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

It was exactly 10:00 AM.

Both banks of the Yangtze River were in complete uproar.

The people witnessed the entire air battle.

They witnessed how the nine old Hawk III fighters of the Chinese Air Force fearlessly charged towards a Japanese formation that outnumbered them several times over—like nine sparrows swooping down on a flock of eagles.

They witnessed how the "Yangtze River" used those "rockets that could curve" to blow up Japanese planes one by one in mid-air—like a god wielding a thunderous whip.

They witnessed Gao Zhihang's plane crash, the rescue boats, and him being carried onto that giant gray ship.

They saw... victory.

A true, undisputed, and exhilarating victory.

On the north bank of the river, a young mother holding her baby held the child high in the air, calling out repeatedly in the direction of the "Yangtze River" ship, her voice trembling with tears, yet filled with joy:

"Baby, look—that's our boat—our airplane—"

"When you grow up, you'll want to be a navy officer, or an air force officer—"

"Protect our China—protect our rivers—protect our skies—"

The baby in her arms seemed to understand, giggling and waving its little hands in the air as if trying to catch the afterimages of the fighter jets gleaming in the morning light.

Further afield, even more people flocked to the riverbank.

The old man, leaning on his cane, knelt down shakily and kowtowed towards the center of the river.

The young people were waving anything they could find—clothes, hats, pot lids.

The children ran on the mudflats, and then shouted something.

But this statement quickly spread throughout the Yangtze River.

"China will not perish—"

"China will not perish—"

"Look at that national hero, Gao Zhihang—"

"Look at that Yangtze River ship."

"China will not perish—China will not perish—"

The resounding shouts rolled through the blood-red but beginning-to-bright morning of 1937.

On the Ninghai, Chen Jiliang leaned against the shattered railing, listening to the shouts of the people.

He looked at the gray warship on the river.

Looking at the Chinese pilot being rescued beside the warship.

Looking at the people on both sides of the strait who are in a frenzy—those people they swore to protect with their lives—they are now laughing, singing, and living.

He slowly turned around and, facing everyone still standing on the bridge, hissed:

"Brothers..."

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

"Our people...are still laughing...are still singing..."

"Our country..."

He choked up and couldn't continue.

But the sailors behind him understood.

A young sailor, his face covered in blood and having lost his left leg in the recent shelling—he was only nineteen years old, named Zhou Shuisheng, from Ningbo, Zhejiang—struggled to his feet.

With his remaining right leg, he crawled to the broadcast port of the Ninghai, and then shouted out a burning phrase he had heard from that gray warship, a phrase from eighty-eight years in the future:

"The People's Republic of China—!!!"

"Long live--!!!"

Bian Yun heard these words on the bridge of the "Yangtze River".

Qin Feng heard it.

All the crew members heard it.

They looked at the "Ninghai" ship and at the one-armed sailor holding the flag.

Looking behind him, there were sailors, their eyes shining despite their numerous wounds.

Looking across the two sides of the strait, one sees people crying, cheering, and singing.

Bian Yun pressed the ship's broadcast button.

His voice, amplified by a powerful loudspeaker, echoed across the Yangtze River, drowning out all the noise:

"This is the Yangtze River."

To all officers and soldiers of the First and Second Fleets of the Chinese Navy—

To all pilots of the 4th Squadron of the Chinese Air Force—

To all Chinese compatriots on both sides of the Yangtze River—

He paused, his voice like muffled thunder rolling across the sky:

"You've all worked hard."

"Now--"

His voice suddenly rose in pitch, like a bolt of lightning tearing through the sky:

"Please listen to what we have to say—"

"The country you risked your lives to protect—"

"Eighty-eight years later—"

"very good!!!"

"The golden age of the future—"

"As you wish—!!!"

Bian Yun shouted, word by word:

"The People's Republic of China—"

"Long live--!!!"

silence.

Three seconds of deathly silence.

Then--

On both banks of the Yangtze River, the mountains roared and the sea surged.

Not a few hundred, not a few thousand, but tens of thousands of people, using all their strength, speaking in their own regional dialects, their hoarse voices filled with blood and tears, roared back in unison:

"Long live the People's Republic of China!!!"

"Long live!!!"

"Long live--!!!"

And in the command center in 2025—

On the large screen, images and sounds from both sides of the Yangtze River in 1937 were transmitted in real time.

General Wang Kangmei had been standing there for an hour.

He looked at the screaming faces on the screen, slowly raised his right hand, put his five fingers together, and pressed his fingertips against his temple.

salute.

Behind him, all the soldiers—regardless of rank or branch of service—stood up and saluted in unison.

The technicians, the medical staff, and everyone watching this scene through the internal network all stood up, saluted the screen, and gave a salute.

Then, I don't know who started it first—

In the command center, a deep but powerful roar, suppressed for eighty-eight years, resounded:

"The People's Republic of China—"

"Long live--!!!"

The sound was transmitted through the communication lines to every post staffed by Chinese personnel.

The message was relayed to outposts on islands and reefs in the South China Sea.

The missile silos were sent to the northwest.

Transmitted to the space station in space.

Then, through the internet—it spreads to every home, every school, every factory, and every street.

At this moment, 1.4 billion people heard the roar of 1937.

I also heard the roar in my own heart.

They followed the screen, followed the voice that had traveled through eighty-eight years, and roared together:

"The People's Republic of China—"

"Long live--!!!"

"Long live--!!!"

"Long live--!!!"

Sound resonates in time and space.

On both sides of the Yangtze River in 1937, people heard a strange echo—as if countless voices, from a very, very far place, from the future, were shouting along with them.

Gao Zhihang lay on the stretcher, looking at the clear sky outside the bridge, and said softly:

"Brother Bian Yun."

"I think I... heard it."

"We heard a lot of people... shouting along with us."

Bian Yun knelt down and took his hand:

"You heard me."

"That's 2025."

"1.4 billion people are shouting with you."

Gao Zhihang smiled, a smile as pure as a child's:

"1.4 billion..."

"very nice."

"So many people... China... will never be bullied again."

As he spoke, his voice trembled with emotion, almost breaking into tears:

"Brother Bian Yun, do you know? Before you came, our country, our people, were bullied so badly, so badly..."