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

At Liu Xing's position, the smoke of battle had not yet dissipated. The morning light slanted in from the east, falling on the ravaged land—shell craters upon shell craters, and half of the trenches collapsed.

The Japanese soldiers' corpses lay scattered about.

But the living stand here.

More than 800 men in gray-blue uniforms were covered in blood and their faces were full of wounds, but their backs were straight.

Gu Yunshan looked around. He saw the scorched earth and the smoking ruins.

His Adam's apple bobbed, and he spoke:

"Brother Lei, just listening to you speak makes my blood boil. I truly envy those of you born in later generations."

Chen Shitou squatted down beside him, wrapping the wound on his hand with strips of cloth. His left palm had been slashed by a bayonet, the skin and flesh were torn open, and blood was still seeping out.

He bit one end of the strip of cloth with his teeth and pulled hard with his other hand, tightening it until he grimaced in pain.

But when he looked up, his eyes were full of light:

"Yes, yes! In later generations—peace and prosperity, people live in peace and contentment. That kind of life has only appeared in my dreams." He paused, his voice lowering.

"I dreamt that my mother was still alive, I dreamt that my father was still alive, I dreamt that the old locust tree in the village was still there. I dreamt that I got married, had children, and that my children didn't have to serve in the army, didn't have to fight, could go to school, and could have enough to eat..."

Beside Chen Shitou, a young soldier stood at the edge of the trench, holding a bayonet in his hand.

His name is Sun Xiaohu, he is from Jiangsu, he is only eighteen years old this year, and he has been in the army for just one year.

His face still had a childlike quality, with only a soft layer of downy hair on his lips. His left arm had been grazed by a bullet, wrapped in a rag, and blood was still seeping out.

"Sister Su, are there schools in the new China?" Sun Xiaohu asked nervously.

Su Yue looked at him and nodded: "Yes. There are many schools. Elementary schools, middle schools, and universities. Children from poor families can also go to school; the government pays for it, so they don't have to pay tuition."

Sun Xiaohu's eyes widened suddenly. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but couldn't utter a sound.

His lips were trembling, and tears welled up in his eyes. He had wanted to go to school since he was a child.

But his father died early, and his mother raised him alone. The family was so poor that they couldn't even afford to eat.

He had never been to school and couldn't even write his own name. The year he joined the army, his mother saw him off at the village entrance, gave him two cornbread buns, and said:

"Little Tiger, after the war, come back and learn to read." He engraved those two words in his heart—learn to read. He thought about it for eighteen years, for eighteen years, until he was almost driven mad.

"Really...?" His voice trembled. "Children from poor families... can go to school?"

"Yes," Su Yue said decisively.

Sun Xiaohu stood there, stunned.

Suddenly, he stuck his bayonet into the dirt, squatted down, covered his face, and cried. Not a quiet sob, but a loud wail.

He cried like he did when he was a child and had scraped his knee, crying for his mother.

He cried like he had clung to his mother's legs the night before he joined the army. His cries echoed through the trenches.

The veterans looked at him, and no one laughed at him. Because everyone wanted to cry.

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

His name is Ma Desheng, he is from Shandong, and he served in the army for eight years, fighting his way from the Great Wall to Shanghai.

He had been shot in the left leg, causing him to walk with a limp; his right ear had been deafened by a shell, making it difficult for him to hear clearly. He squinted at Su Yue, staring at her for a long time.

Then, he took the cigarette out of his mouth, wiped it on his sleeve, and put it back in.

"Miss Su," he began, his voice hoarse, "Does the new China... have railways?"

Su Yue looked at him: "Yes. There are many railways. High-speed rail, 300 kilometers per hour. From Beijing to Shanghai, it only takes a little over four hours."

Ma Desheng was stunned. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide, and the cigarette fell from his mouth, but he didn't pick it up.

He recalled that ten years ago, he walked from his hometown in Shandong to Jinan, a journey that took three days. From Jinan, he took a train to Beiping, a journey that took a day and a night. From Beiping to Zhangjiakou, it took another half a day.

At that time, he thought, if only the train could go faster, he could get home sooner and see his mother a little longer.

"Three hundred kilometers..." he murmured, "an hour..." He picked up the cigarette from the ground, wiped it on his clothes, and put it back in his mouth.

"My biggest wish in this life is to ride a train from south to north, from east to west, and see just how big China really is." He laughed, a rather unsightly laugh, missing two front teeth, but very bright. "After the war is over, after the new China is established, I'm going to buy a ticket and ride from Shanghai to Beijing, from Beijing to Guangzhou, from Guangzhou to Kunming, hehe~"

There was also a young soldier standing at the back of the crowd. His name was Liu Changhe, from Hunan Province. He was only seventeen years old and had been in the army for less than half a year.

