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 weeping of 2025.

It wasn't just one person crying.

It was thousands upon thousands of suppressed sobs, squeezed from the depths of the throat, that merged into a low, tsunami.

He opened his eyes.

In the isolation and transfer area of ​​the Eastern Theater Command General Hospital in 2025, the bright white lights made him squint.

Beneath him lay a cold transfer stretcher, and around him lay fifteen other seriously wounded people, also lying on stretchers.

Fifteen seriously wounded soldiers brought back from Wusongkou in 1937.

Then, Bian Yun saw what was outside the glass wall.

The huge observation window was crowded with people.

They are not medical staff, but ordinary people.

Men, women, the elderly, and children. They were dressed in all sorts of clothes—there were office workers in suits who had just finished get off work, deliverymen in their uniforms, middle-aged women running out of the kitchen in aprons, and middle school students carrying backpacks.

Everyone was standing on tiptoe, craning their necks, their faces pressed against the glass, their eyes red, their faces covered in tears.

They are looking at the clouds.

Looking at the wounded on the stretchers.

is crying.

Soon, a medical team dressed in full protective gear rushed in, moving as swiftly as cheetahs.

The stretcher was lifted and quickly transferred along the green channel.

But Bian Yun was gently pressed down by a hand.

It is General Wang Kangmei.

The old man was wearing a military uniform, but without epaulets. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he hadn't shaved. He squatted beside the stretcher, his hands pressing hard on the shoulder strap.

"You're back..." the old man's voice trembled. "It's good that you're back...it's good that you're back..."

Bian Yun tried to sit up, but the old general held him down:

"Lie down. We'll do a full check-up first."

"But what about Wusongkou—"

"Lu Bei and the others are over there," Wang Kangmei interrupted him. "Your most important task right now is to survive. You are the bridge; you can't fall."

Bian Yun wanted to say something, but the medical staff had already surrounded her.

Blood draw, heart rate check, wound examination, disinfection, dressing change...

He was manipulated like a puppet.

But his eyes were always looking out the window.

Looking at those crying faces.

Observatory.

Bian Yun lay on the examination bed, connected to various monitoring instruments. The doctor was performing an ultrasound examination on him, and images of his internal organs were displayed on the screen.

After the doctor left, Bian Yun looked at the screen in the room.

The screen is replaying the last scenes of Wusongkou—

That was the live video feed from his helmet camera.

The screen was shaking violently, and there was the roar of artillery fire.

On the river, Japanese warships were firing wildly.

On the mudflats, shells exploded, sending towering columns of water into the sky. Soldiers huddled in shell craters, their weapons no match for the massive warships.

In the scene, Guo Rugui, with a bandage wrapped around his left arm and his right hand pointing at the river, roars out orders...

The final scene shows Bian Yun throwing himself on top of a wounded soldier, using his body to shield him from shrapnel.

Then darkness fell.

The replay has ended.

The screen began to display scrolling comments.

It wasn't the previous cheers, it wasn't "Long live!"

It's worry.

They are tears.

The barrage of comments was like a waterfall:

"[Beijing, Xicheng District] Comrade Bian Yun, are you injured? How serious is it? Please reply..."

"Brothers at Wusongkou, Pudong, Shanghai...you must survive...you must..."

"【Wuhan, Hankou】Doctors! Are there any doctors here? How are the seriously injured? Have they survived? Please..."

……

One by one, sentence by sentence.

It's not just a slogan; it's a burning, tearful, and heart-wrenching concern.

Bian Yun looked at the screen, her eyes welling up with tears.

He pressed the intercom—the one connected to the public channel:

"This is Bianyun."

"I'm back. I'm okay."

"Most of the brothers at Wusongkou are still alive. Lu Bei, Lin Mo, Lei Gang, Su Yue, Zhao Tiezhu, Zhou Wenyuan... they are all still holding on."

"The fifteen seriously wounded soldiers I brought back are receiving the best possible treatment."

"Please rest assured, everyone."

When he said "Don't worry," his voice choked up.

Because he was also worried.

Wusongkou is still under artillery fire.

Guo Rugui is still on the front lines.

Lu Bei and his comrades are still fighting.

The comments on the screen paused for three seconds.

Then, it burst forth like an explosion:

"Bian Yun spoke!! He spoke!!!"

"It's alright!! It's alright!!!"

"Brothers at Wusongkou, hold on!! We're waiting for you to come back!!!"

"The new China awaits you!!!"

Bian Yun turned off the screen and closed her eyes.

