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

Meanwhile, on the eighth floor of the chemical building.

Li Yunjian stood behind the window of the command center on the top floor.

He did not use night vision goggles.

He looked at the open ground with his naked eye.

The moonlight shone on his face. He was thirty-two years old, and the lines of his face looked as if they had been carved with a knife. His brow bones were high, his cheekbones were high, and there was a two-centimeter-long old scar on his chin, which was grazed by shrapnel during an exercise in the Northwest seven years ago.

His eyes weren't big, but they were very bright, like two steel balls that had been tempered.

Ranked in the top ten for three consecutive years in the military special operations competition.

During a border battle, he led seven men to infiltrate behind enemy lines, destroyed two firing positions, and brought back three prisoners. All seven men were unharmed.

But now, Li Yunjian was unable to participate in the selection to go to 1937, which he regretted.

This regret led him to choose to become the "enemy" in this selection.

"Take your positions."

Li Yunjian took a deep breath, his voice low, and transmitted through the headset to every corner of the building.

"Remember, don't hold back."

He turned around and looked at the two fully armed companies behind him.

More than a hundred people were crammed into this floor. Faces beneath their helmets—young, older, scarred, and unscarred—were visible.

Their training uniforms, like those outside, were covered in mud and soaked with sweat. But on their armbands, each one was missing a badge. The stitches were still there, like a row of unhealed wounds.

"This group of people is going to 1937."

Li Yunjian's voice was not loud.

"Intentionally losing to them here would be to harm them."

No one speaks.

The breathing of more than a hundred people mingled together, echoing in the enclosed building.

"The people here are all those who failed to participate in the selection process."

"I know you're upset."

His gaze swept across every face.

"On the day the selection list was announced, I ran ten laps around the track. When I got to the thirty-eighth lap, I injured my ankle. The army doctor said, 'Are you crazy?' I said, 'Yes.'"

He paused for a moment.

"I'm crazy."

His gaze lingered on the faces of the nearest soldiers.

"Cannot participate in the selection."

"That means..."

"You are not qualified to stand on the battlefield of 1937."

"I am not qualified to fight alongside those predecessors."

His voice suddenly rose a notch, like a knife being drawn from its sheath.

"If anyone can't bring themselves to do it—"

"Just think about it."

"We don't even qualify to go to 1937."

"so--"

Li Yunjian's voice faded away on the eighth floor.

There was silence for about a second.

Then it exploded.

More than a hundred people exploded at the same time.

It's like more than a hundred detonators being ignited by the same fuse.

A sergeant suddenly stood up, his helmet strap digging into his chin.

"Beat them to death!"

The private next to him slammed his rifle butt against the wall.

"I will show no mercy!"

The veteran with twelve years of service in the corner stood up. He held the simulated light machine gun in his hand, slowly sweeping the muzzle across the open area outside the window.

"I can't bring myself to do it, but the Japanese can. I can't bear to hit them, but the Japanese can. I can't let them take the bullets for my ancestors when they were hit by cotton."

A sniper leaned against the window, his eye pressed against the scope. His lips moved, as if he were talking to someone through the scope.

"Sorry, brothers. I'll beat you down today so you can come back standing up tomorrow."

A private who had been crouching next to an ammunition box stood up. He looked young, with the fine hairs on his face still fresh. He hung the simulated grenades one by one onto his tactical vest, saying a word after each grenade.

"hang."

Another one has been hung.

"one."

Another one has been hung.

"indivual."

He hung up the last one, looked up, and his eyes were frighteningly bright.

"Count me in."

Someone in the corner answered, their voice hoarse as if they had a mouthful of sand in it.

"An eight-story building, that should be enough to give them a run for their money."

"Let them know what pain is."

"The pain was excruciating, so intense that I'll remember it for a lifetime. I'll remember 1937, I'll remember the Battle of Shanghai, I'll remember every single battleground."

Another voice chimed in, young but firm.

"We are not the enemy."

"We are whetstones."

"Sharpen them up, sharpen them, sharpen them into knives that can be plunged into the hearts of the Japanese devils."

Li Yunjian stood at the window.

The moonlight cast his shadow on the ground behind him, making it long, stretching all the way to the corner of the wall.

Li Yunjian picked up the simulated heavy machine gun from the gun rack.

The gun barrel gleamed coldly in the moonlight, blue as if it had been quenched in ice.

"Come."

His finger rested on the trigger.

"Let them see what it's like."

What constitutes a true "enemy force"?

Further away from the chemical building, at the edge of an open area.

The moonlight cast twenty moving shadows.

Jin Sheng lay prone on the muddy ground, scanning the entire front of the chemical building. He spotted the figure behind the window with a heavy machine gun mounted on it.

"Window position, heavy machine gun. Weapon grip—"

He paused for a moment.

"He's a veteran. A really old one."

Lei Xiong lay down next to him, staring at the window.

"Li Yunjian".

Jin Sheng turned his head: "You know him?"

"He's been in the top ten for three consecutive years in the All-Army Special Operations Competition." Lei Xiong's voice was low. "None of the soldiers he leads are cowards."

Jin Sheng remained silent for a second.

"Then why wasn't he selected?"

Lei Xiong did not answer.

He stared at the window, at the gun barrel gleaming coldly in the moonlight.

Lei Xiong did not answer.

He stared at the window, at the gun barrel gleaming coldly in the moonlight.

Then he said, "Because he'll beat us up badly."

