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

Snap! Snap!

The sound of the No. 104 Kirin tank crushing the bodies of Japanese soldiers was as crisp as breaking a thick icicle in the dead of winter.

Its left track rolled over the first Japanese soldier who rushed at it without any hindrance.

The 52-ton weight of the vehicle, when applied to a human body through track plates that are 600 millimeters wide, generates enough pressure to instantly crush even the hardest bones.

The soldier's chest cavity collapsed instantly, like an empty cardboard box crushed by a road roller.

But the splattered blood and fragments of internal organs drew a brief but tragic arc in the sunlight.

Then comes the second one.

The third.

The tracks, like a relentless meat grinder, ploughed a straight, dark red furrow through the charging Japanese ranks.

There were no intact bodies in the ravine.

There was only one thick layer of "meat sauce" mixed with bone fragments, minced meat, cloth scraps, and metal parts.

The fourth Japanese soldier lunged at the side of the vehicle and roared as he detonated the cluster grenade in his arms.

The explosion sounded muffled, like a firecracker being lit inside an iron barrel.

A flash of fire streaked across the surface of the composite armor, leaving a faint black burn mark.

It looked like someone had drawn a line on the tank with chalk.

That's it.

A fifth soldier climbed the turret. His eyes were wild as he desperately pried at the edge of the sensor cover with his bayonet.

But the turret suddenly turned 30 degrees to the left.

Centrifugal force flung the soldier away. He spun half a circle in the air before crashing heavily less than a meter in front of the tracks.

Before I could even get up—

puff-

The tracks rolled over it.

Like a ripe tomato being stomped on and burst, its juice splattering everywhere.

The difference is that the tomato splatters juice, while he splatters blood.

There was also a Japanese soldier, who was rather clever.

He saw that the track clearance was only forty centimeters, so he tried to crawl under the vehicle and blow up the drive shaft.

But as soon as he lay down on his side, he began to crawl under the car.

But as soon as he put his upper body inside, the tank started moving.

It's not reversing.

It means to keep moving forward.

The front edge of the vehicle's chassis pressed down on his feet first.

Then come the calves.

Then comes the waist.

Finally, the head.

The skull, under the pressure of the track plates, becomes as fragile as an eggshell.

The entire process lasted three seconds.

Within three seconds, the soldier's screams went from high-pitched to faint, until finally only the gurgling sound of his trachea being crushed remained.

Then, silence.

The tracks continued forward, leaving a trail of brain matter, blood, and skull fragments.

Tank No. 104, the Qilin Tank, never charged.

It is "taking a walk".

The speed remained at fifteen kilometers per hour—not fast, but stable enough, and unstoppable enough.

Like an African elephant leisurely strolling across the tropical savanna, it is indifferent to the swarm of ants rushing about in a panic.

The difference is that ants don't scream or bleed when they are stepped on.

And these Japanese soldiers would:

Inside the driver's cab of the Qilin tank, Cheetah was looking at the optical images.

He watched as the Japanese soldiers rushed forward madly, only to be turned into mincemeat under the treads.

His expression was calm.

It was even a little...boring.

"It's too crunchy," he said on the channel. "Like crushing tofu."

Gunner Anvil chimed in, "Exactly. I thought we could hold out a little longer."

"The wingman said, wouldn't it be better to save some ammunition?" Cheetah said. "We're going to run them over anyway, so using tracks is cheaper than using shells."

"Too."

During their conversation, they followed behind Bian Yun and ran over seven more Japanese soldiers.

At this moment, Colonel Takeshi Noda stood in the center of the battlefield.

The broken half of his military knife had fallen to the ground five minutes earlier.

The Rising Sun Flag he was holding had long been smashed, leaving only half a flagpole, which he was still clutching in his hand, but the flagpole was also bent.

The fanatical, ferocious laugh on his face had frozen.

It turned into... bewilderment.

He looked at his soldiers, the elite troops he had personally trained, the warriors he had promised to bring back to Japan, the samurai he had sworn to serve the Emperor—

They were crushed like insects.

No, when an insect is stepped on, at least there's a "smack" sound.

These soldiers were crushed to death without even a "thud".

There was only a "pfft" sound.

Then, it was gone.

"Charge with Jade Shattering"?

In the face of steel, it was nothing more than a laughable, one-sided massacre.

A crushing defeat that could hardly be called a "battle".

Noda Takeshi looked at the five tanks.

They were like five moving steel mountains, calmly, indifferently, and irresistibly crushing everything in their path.

Crushing his pride and conviction.

He crushed the so-called "Bushido" for which he had fought his whole life.