He recalled the last artillery fire at Wusongkou.

I recalled the sinister grins of the Japanese warships.

I am reminded of Guo Rugui's words, "When the War of Resistance is won, I will come to see the new China."

There's no need to wait "someday".

Bian Yun looked at the numbers in her mind.

"Countdown to the fifth return to the Shanghai battlefield - 4 hours."

Today, I will bring the new China to see you.

I'll bring a ship from the new China to see you.

Just then, the door opened.

General Wang Kangmei walked in, followed by several people.

"The test results are in. You're physically fine, just overworked," the old general said. "But the next crossing is in six hours. You need to rest."

Bian Yun sat up: "I can't sleep."

"You have to sleep, even if you can't," Wang Kangmei said firmly. "But before that—"

He stepped aside to make way for the people behind him.

An elderly man with gray hair, dressed in the uniform of a naval admiral, stepped forward. His shoulder insignia featured a gold olive branch and three stars—a vice admiral.

"Comrade Bian Yun, hello." The old man's voice was loud and clear, with a hoarseness from years of sea winds. "My name is Chen Zhenhai, Commander of the North Sea Fleet."

He held Bian Yun's hand tightly:

"The footage of Wusongkou that you brought back has been seen by the entire navy."

"We saw our predecessors, at the mouth of the Yangtze River, using their flesh and blood to fight against the Japanese ironclad warships."

"I saw them...being bombarded by naval guns."

Chen Zhenhai's eyes reddened:

"We feel sorry for you."

"We hate it even more."

"I hate that the Chinese navy was too weak in 1937, and I hate that we couldn't become strong sooner."

He paused, then spoke slowly and deliberately:

"So this time—"

"We'll go with you."

Chen Zhenhai clapped his hands.

The door to the observation room opened again.

Fifteen people filed in.

They all wore uniform white naval service uniforms, with shoulder insignia ranging from second lieutenant to colonel.

Everyone was young, the oldest no more than thirty-five, the youngest only twenty-two. But everyone's eyes were like the sea that had weathered storms—deep, sharp, and bright.

They automatically lined up and stood at attention.

Chen Zhenhai introduced them one by one:

"First, the captain. Qin Feng, 32 years old, former deputy captain of the Type 055 destroyer 'Nanchang', currently an instructor at the Naval Academy. Proficient in ship command, tactical combat, and electronic warfare."

Qin Feng stepped forward and saluted.

"Second, weapons officer. Lin Tao, 28 years old, missile expert, who participated in the finalization tests of the YJ-18 and YJ-21. He can make a missile penetrate the smokestack of a Japanese warship from 100 kilometers away."

Lin Tao saluted, his eyes like an eagle's.

"The third one is the chief engineer. Zheng Tie, 34 years old, has mastered every power system, from diesel engines to gas turbines. His father, Zheng Guodong, was one of the first generation of nuclear submarine engineers in New China."

Zheng Tie saluted, his palms as rough as sandpaper.

"Fourth, Electronic Warfare Officer. Bai Yang, 26 years old, PhD in Electronic Countermeasures from the National University of Defense Technology. She can blind all Japanese radars within a 50-kilometer radius and render all radios as noise."

Bai Yang saluted, adjusted his glasses, and looked calm.

"Fifth, sonar operator. Zhao Hai, 29 years old, three-time champion of the North Sea Fleet's anti-submarine warfare competition. Underwater, his hearing is even better than a dolphin's."

Zhao Hai saluted; his ears were indeed larger than average.

"Sixth, Navigator. Zhou Yuanhang, thirty years old, was able to cross the Pacific Ocean without GPS, relying on stars and a sextant."

"Seventh, Air Defense Commander. Wang Ying, 27 years old, ace operator of the HQ-10 close-in weapon system, has shot down more target drones than some people have eaten meals."

"The eighth is the damage control team leader, Li Gang, 33 years old. During the evacuation of Chinese citizens from Yemen, his damage control team rescued the entire ship from a fire on the third deck."

"Ninth, Medical Officer. Su Jing, 29 years old, attending physician of the General Hospital's maritime medical team, capable of performing open-chest surgery in sea state 6."

"Tenth, communications officer. Sun Bo, 25 years old, can establish an anti-jamming satellite communication link within one minute."

"Eleventh, twelfth..."

Fifteen people, fifteen specialties, fifteen elite soldiers.

They are the epitome of the Chinese Navy in 2025—young, professional, powerful, and…

They all have their own legendary stories.