right hand he held a dagger and stabbed it into the back of the neck. The blade went through the cervical vertebrae, through the trachea and through the blood vessels.

There was no sound, no struggle, no screams. Only a soft "sizzle," like a knife cutting into butter. Blood spurted out, splashing onto Dong Yi's hand, burning hot.

The lieutenant colonel's eyes widened suddenly, his pupils contracted to pinpoints, and he opened his mouth to shout, but no sound came out. His throat had been severed.

His body went limp, and his military knife fell to the ground with a crisp clang.

Dong Yi squatted down and wiped the blood off the dagger onto the lieutenant colonel's clothes.

Then he stood up, turned around, and went to look for another Japanese soldier...

The brothers of the 021st Brigade killed them too quickly.

Of the two hundred Japanese soldiers, half were already dead.

He needs to speed up his work.

at least,

Compared to that roughneck Lei Gang...

We need to kill more...