"It was so bad that if we had gone to 1937, we wouldn't have died."

The first floor of the chemical engineering building.

Lieutenant Ma led six men, who crept along the wall to the stairwell.

The stairs were made of concrete, and the handrail had long since rusted away, leaving only a few steel bars sticking out. The steps were covered with broken glass and loose pieces of cement, making a creaking sound when stepped on.

Lieutenant Ma raised his palm.

The six people stopped.

He listened intently. Footsteps came from upstairs; it wasn't just one person, but at least half a class standing guard at the second-floor stairwell. The footsteps were light but frequent, like a group of people moving back and forth in place.

Lieutenant Ma glanced back.

Xiao He gripped the gun, his lips pressed into a thin line, his nostrils flaring as he adjusted his breathing.

A-Fang slung the simulated explosive pack over his shoulder, freeing his hands. He pulled a dagger from his side, gripped it in reverse, and held the blade against his forearm.

Old Ge held the gun with his right hand, while his left hand hung limply. He leaned his weight slightly forward, using his body to brace against the weight of the gun.

Chen Du crouched behind him. The white mark on his chest gleamed in the moonlight, like a bullseye. He didn't hide behind him; he crouched in the second spot, the closest to the stairwell.

Behind him, two teammates stood on his left and right, like two knives stuck in his sides.

Seven people.

Lieutenant Ma flicked his fingers away from his palm.

One.

two.

Three.

He was the first to rush up the stairs.

His boots made a sharp, grinding sound as they stepped on the broken glass. He didn't quiet his footsteps; he made the noise on purpose.

The guards at the second-floor stairwell immediately opened fire.

The simulated bullet struck the concrete section of the stair railing, exploding in white smoke and scattering debris. Lieutenant Ma's body was pressed against the wall; the bullet grazed his shoulder and exploded in a white burst on the wall.

The six men behind him rushed up.

There was no formation, no cover.

Seven people, pressed against the wall, like a string of shadows strung together, plunged towards the second floor.

Just then, Ma Yan, wounded in the chest, ran into a guard as he rushed up to the second-floor corner. The two men faced each other, guns pointed at one another.

Ma Yan was a fraction of a second faster than him—not because he was quicker, but because he didn't stop at all. He crashed into him first, his shoulder slamming into the other man's chest, and the two of them tumbled together onto the second-floor floor.

The white mark on his chest pressed against the other person.

"I am already 'dead'."

His gun was pressed against the man's chest.

"You must die too."

Pull the trigger.

White smoke exploded between the two.

A white flower bloomed on the chest of the defender.

Ma Yan rolled off the guard and leaned against the wall, panting heavily. He glanced down at the white mark on his own chest, then at the white mark on the other man's chest.

He grinned.

"One for one, but I'm seriously injured, so it's not a loss."

A gap was torn open at the entrance to the second-floor staircase.

Lieutenant Ma led the remaining men into the second-floor corridor.

The corridor was long, with abandoned pipes and valves on both sides. Moonlight streamed in through the broken windows, dividing the corridor into sections of light and shadow.

There was nothing in the bright places.

In the dark, there were gun barrels everywhere.

Lieutenant Ma lunged behind a pipe. Simulated bullets whizzed past his heels, exploding in puffs of white smoke on the pipe.

"Afang!"

A-Fang darted out from behind him, rolling along the ground behind another pipe. He pulled a mock grenade from his waist, pulled the pin, and rolled out under the pipe.

The grenade exploded in the middle of the corridor.

White dust splashed up, like a white chrysanthemum suddenly blooming.

The two defending troops were covered, their vital points were contaminated, and they were eliminated.

Lieutenant Ma rushed out from behind the pipe, his gun pointed deep into the corridor.

Behind him, Xiao He, Lao Ge, and two other team members rushed out one after another.

Six people stopped in the second-floor corridor.

At the end of the corridor is a staircase leading to the third floor.

At least one platoon was stationed at the stairwell.

The gun barrels, like a dark forest, were all pointed at them.

Eighth floor, command center.

The firepower report from the second floor came through Li Yunjian's earpiece.

"The second floor was breached, resulting in the loss of seven lives."

Li Yunjian's expression remained unchanged.

"Third floor, let them up."

"West Building, seal off the ventilation duct entrance."

"Fifth and sixth floors, crossfire, force them towards the seventh floor."

With each command he gave, he tapped the gun barrel with his finger.

"Seventh floor—"

He paused for a moment.

"No one is allowed on the seventh floor."

"Bring them to the eighth floor."

There was a moment of silence in the earpiece.

"Company commander, should we put it on the eighth floor?"

Li Yunjian looked away from the camera lens.

The moonlight shone on his face, on the old scar.

"They promised someone they would blow up the blasting gun on the top floor."

His voice was very soft.

"Give them a chance."

He pressed his eye back against the sight and turned the gun towards the open ground.

"As for the others—"

His finger rested on the trigger.

"Let them charge!"

"Let them know!"

"We're awesome!"

P.S. The leader under tight protection on the eighth floor of the abandoned chemical plant building is General Wang Kangmei.

Bian Yun is here, of course.

When the last of the elite soldiers stormed into the eighth floor, they met General Wang Kangmei and Bian Yun.

I will write about this final battle, but it will not be a long piece.

That was during the seventh trip to 1937!

I will write about this final battle, but it will not be a long piece.

I will write about this final battle, but it will not be a long piece.

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I will write about this final battle, but it will not be a long piece.