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

"Da da da da da—!!!"

This is the sound of air being torn apart, the sound of steel colliding with flesh and blood.

12.7mm bullets spewed from the muzzle of the coaxial machine gun like fiery snakes, flying at nearly a thousand meters per second with enormous kinetic energy toward the charging Japanese soldiers.

Almost simultaneously, the Japanese soldiers at the very front all had a hole the size of a bowl explode in their chests.

The Japanese soldiers tried to cover their wounds, but they couldn't. Blood gushed out from between their fingers, warm and smelling of blood.

The bullets from the coaxial machine guns poured down like a torrential rain, hitting the Japanese soldiers on their bodies, heads, hands, and legs.

Smash their heads, pierce their chests, and break their hands and feet.

The flames from the gun muzzle formed a line.

Inside the Qilin Tank, Su Yue closed her eyes.

She didn't need to aim, because there were too many Japanese soldiers.

Some of the Japanese soldiers who rushed up hid behind rocks, thinking that the rocks could stop the bullets.

But 12.7mm bullets are not meant to be used for blocking.

The bullet hit the rock, the rock shattered, and stone fragments flew everywhere. The bullet passed through the rubble and hit his face.

The faces of these Japanese soldiers exploded, their eyeballs flying out of their sockets and falling to the ground, their pupils filled with fear, despair, and regret.

He regretted coming to this land. But it was too late for regrets.

When he set foot on this land, death was the only path he would take.

Behind them, Japanese soldiers continued to charge forward in waves.

They bypassed the still-burning tank wreckage and ran across the land scorched by thermobaric bombs.

These Japanese soldiers knew perfectly well that they would die anyway if they didn't charge, and there was a detachment supervising them from behind.

But Chong still has a sliver of hope of survival—to charge into the trenches, kill the Chinese soldiers, and capture Liu Xing.

Behind him, Yamamuro Munetake stood at the entrance of the command post, holding up his binoculars. He saw the Empire's warriors surge forward like a tide, only to shatter like rocks crashing into a reef.

But he did not order a retreat.

Because casualties are still within a manageable range. Because as long as they charge through, as long as they get into the trenches, as long as they blow up those four tanks—victory is theirs.

"Go! Go ...

Meanwhile, the brothers of the 021st Brigade emerged from the protection of the Qilin tanks, from behind the still-smoking gun barrels, and from the safe zones protected by GL-5 interceptor missiles.

They gripped guns, bayonets, broadswords, and military knives captured from the Japanese soldiers.

Some had bandages wrapped around their bodies, and some walked with a limp. But they made it out. Because they knew—tanks couldn't stop all the Japanese soldiers; some would always slip through.

Those who escaped need to be killed by them.

Gu Yunshan walked at the front, then he turned around to face the soldiers in gray-blue uniforms who were still able to stand up.

"Brothers!" he roared.

"The 11th Division, with 20,000 Japanese soldiers, wants to take Liuhang. They say they want to take Baoshan. They say they want to take Shanghai. What do you think—should we let them take them?"

"No—!!!" Eight hundred voices exploded simultaneously.

They were roaring, the kind of roaring that comes from someone risking their lives.

Gu Yunshan raised his broadsword, the blade flashing briefly in the morning light.

"Then what are we waiting for?" He turned to face the black tide and roared, "Brigade 021—!!!"

"exist--!!!"

"Follow me—kill—!!!"

Gu Yunshan was the first to rush out from behind the tank.

Chen Xiaogou followed behind him, holding a bayonet in his hand, which was still stained with blood.

His eyes were red and tears were still flowing, but he didn't wipe them away, nor was he afraid.

He remembered what his mother had said: "A soldier must not be afraid of death."

He was no longer afraid. Because he knew that after he died, the next generation would live on in his place.

He is dead, but the new China will live on in his place.

He died, but it was worth it.

Zhao Desheng lay prone in the trench, his left leg gone, but he used both hands to support himself on the ground and crawled out from behind the tank.

He climbed slowly and laboriously, still clutching the QBU-202 sniper rifle in his arms, which was running low on bullets.

But he held it as if it were his last vestige of dignity.

He lay on the ground, raised his head, looked at the Japanese soldiers surging towards him, and smiled.

"Come on—!!!" he roared, "I'm right here—!!!"

Chen Jinjin leaned against the back of the tank, both of his legs gone, his limbs tied up with strips of cloth, blood still seeping out.

But he didn't stay behind the tank. He used both hands to support himself on the ground and crawled out little by little.

People around him tried to help him up, but he pushed them away.

He crawled out of the trench, over the rubble, over the shell craters, and to the front of the position. In his arms, he still held the bundle of grenades—six grenades, tied together, the fuses twisted into one.

He lay there, waiting. Waiting for the Japanese soldiers to rush over, waiting to draw the bowstring, waiting to die together with them.

Sun Xiaojun lay on the ground, his legs blown off and tied with strips of cloth, blood still seeping out.

This young soldier, too, did not stay behind.

He crawled out. He used both hands to support himself on the ground, dragging his broken leg, and crawled forward little by little.

His face was covered in mud, tears, and blood. But his eyes shone like stars.

Beside him lay two hand grenades. He held one in his hand, the pin already on his finger. He lay prone on the front line, waiting.

One, two, ten, a hundred. Those men in gray-blue uniforms emerged from behind the tanks. Some leaned on their rifles, some supported their comrades, some crawled, some stood.

But they made it through.

They stepped out of the tank's shadow, into the morning light, into the smoke of battle, and into the land soaked in blood.

Eight hundred men stood outside the trenches, in front of the tanks, at the forefront of the position. Facing the surging black tide, facing more than twenty thousand Japanese soldiers. No one retreated. Because retreat was impossible.

Behind him was Liuhang. Behind Liuhang was Baoshan. Behind Baoshan was Shanghai. Behind Shanghai—was Nanjing.

They cannot retreat. They will not retreat.

They had nowhere to retreat.

"kill!!!!"

Chen Xiaogou gripped a bayonet and plunged it into the chest of a Japanese soldier. The soldier screamed and fell to the ground.

Chen Xiaogou pulled out his bayonet, blood splattering all over his face. He didn't wipe it away, turning to stab another Japanese soldier. His eyes were bloodshot, and he roared, "Kill—!!!"

Zhao Desheng lay prone in the trench, his left leg gone, but he held onto the QBU-202 sniper rifle and blew a Japanese soldier's head off with a single shot.

Then another shot blew up the other one. His eyes were bloodshot, and he roared, "Come on—!!! Come on—!!!"

Meanwhile, the coaxial machine guns of the Kirin Tank 104 beside the soldiers were raised once again.

The machine gun is still there, and it roars again...

………………

2026.

Eastern Theater Command, a comprehensive training base.

The last 827 people stood at the entrance to a primeval secondary forest.

The vegetation was so dense it resembled a wall, reducing visibility to less than five meters.

The forest contains swamps, poisonous snakes, wild boars, and booby traps and mines set up by the "enemy".

General Wang Kangmei stood before them, his gaze sweeping over every face.

"The third challenge—five kilometers of pristine secondary forest. Three hours time limit." His voice was calm.

"Remember—you're not in a competition. You're proving—who deserves to go to 1937."

"Now, let's go."