He was so thin he looked like a stick, as if he could be blown over by the wind.

But he stood very straight, like the gun in his hand that was longer than his arm.

He didn't speak, he just listened. He listened to Chen Shitou crying, Zhou Dehou speaking, Sun Xiaohu shouting, and Ma Desheng laughing. His lips trembled, and his hands trembled too.

Su Yue is a girl, and she is very meticulous.

She saw him.

She walked over and stood in front of him.

He looked at Su Yue, his eyes were red, but he didn't shed any tears.

"Sister Su," he began, his voice trembling, "Does the new China...have electricity?"

Su Yue was taken aback: "Electricity?"

Liu Changhe nodded and swallowed hard.

"Our village doesn't have electricity. We use kerosene lamps at night, and we have to use the wicks sparingly, as one wick can last a month. My mother used to do needlework at night, and the light from that lamp ruined her eyes."

His voice trailed off, "I was thinking... in the new China, wouldn't it be bright everywhere at night? No need for kerosene lamps, no need to save on wicks, just pull a cord and the light comes on?"

Su Yue looked at him, at this seventeen-year-old boy, at those eyes that had never seen an electric light before.

She nodded. "There's electricity. Electricity is everywhere. In the city, in the countryside, every household has electric lights. Just pull a cord and the light turns on. At night, the whole city is as bright as day."

Liu Changhe was stunned. His mouth was open, his eyes were wide, his hands were trembling, his lips were trembling, and his whole body was shaking.

He couldn't imagine such a scene. The whole city as bright as day? No need to save on light bulb wicks? Just pull a cord and the lights turn on?

He wanted to cry, but he held it back. He just stood there, holding his gun, looking at Su Yue, at this woman from the future, at those eyes that shone like lamps.

"I want to see..." he murmured, "I want to see nights like that..."

Just then, Lei Gang walked over. The family heirloom sword was stuck in the soil, the blood on the blade still wet, dripping down the tip, drop by drop, hitting the soil.

He stood there the whole time, listening to what they were saying. He heard Chen Shitou miss home, Zhou Dehou want to grow oranges, Sun Xiaohu want to go to school, Ma Desheng want to ride a train, and Liu Changhe want to see electric lights.

His eyes reddened, but he didn't let the tears fall.

He spoke, his voice not loud, but every word carried a scalding heat, like iron just pulled from a fire.

"Without your heroic and fearless resistance against the Japanese invaders, there would be no powerful China as we know it today! Even in 2026, your deeds will be widely known and admired!"

He paused, his gaze sweeping across each face. "You envy us. We envy you too—we envy that you could stand tall in the darkest times, without kneeling, and that you could charge forward in the most desperate times, without retreating."

Gu Yunshan was stunned for a moment. He stood there, holding the large, blunted sword in his hand; the blood on the blade had already dried.

He lowered his head, looking at his feet and the blood-soaked earth beneath them.

"Standing, not kneeling. Charging forward, not retreating." He murmured, as if chewing on these words, as if savoring their meaning. "Brother Lei, I'll remember those words."

Su Yue jumped off the Qilin tank. Her short hair fluttered in the smoke, like a small flag.

She walked up to Gu Yunshan, stood beside him, and looked at the people in gray-blue military uniforms.

"Moreover—when Bian Yun returns, and when he travels through time a few more times, you might just witness the possibility of a new China."

Gu Yunshan's eyes widened suddenly. He almost dropped the knife in his hand; he quickly gripped it tightly until his knuckles turned white.

He looked at Su Yue, at this woman who came from the future.

"Bian Yun." Gu Yun murmured the name, as if chanting a spell, as if reciting a hope.

"Bian Yun... I'm really curious about what this Bian Yun you're talking about looks like. How can you people—Lei Gang, Lu Bei, Lin Mo, Dong Yi, and you, all such capable people—admire him so much?"

Su Yue didn't answer immediately. She turned her head and looked east. There, the sun was rising, its golden light filling the sky and spreading over the still-burning battlefield.

A figure appeared in her mind.

She recalled the first time she met Bian Yun, in a conference room in the Eastern Theater Command. He was wearing ordinary training uniform, tall and thin, and looked like a friendly older brother next door.

But he sat there with his back ramrod straight, his eyes bright, as bright as knives.

He spoke softly, but every word was clear.

He said, "I want to go to 1937."