Then he smiled.

"Ha ha ha ha--!!!"

He threw away the broken flagpole he was holding.

Open your arms.

Charge toward the nearest tank—tank number 104.

"bring it on--!!!"

"Crush me to death—!!!"

"Let me see just how tough you steel monsters really are!!!"

Tank No. 104, the Qilin, did not slow down.

There wasn't even a turn.

They simply continued calmly, following the pre-set route.

Like a machine with a pre-programmed sequence, it won't change direction just because there's an extra ant on the road.

Noda Takeshi rushed to the front of the tracks.

He took one last look at the steel behemoth.

Then, I closed my eyes.

The first thing he felt when the tracks touched his feet was coldness.

The rubber mat was cold, like iron in winter.

Then comes the boundless pressure.

He could clearly feel his bones being crushed like biscuits, and his muscles and internal organs being squeezed, deformed, and broken.

Finally, the head.

With a "bang"...

Following the No. 104 Qilin Tank is the No. 105 Qilin Tank.

Inside the cockpit, the angel sat in the commander's seat.

She was wearing a digital combat suit from 2025, a dark gray, form-fitting design that accentuated her slender yet powerful figure.

The helmet had been removed and placed aside, revealing a delicate, even somewhat demure face.

If it weren't for those eyes.

Those eyes were fixed on the multi-functional display screen in front of them. The screen was divided into three images:

• Thermal imaging: Dense clusters of red heat sources, like a swarm of moths drawn to a flame.

• Optical imaging: Real-time footage transmitted from high-definition cameras, showing the狰狞 (zhengning - ferocious/hideous) faces of Japanese soldiers.

• Battlefield Map: The enemy and friendly forces are clearly displayed. Blue arrows indicate the movement routes of friendly tanks, and red dots represent remaining Japanese troops.

The angel's finger moved slightly on the joystick, pressing down on the red dot.

Tank No. 105, begin accelerating.

It wasn't a sudden charge, but a steady pace—20 kilometers per hour, just enough to keep up with the rhythm of the 104 tank in front.

Like a precise, ruthless, pre-programmed sweeper, it follows behind the main sweeper, ready to deal with any "slip-ins".

The first encounter occurred 500 meters from the position.

Five wounded Japanese soldiers—who had been injured by artillery fire and were bleeding internally—were lying on the ground pretending to be dead.

Seeing the tank approaching, he knew that playing dead was useless, so he struggled to get up, raised his last cluster grenade, and roared as he lunged at the tracks of tank number 105.

The angels didn't even look at them.

She simply adjusted the joystick slightly.

The tank turned slightly to the left by five degrees.

Then, run it over.

Pfft—!

Click—!

Guji—!

The third, the fourth, the fifth...

The sound of the tracks crushing a human body was muffled, transmitted through the vehicle body, like crushing a pile of ripe fruit.

It's the kind of fruit that's overripe and will rot at the slightest touch.

The angel glanced at the rearview camera.

"Be careful."

She murmured to herself, her voice so soft that only she could hear it.

"Girls..."

She paused, a slight smile playing on her lips.

"They are all quite meticulous."

The tank continued moving forward.

Facing them, more than twenty Japanese soldiers formed a human wall.

They knew they couldn't stop it.

The angel was looking at the screen.

Her fingers tapped lightly on the fire control panel.

"Machine gun, burst fire mode."

"Target: Legs."

thump.

The first 12.7mm armor-piercing incendiary projectile was fired.

It hit a Japanese soldier in the left knee.

thump.

Second shot.

It hit a Japanese soldier in the right thigh.

Boom, boom, boom...

Short and precise bursts of fire.

It wasn't a sweeping attack, it was a burst of fire.

Every bullet hit a Japanese soldier precisely in the leg.

Left knee, right knee, thigh, calf...

More than twenty people had their legs broken within ten seconds and fell on the path of the advancing tank.

The screams were continuous.

Some people were clutching their broken legs and wailing, while others were trying to crawl away.

But the tanks had already rolled over.

I ran over them one by one.

Start from the feet, then move to the legs, then to the waist, then to the chest, and finally to the head.

Screams.

The sound of bones cracking.

The sound of flesh being squeezed.

The metallic scraping sound of the tracks.

These sounds blended together, creating an eerie and chilling symphony.

The angel listened to these sounds without changing his expression.

She even had time to reach out her left hand and lightly tap a touchscreen on the center console.

The car audio system started.

Music flowed out.

It's Jay Chou's "Nocturne," Op. 9, No. 2.

The piano melody, gentle and melancholic, flowed slowly through the cockpit...