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

Bian Yun's voice boomed like thunder:

"Target: Japanese T1 tank! Armor-piercing rounds, fire!!!"

The first 125mm smoothbore gun to be assembled roared across the scorched earth of Luodian.

BOOM!

The fireballs ejected from the muzzle brakes formed a continuous mass, and the scorching air currents lifted up all the loose soil within a three-meter radius, while gravel and spent shell casings rained down on the armor.

Target distance: 3,000 meters.

Flight time: 1.7 seconds.

Japanese positions.

Lieutenant Inoue, the commander of the Type 95 light tank T1, was peeking halfway out of the turret hatch, his binoculars scanning the ravaged battlefield ahead.

A contemptuous smile played on his lips—today's attack had gone too smoothly; the Chinese resistance was like poking an iron plate with a bamboo pole—it was utterly useless except for splattering some blood.

He then saw a Chinese soldier rush out from behind the broken wall carrying a cluster of grenades, only to be riddled with bullets by a vehicle-mounted machine gun.

"Foolish Chinese," Inoue sneered. "Trading your lives for time? How many lives do you have—"

The sound stopped abruptly.

He heard a screech he had never heard before—

It wasn't the shriek of a shell cutting through the sky, but a sharper, lower, tearing sound, as if the air itself was being ripped apart.

He looked up instinctively.

I saw a white line.

It was fired straight at his tank from three kilometers away.

too fast.

Just as his brain registered the "danger," the shell was already upon him.

The 25mm rolled steel plate was pierced like a sheet of rice paper, and the tungsten alloy projectile core penetrated into the turret, instantly converting its kinetic energy into a high-temperature metal jet and thousands of deadly fragments.

Lieutenant Inoue's last thought was that it was burning hot—

It was over 3,000 degrees Celsius. Then his body melted.

0.3 seconds.

A seven-ton steel war machine was transformed into a raging burning metal coffin.

The Japanese soldiers inside the tanks were vaporized, carbonized, and pulverized in milliseconds, without even a chance to scream.

An eerie silence fell over the battlefield.

It wasn't that there was no sound—gunfire was still ringing out in the distance, and artillery fire continued from even further away.

But everyone in this small area was stunned.

The Japanese soldiers stared, mouths agape, as the lead tank suddenly exploded into a fireball.

It wasn't a close-range explosion by a charge of explosives, nor was it a cluster grenade stuffed into the tracks—

They were blown up from beyond their line of sight by something they couldn't understand.

"What...what is that..." a Japanese sergeant murmured.

In the trenches, behind the broken wall.

The old soldier, Gouwa, with his face covered in blood, stared blankly at the ball of flame, the old socket in his hand clattering to the ground.

The three pillars next to him pinched their thighs hard, gasping in pain—it wasn't a dream.

"What kind of cannon..." Gouwa's throat was dry. "Can it hit that far... and so accurately?"

"Three thousand meters..." The old gunman, who had once served in the artillery company, trembled in his voice, "One shot, one kill, that's so cool."

They hadn't even realized what was happening—

The second blow came.

Bian Yun, aboard the Qilin tank, issued another order.

"Target T2! Release it again!!!"

Another muffled sound.

The Japanese sergeant who entered the tank from the alley on the left was quite alert; upon hearing the first wave of artillery fire, he ordered the tank to reverse.

"バック" he shouted.

But it's too late.

Armor-piercing projectiles travel at three times the speed of sound.

He had barely finished saying the word "reversing" when the shells arrived.

The Japanese tank suddenly arched upwards and then overturned.

The tracks spun wildly, fuel gushing from the ruptured fuel tank, igniting instantly upon contact with fire, turning the entire vehicle into a giant torch.

From the moment the first tank was hit to the moment the second tank turned into a pile of fire, it took ten seconds.

Zhao Tieshan—the captain and battalion commander of the 98th Division—stood behind Bian Yun, his mouth agape, unable to utter a sound for a long time.

He looked at the five menacing "Qilin" tanks and at the people wearing strange dark blue combat uniforms who were rapidly operating the fire control terminals.

Finally, his gaze settled on the tank hull.

That flag.

Red background.

Five gold stars.

They were arranged in a pattern he had never seen before, yet which inexplicably felt solemn.

"That flag..." Zhao Tieshan murmured, "is it ours?"

Bian Yun's voice rang in his ears, calm but carrying a profound strength:

"It's ours."

"The national flag of the new China."

"Eighty-eight years later, this flag will be flying all over China."

Zhao Tieshan's eyes instantly reddened.

