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

In front of Liu Xing's position, more than two hundred Japanese soldiers who had charged forward had been killed, leaving only one alive.

Gu Yunshan stepped forward without hesitation and swung his sword down.

The blade slashed into the Japanese soldier's shoulder and out through his chest. The soldier screamed, collapsed to the ground, twitched twice, and then lay still.

Gu Yunshan stood on his corpse, holding the large, blunted sword in his hand. Blood was still dripping from the blade, drop by drop, hitting the soil.

He looked up at the sky. The morning light shone on his face, and he exhaled deeply, as if to release all the pent-up frustration of the past three years.

Then, he roared it out with all his might.

"Damn it—I haven't had a battle this satisfying in ages!!!"

His voice echoed in the air above Liuhang, crashing through the smoke of battle, crashing through the ruins, and crashing into the hearts of everyone.

But after he finished shouting, his voice suddenly lowered. Those images flashed through his mind.

Those scenes he didn't want to remember, but could never forget.

He recalled the retreat after the Marco Polo Bridge Incident. Back then, they were still a regular army, with guns, cannons, fortifications, and positions.

They fought, they fought, they died, but in the end they retreated.

As he retreated, he glanced back at Beiping City, at its gray walls and tightly closed gates.

His heart felt heavy, as if someone had stuffed a wad of cotton inside. He thought of the brothers who had fallen on the retreat route—not killed by the Japanese, but starved, died of disease, or died from exhaustion.

Wearing straw sandals and carrying broken guns, they marched from North China to Central China, from the Central Plains to the South China Plain. They died along the way. At that time, they lost.

He recalled that at the very beginning of the Battle of Shanghai, the first battle was extremely fierce.

The Japanese army had artillery and tanks. They didn't.

They used their flesh and blood to block the torrent of steel.

One company is wiped out, then another company is brought in.

One battalion, wiped out, then another battalion. Those young faces, those bodies not yet fully grown, those men who hadn't yet married, charged forward in waves, fell in waves.

They risked their lives to buy time, and their blood to secure their position.

But they kept retreating.

But now, they've won.

It wasn't a Pyrrhic victory, it was a satisfying one.

"That was satisfying!!!" a young soldier roared, raising his bayonet. His voice trembled, but it was loud.

"That was satisfying!!!" an old soldier roared, raising his broadsword. His voice was hoarse but clear.

"That was satisfying!!!"

"That was satisfying!!!"

The number of voices increased from dozens to hundreds, then to eight hundred.

Eight hundred voices broke through the morning mist, breaking through all the frustration and pain.

Zhao Desheng lay prone in the trench, raised his gun, and fired a shot into the air. "Bang—" The gunshot exploded in the morning light, like a thunderclap, like a vow.

"I've fought for three years and never felt this good! One blast, two tanks blown up! One blast, steel balls falling from the sky, killing hundreds of Japanese soldiers! A sniper rifle, a headshot from 2,800 meters away! Tanks, ten times bigger than those Japanese tin cans!"

He paused, then roared through his tears, "My life has been worth it!"

Chen Xiaogou squatted on the ground, clutching his gun, crying like a child. But as he cried, he smiled. He remembered the battle last winter.

He thought of his brothers who were wearing only thin clothes and shivering from the cold, his brothers who had no bullets and threw stones at them, and his brothers who were hungry but still charged forward.

At that time, they lost.

He stood up, raised his gun, pointed it at the sky, and pulled the trigger. "Bang—!!!" The gunshot exploded in the morning light. He roared:

"China will not perish!!!"

Gu Yunshan jumped down from the Japanese soldiers' corpses. He stood among the men in gray-blue uniforms, watching them laugh and watch them cry.

His eyes reddened, but he didn't cry. He took a deep breath, about to say something—

"This is nothing!!!"

A roar erupted from behind the crowd.

Everyone turned to look in the direction of the sound.

Lei Gang stood there, holding the family heirloom sword in his hand. Blood was still dripping from the blade, flowing down the tip and hitting the soil, drop by drop.

His face was covered in blood, his body was covered in blood, like two red-hot charcoal lumps.

He carried the knife on his shoulder, the blood from the back of the blade smearing his shoulder, but he didn't care.

He raised his chin, looking at the people in gray-blue military uniforms, at those whose faces were covered in blood and whose bodies were covered in wounds.

"Right now, we're still holding on! Holding Liuhang, holding Baoshan, holding Shanghai! But—when the soldiers of the new China in 2026 come to our aid, then you'll know—"

He paused, took the knife off his shoulder, and pointed the tip at the sky—a sky stained with gunpowder but beginning to glow. "What does it mean to—satisfy the Japanese devils!"

He turned around to face the still-burning battlefield, the still-smoking tank wreckage, and the Japanese soldiers who were already dead.

"Back then, it wasn't about defense, it was about offense! It wasn't about waiting for the Japanese to come, it was about going to find them! It wasn't about trading lives, it was about crushing them with steel! Tanks cleared the way, planes provided cover, snipers picked off targets, and thermobaric bombs bombarded the ground!"

"Let those little devils taste what it means to deliver a devastating blow!"