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

1937年8月16日，夜，22时07分。

Hongkou, the headquarters building of the Japanese Navy Special Landing Force.

The five-story reinforced concrete behemoth stood silently in the night, like a crouching steel glutton.

The shell craters and scorch marks on the wall, the futile greetings from the 88th Division's artillery, now appear even more menacing under the moonlight.

Inside the building, on the third floor, is the command center.

The gramophone creaked and groaned, playing "Kimigayo".

Several Japanese officers sat around a table with liquor and canned goods on it—spoils of war looted from the corpses of Chinese defenders.

Lieutenant Colonel Kosuke Suzuki raised his glass, his face flushed with intoxication:

"Gentlemen, there is no need to worry."

He pointed to the thick concrete wall:

"This building is the symbol of the empire in Shanghai. It is indestructible."

A second lieutenant whispered, "But the lieutenant colonel... all the observation posts outside have been out of contact for two hours. None of the reconnaissance teams sent out have returned..."

"So what?" Suzuki sneered. "The Chinese are always using night raids. Our air force will come to support us at dawn. Then—"

He made a throat-slitting gesture:

"Those rats will be cleaned up."

"Let's go have a drink first."

The building's basement, second floor.

This place was originally a warehouse, but it has now been converted into a temporary bar. Yes, a bar—the Japanese even brought in tatami mats, a sake cabinet, and a few geishas from Nagasaki.

A dozen or so junior officers were flirting with the geisha.

Some people got drunk and started singing folk songs from their hometown.

"Matsumoto-kun, don't look so gloomy!" A major, his face flushed from drinking, patted the young man next to him on the shoulder. "After this battle, I'll take you to Nanjing... I've heard the Chinese women there are very docile."

The young lieutenant named Matsumoto forced a smile, but his gaze drifted to the ceiling—from which came a faint, muffled sound.

It sounds like... the sound of heavy machinery moving?

"Major...listen..."

"What are you listening to?" The major waved his hand impatiently. "Those Chinese outside can't even break through the wall! Let them do what they want! Let's drink!"

Matsumoto lowered his head, looking at the sake sloshing in his glass.

He recalled what he had seen at the observation post during the day—those flying little creatures, those long-range snipers, and that terrifying combat power that wiped out the entire garrison at Bazhiqiao in ten minutes.

Anxiety, like a cold snake, coiled around his heart.

Eight hundred meters outside the building.

West of the Eight-Character Bridge, the ruins of a semi-underground warehouse.

This place was originally a British warehouse, with a concrete roof that was 1.5 meters thick, enough to withstand large-caliber artillery shells.

At this moment, the warehouse has been cleaned and the ground is level.

Lu Bei stood at the warehouse entrance, scanning his surroundings with night vision goggles.

Lin Mo stood motionless like a statue on the ruins of the water tower, three hundred meters away, the muzzle of his QBU-202 gun pointed towards the building.

Lei Gang and Su Yue set up a cordon behind the warehouse—Lei Gang was setting up the QJY-201 drone, and Su Yue's tablet was displaying real-time footage transmitted by the drone.

"All outer outposts have been confirmed cleared." Su Yue's voice came through the earpiece. "There are no living Japanese soldiers within 500 meters of the building."

Lu Bei nodded and looked at the eastern night sky:

"They are waiting for dawn, waiting for the plane."

"What are we waiting for?"

He paused, a cold smile curving his lips:

"Equilateral cloud".

22:11.

In the open space in the center of the warehouse, the air suddenly distorted.

Like pebbles thrown into water, creating ripples. At the center of the ripples, eight figures "squeezed" into this space-time without warning.

The moment Bian Yun opened her eyes, the familiar smell of gunpowder from 1937 filled her nostrils.

The seven people behind him almost simultaneously entered combat mode—

Zhao Tiezhu landed and rolled, his right hand already reaching for the latch of the box containing the cannon barrel.

Zhou Wenyuan's eyes behind his glasses quickly scanned the environment, and his brain began to calculate the coordinate parameters of the artillery position.

Li Yanran pushed herself up with one hand, and with the other hand pulled four miniature drones from her tactical bag—the takeoff procedure was completed within three seconds of her landing.

Liu Dachui lunged directly at the warehouse's load-bearing column, pressing his palm against the concrete surface to assess the structural strength: "This is good! The roof is thick enough! It can withstand a recoil of 155!"

Su Qing opened the medical kit and began checking the vital signs of the people around her—this was a military doctor's instinct.

Fang Chu—the communications soldier Fang Chu—didn't even get up. He sat down on the spot, opened his equipment box, and his fingers flew across the keyboard. Three seconds later: "Communication network established. Command Center 2025, please respond."

And the seventh person—

Dong Yi.

This special forces soldier, with his resolute face and murderous aura, landed without making a sound.

Like a shadow, he silently slid to the warehouse entrance and met up with Lu Bei.

The two looked at each other and nodded.

No words were spoken.

They're both elite soldiers; one look is enough.

"Bian Yun!" Lu Bei strode over and hugged him tightly. "You're finally here!"

"What's the situation?" Bian Yun asked briefly as he took out the latest PCL-181 155mm howitzer from the space warehouse.

"The building is isolated, and the surrounding area has been cleared out. There are probably two to three hundred Japanese soldiers inside, all elite marines. They thought this building was impregnable, and they're having a party inside..." Lu Bei sneered.

Bian Yun looked at the building.

In the darkness of night, it truly resembled an insurmountable mountain.

But what he brought were tools capable of moving mountains.

"Zhao Tiezhu!" Bian Yun turned around. "How long will it take to assemble?"

Zhao Tiezheng quickly connected the bolts using a special wrench. His movements were as fluid as playing a musical instrument; the number of turns for each bolt was already etched into his muscle memory.

"Report! Barrel connection completed!" With a click, the eight-meter-long 155mm barrel was successfully connected.

"Recoil-reverse device installation complete!"

"High/low steering gear - complete!"

"Fire control system powered on – complete!"

Zhao Tiezhu straightened up, wiped his sweat, and glanced at his watch:

"From landing to taking position - four minutes and seventeen seconds."

He patted the cold cannon barrel and grinned:

"Old buddy, it's your turn to speak."