He looked at the flag, at the men fighting beneath it, at the overwhelming victory, and suddenly—

He burst into tears.

It wasn't sadness, it was catharsis.

It is the release of light after being suppressed for too long.

It was a time of utter defeat, with all brothers dead, and oneself prepared to die.

The kind of cathartic release that comes from when someone suddenly grabs your hand and says, "Don't die, we're here."

In the trench, the thirteen soldiers who had escaped death all jumped up.

They waved everything they could—old rifle barrels with broken stocks, Mauser pistols that had run out of bullets, blood-stained military caps, and some even waved their bandaged arms.

The roar exploded:

"Our tanks—!!!"

"Kill those little Japanese devils—!!!"

"The heavenly soldiers of the new China... the heavenly soldiers have arrived..." Zhao Tieshan cried, his face streaked with tears, yet he laughed like a child.

"Old Yao, Old Huang, and Old Guo swore they really exist... the heavenly soldiers of New China..."

"You've finally arrived... finally..."

Bian Yun walked up to Zhao Tieshan and hugged the captain, who was covered in blood and trembling with sobs.

"We've arrived," Bian Yun whispered in his ear, his voice steady. "We've come from the new China, but we're not heavenly soldiers."

He released his grip and looked into Zhao Tieshan's eyes:

"We are your compatriots."

Eighty-eight years later, I've come this far by following the path you paved with your lives—

Future generations of descendants.

He paused:

"Now, let's do it together—"

"Drive the Japanese devils out."

Zhao Tieshan nodded vigorously, then wiped his face hard with his sleeve, smearing blood, tears, and soot into a mess.

Then he turned and roared at the soldiers behind him who were retreating but had now stopped:

"Brothers—!! Did you all see that—!!?"

"Our reinforcements have arrived—!! They've really arrived—!!!"

"Follow me—"

He drew his pistol from his waist and pointed it in the direction of Luodian Town:

"Fight back—!!!"

"Take back Luodian!!!"

The soldiers looked at their own tanks—not one, but five, painted with unfamiliar red flags and spewing deadly flames.

I saw Japanese tanks burning.

Hope has been seen.

A real, tangible, and viable hope of victory.

An old soldier missing an ear and with a deep, bone-revealing knife scar on his face—his name was Chen Da Ge, and he had followed Zhao Tieshan during the Central Plains War—

Raising his old receiver, he roared with the last of his strength:

"Fight back—!!!"

"Avenge our fallen brothers!!!"

Then he was the first to turn around and charge towards Luodian Town.

It wasn't a staggering retreat, it was a charge—hunched over, gun in hand, with firm steps.

the second.

The third one...

Dozens, hundreds.

"Fight back—!!!"

"Kill the Japanese devils—!!!"

The roar rolled across the scorched earth.

at the same time.

Bian Yun's voice boomed through the radio again:

"Attention, artillery crew—target switch!"

"2,800 meters away! Japanese infantry group, coordinates B-7!"

"High-explosive shell! Instantaneous fuse! One rapid shot—fire!!!"

The main gun roared once more.

This time, the shells flew into the sky in a higher parabola, and then fell at a near-vertical angle in the area where the Japanese infantry were most concentrated.

explosion.

This was no ordinary explosion.

This is an airburst mode meticulously designed by China's military industry in 2025.

The shell detonates at a height of ten meters above the ground, and the pre-formed fragments are ejected in all directions in a near-horizontal trajectory.

Kill radius: 50 meters.

Number of fragments: More than 12,000 shell fragments.

Coverage area: the size of a standard football field.

The more than one hundred Japanese infantrymen in that area experienced the following within 0.1 seconds of the explosion:

The first millisecond: The shockwave arrives, the eardrums rupture completely, and internal organs begin to bleed.

The second millisecond: the fragments arrive, the torso is cut into pieces, and the limbs are severed.

The third millisecond: The high-temperature air wave arrives, and the exposed skin is instantly carbonized.

The fourth millisecond: The human body begins to disintegrate.

The fifth millisecond —

No more.

There were no screams, no struggles, no corpses.

There was only a patch of flesh, evenly spread out, mixed with fragments of military uniforms and weapon parts. The blood had evaporated instantly under the high temperature, leaving only charred marks. Several helmets lay rolled at the edge, their heads inside already turned into a paste.

Five shells.

Five seconds.

An infantry company was completely wiped out of the order of battle.

The previously arrogant Japanese army collapsed immediately.

"Devil...they are devils..."

"Run away—!!!"

"Amaterasu Omikami... save us..."