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

The miracle before his eyes left Gao Zhihang stunned.

He even forgot to parachute.

He just stared blankly—

He watched as the gray warship unleashed a brutal massacre in the middle of the river, a massacre he could not comprehend.

Those Japanese warplanes that once blotted out the sky like locusts were as fragile as paper in the face of those "white rockets" fired from the ships.

A Type 96 carrier-based attack aircraft attempted a dive, but was shot down in mid-air by a missile just as it entered its attack path. The resulting fireball illuminated the entire river surface.

Within five minutes, twenty-five Japanese aircraft were reduced to burning fragments of the twenty-three regiments, which then crashed into the Yangtze River.

What... what kind of ship is this...?

Gao Zhihang murmured to himself, and then—he suddenly laughed.

He grinned widely, bursting into loud laughter, laughing so hard his whole body trembled, and tears streamed down his face.

"good--!!!"

"Well done!!!"

He gripped the control stick again—even though the Hawk III fighter was riddled with holes, the instrument panel was shattered, and most of the control cables were broken.

He spoke into the radio, using his last ounce of strength, and roared hoarsely:

"Brothers—watch closely—!!!"

"This is our Chinese ship—!!!"

"We in China—now have ships like this too—!!!"

On the Yangtze, Bai Yang—the electronic warfare officer—tapped the control panel: "Chinese pilot communications detected! Locating!"

Bian Yun heard that voice.

Hoarse, broken, stained with blood, tinged with laughter, tinged with an almost manic ecstasy—

It was the ecstatic joy of a nation suddenly seeing light in its darkest hour.

"Gao Zhihang..."

Bian Yun said in a low voice, her eyes instantly reddening.

He remembered that voice. In historical records, in those black-and-white images, the last words of this commander of the 4th Squadron of the Chinese Air Force were:

"As a member of the Chinese Air Force, how can we allow enemy planes to fly overhead?"

Then, on November 21, 1937, at Zhoujiakou Airport, he rushed towards his own fighter plane during an enemy air raid, attempting to take off to intercept the enemy, but was hit by a bomb and died in battle.

He was only thirty years old.

But now—

No, not anymore.

Bian Yun took a deep breath, pressed the ship's broadcast button, and the sound was like the clash of steel:

"Attention everyone——!"

"Gao Zhihang, commander of the 4th Squadron of the Chinese Air Force, has suffered severe damage to his aircraft and is about to crash into the river!"

"Coordinates have been marked!"

"Damage control team, rescue team, prepare immediately!"

"Full speed ahead, speedboats!"

"Get them out of here!!!"

"This is an order—!!!"

The air battle ended completely after seven minutes and twelve seconds.

Of the twenty-five Japanese aircraft, twenty-three were reduced to burning wreckage on the river.

The pilots of the remaining two Type 96 carrier-based fighters were terrified.

They had never seen such a weapon before, nor such destructive power—they dared not approach, turned tail and fled, disappearing into the eastern horizon.

The Chinese Air Force paid the price.

Of the nine Hawk IIIs, four were shot down and three were severely damaged.

Le Yiqin's plane, trailing black smoke, made an emergency landing on the mudflats on the north bank. The belly of the plane plowed a trench dozens of meters long in the mud, but the woman climbed out, her face covered in blood, waving towards the center of the river.

Gao Zhihang's plane was completely out of control.

The left wing broke off, the engine stopped, and the plane, like a falling leaf, spun and plummeted towards the river.

One hundred meters.

Fifty meters.

Twenty meters —

Just as the nose of the plane was about to hit the water, three high-speed assault boats from the stern of the "Yangtze River" had already rushed to the crash site.

Damage control team leader Li Gang was the first to jump into the icy river water.

The Yangtze River in October was bitterly cold. But he didn't care and swam like a fish toward the sinking wreckage.

Gao Zhihang had just struggled out of the wrecked cockpit when the icy river water rushed up to him.

A sharp pain shot through his left leg—it was probably broken, and he couldn't move it. The shockwave from the explosion made him dizzy, and his ears were ringing.

The river water reached my chest and then my neck.

He closed his eyes, preparing to face death.

Yeah.

He died in the river where his own people lived.

He died on the morning of victory.

Then he felt a strong hand grab his arm.

"Hurry up!"

A young but steady voice rang in his ear, speaking standard Mandarin with a crisp and clear tone that Gao Zhihang had never heard before:

"I am Li Gang, the damage control captain of the Chinese Navy's 'Yangtze River'—I'm here to rescue you!"

Gao Zhihang opened his eyes.

The river blurred his vision, but he saw a young face covered in water droplets, yet with eyes as firm as a rock.

