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

When the darkness faded, the first sound Bian Yun heard was the silence of 2025.

He opened his eyes to find seven other stretchers beside him. The seven seriously wounded soldiers he had brought back from 1937 were all still alive and breathing steadily.

But it was at this moment that Bian Yun saw the night of 2025, as bright as day.

Outside the military hospital.

people.

Thousands upon thousands of people.

They weren't gathered together, but lined up—standing orderly along the edge of the square and along both sides of the road.

There was no crowding, no noise; everyone just stood quietly, gazing in the direction of the hospital building.

Everyone was holding something in their hands.

It's not a banner, it's not a national flag—it's something more concrete and relatable to everyday life.

A middle-aged man is holding a roast duck—a genuine, glistening Peking duck—in a transparent insulated bag.

The woman next to me was carrying a clay pot, the lid slightly ajar, and steam was rising from it, carrying the aroma of chicken soup.

Young people carry milk tea, children hug teddy bears, and elderly people lean on canes, holding a flower in their hands.

Further away, a huge banner slowly unfurled, white background with red characters, each character as tall as a person:

Welcome home, heroes!

Bian Yun turned around, and at another corner, the scene was even more breathtaking.

That was the square in front of the hospital's main entrance, which had now been transformed into a temporary... exhibition area.

On the left are the Long March 5 rocket, the Tiangong space station, the Fujian aircraft carrier, and the J-20 fighter jet...

Although they are all models, each model is accompanied by a person in a different uniform—an astronaut's blue uniform, a navy officer's white uniform, and an air force flight suit.

On the right, the scene is more relatable: deliverymen ride electric bikes, food delivery drivers carry insulated boxes, sanitation workers push sweepers, construction workers wear safety helmets... people from all walks of life, every ordinary person, are standing there.

They didn't speak.

I was just looking at the hospital building.

There was so much in his eyes: respect, gratitude, and heartache.

Bian Yun bowed deeply to them.

The seven soldiers who returned from 1937 were so shocked by this scene that they were speechless.

They slowly raised their heads and gave a military salute to the Chinese people of later generations.

Then, thousands of people returned a standard military salute to them.

Upon entering the military area, the elevator began to ascend.

Bian Yun closed her eyes.

Those words surfaced in my mind:

[Third mission complete. 7 wounded treated.]

[Countdown to the 4th crossing: 7 hours and 59 minutes]

[Number of people who can pass through: 8]

[Portable supplies: 8 cubic meters]

The numbers are jumping around.

7:58:47

7:58:46

……

At the military hospital, Xiao Sichuan looked at the previously empty bed in the ward, where there was now a person.

The two wounded soldiers looked at each other.

Time stood still for three seconds.

"Brother Wang...?" Little Sichuan spoke first, his voice trembling.

The wounded soldier—Wang Dazhuang—suddenly widened his eyes.

"Little...Little Sichuan?! You...you also..."

The man did not shed tears, but he did not go to the sad place.

Wang Dazhuang looked at Xiao Sichuan: "I thought...I thought you were dead..."

"We're not dead...we're not dead..." Little Sichuan cried too: "We're all alive, we're all alive, and we even saw the new China."

The nurse quietly stepped aside, leaving them some space.

Two soldiers who survived the war in 1937 are in a hospital room in 2025. One sits on the bed, and the other uses a walker. They look at each other, laughing and crying at the same time.

Then, as if he suddenly remembered something, Brother Wang struggled to get out of bed.

"What are you doing?!" Little Sichuan hurriedly tried to help him up.

"The window...outside the window..." Brother Wang pointed to the window, "Where...is this?"

Little Sichuan smiled, a smile that conveyed an indescribable sense of pride and relief:

"Brother Wang, look out the window."

"This is..."

"We earned this with our lives—"

"The New China"

…………

Brother Wang was helped to the window.

He saw it.

The night view of Shanghai in 2025.

This was not the Shanghai he remembered—the Shanghai with concessions, foreigners, and Japanese gunboats.

This is Shanghai: the Oriental Pearl Tower, Jin Mao Tower, Shanghai Tower, Shanghai World Financial Center...

The lights of skyscrapers resembled an inverted galaxy. Cars streamed along the elevated highways, their headlights drawing golden lines. Cruise ships on the Huangpu River shone with colorful lights, while the Bund across the river was ablaze with illumination.

Further away, he could see points of light moving in the night sky—not airplanes, but a drone show, forming four large characters:

Welcome home.

Brother Wang's hand was pressed against the glass.

My fingers turned white from exerting force.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no sound came out. Only tears flowed uncontrollably, running down his cheeks and dripping onto his hospital gown.

"It was worth it..." he finally managed to squeeze out, his voice terribly hoarse, "It was worth it...it was worth it..."

He turned around, looked at Xiao Sichuan, looked at Bian Yun, looked at everything in the ward, and cried and laughed at the same time:

"Brothers...do you see that...?"

"Our defense...wasn't in vain..."

"This land...it's fucking...beautiful..."