I noticed his strange, dark blue, tight-fitting combat suit.

I noticed the bright red armband on his left arm—five gold stars on a red background.

"You..." Gao Zhihang opened his mouth, but river water rushed in, and he coughed, "Are you really the Chinese Navy?"

Li Gang grinned, revealing a set of remarkably good teeth, a rare sight in 1937:

"Genuine or genuine."

"Hold on, Captain!"

He and another teammate, one on each side, supported Gao Zhihang and swam vigorously toward the assault boat.

The river water was cold, but Gao Zhihang felt something burning inside him.

9:55 a.m.

Gao Zhihang was carried onto the deck of the "Yangtze River".

Medical officer Su Jing rushed over immediately and used a portable scanner to examine his injuries: a closed fracture of the left tibia, multiple soft tissue contusions, and a mild concussion, but his vital signs were stable.

"Your left leg needs to be immobilized, and you need to rest after a concussion," Su Jing said, taking a polymer splint from the medical kit. "But here, these are minor injuries. You'll be able to run and jump again in a month."

Gao Zhihang lay on the stretcher, struggling to sit up:

"My brothers... Yue Yiqin and the others..."

"rest assured."

A voice came from the side.

Gao Zhihang turned his head and saw a young man walk over and squat down next to him.

The man was wearing the same dark combat uniform as the other sailors, but his demeanor was different—more composed, with a certain... sense of having traversed something in his eyes.

"Yue Yiqin made a successful emergency landing and is safe. Someone is already waiting for him," Bian Yun said.

"We are searching for the other pilots who parachuted. It's dawn, the river is calm, they will be alright."

Gao Zhihang finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he looked up and carefully examined Bian Yun, the young faces around him, and the interior of the warship, the glowing screens, the instruments he couldn't understand at all, and the sleek design that seemed to belong to a different era.

"You..." His voice trembled, "Where did you come from?"

Bian Yun looked into Gao Zhihang's eyes and said softly but clearly:

"We come from the future."

"From the new China in 2025."

Gao Zhihang was stunned.

2025 years?

New China?

The combination of these words was beyond his comprehension. But he saw the red flag.

I saw this ship—the ship that annihilated the entire Japanese air force group in minutes.

He witnessed the battle just now—it wasn't a battle at all, it was a demonstration, a demonstration of what "generational gap" and "crushing" meant.

He slowly reached out and grasped Bian Yun's hand, holding it tightly, like a drowning person clutching a piece of driftwood.

"The future... is it alright?"

Bian Yun nodded vigorously:

"it is good."

"When people live in peace and contentment, children can go to school, and the country is prosperous and strong."

"The navy has aircraft carriers—three of them, each ten times larger than this one."

"The Air Force has a stealth fighter called the J-20, which can cruise at supersonic speeds and is invisible to radar. It is a hundred years more advanced than the Zero."

"No one will dare to bully us anymore."

"Never again."

As Gao Zhihang listened, his eyes slowly brightened.

Like two charcoal embers about to go out, they were thrown back into dry wood and burst into a raging fire.

He grinned, smiling like a child seeing an airplane for the first time:

"That's good……"

"Then it's worth it..."

"We risked our lives here...it was worth it..."

Looking at his smile, Bian Yun suddenly said:

"By the way, Captain Gao."

"Next time I come, I'll bring you a gift."

Gao Zhihang blinked: "A gift?"

"Hmm." Bian Yun nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. "One J-20."

Gao Zhihang was stunned.

J-20?

What Bian Yun just mentioned, the one that can turn invisible, cruise at supersonic speeds, and is a hundred years more advanced than the Zero...?

"Really...really?" His voice trembled.

"Really." Bian Yun paused, imagining the scene:

"When the time comes, you'll fly your J-20 over the heads of the Japanese devils."

"Let those Japanese devils see what the Chinese Air Force is all about."

Gao Zhihang's eyes lit up completely.

It was a light that was almost like burning.

He struggled to sit up, but Su Jing held him down. He still nodded vigorously, repeating the words over and over:

"well……"

"The J-20...that sounds impressive..."

"It will definitely be even more powerful when used..."

Bian Yun smiled.

He was also somewhat looking forward to it—looking forward to seeing the expression on the face of the father of the Chinese Air Force when he sat in the cockpit of the J-20.

I look forward to seeing those hands gripping the control stick of a future fighter jet.

I look forward to seeing those eyes, looking down through the panoramic helmet of 2025, at the land he swore to protect with his life.

That would definitely be...exciting...

P.S. If you've made it this far, please give me a thumbs up to encourage me to write more! ᓖ( •́︿•̀ )ᓙ