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

[Countdown to the return of the People's Republic of China in 2025: 00:17:24]

Seventeen minutes.

enough.

Bian Yun flipped over and jumped onto the No. 104 Qilin Tank, and the hatch slammed shut.

The gas turbine emitted a deep roar, and the dark gray steel behemoth, like a raging beast awakened, smashed through the scorched earth with its tracks and roared out of the battlefield.

"Queen Bee." Bian Yun's voice rang out in the encrypted channel:

"Tell me the precise coordinates of the 62nd Regiment defending the Luojia Highway immediately."

It's scanning now.

The queen bee's voice came:

"The thermal imaging data fusion of the UAV is complete. The 62nd Regiment of the 33rd Brigade is located 3.2 kilometers northwest of the Luojia Highway, with specific coordinates: 121.38°E, 31.32°N."

She paused, her voice suddenly tightening:

"The flank... is 500 meters behind the 62nd Regiment, and there are a lot of heat signals... They are not soldiers."

"civilian?"

"Yes. At least two hundred heat sources are clustered in a relatively intact residential area. Infrared features indicate that there are elderly people, women, and children."

"I think the reason why the 62nd Regiment fought to the death and refused to retreat was not only to hold the position, but also to protect the unarmed civilians behind them."

A brief silence.

Only the roar of tank engines echoed in the channel.

Then, Bian Yun's voice rang out:

"Lu Bei".

"exist."

"Your sniper team, disengage from the main attack force. Proceed immediately to the coordinates to protect the civilians. Do not allow any Japanese soldier to harm any civilian."

"Understood." Lu Bei's voice was as steady as iron. "I guarantee I will complete the mission."

"Angel."

"I'm here, wingman."

"Little Hubei is in your hands now. He's still young, so please take good care of him."

The angel's voice was soft, but every word was like a nail driven into a steel plate:

"I will protect him with my life, wingman."

Bian Yun took a deep breath, a heavy, forceful breath, as if trying to inhale all the poisonous gases and gunpowder of this era into his lungs, and then—

"The rest of you!"

His voice suddenly rose, like a thunderclap tearing through the sky, exploding into the ears of every member of the "future" action team through full-band communication:

"Keep up with me at full speed!"

"Destination: Roja Highway."

"On this journey—"

He paused, then from the depths of his chest, he uttered a vow that would make even steel tremble:

"Killing beasts!"

The cheetah's roar exploded on the channel, like the howl of a wounded beast.

"Blood for blood—!!!" The voice of the sapper—the demolition expert—was hoarse, like a grinding wheel grinding against a steel plate.

"Leave no one alive—!!!" Hawkeye—the sniper—his killing intent almost overflowed through the radio waves.

"Save our compatriots—!!!" The angel's voice was calm, but beneath the calm was boiling magma.

Fifteen Qilin tanks roared to life at the same time.

A torrent of dark gray steel cleaved through the morning mist and smoke, roaring toward the Luojia Highway.

at the same time.

Luojia Highway, the position of the 62nd Regiment.

The yellow smoke resembled a viscous, venomous python.

Following the northwest wind, it slowly crawled across the road, across the fields, and towards that ridiculously crude trench.

Wherever the smoke passed, vegetation withered and turned black at a visible speed.

The soil was foaming strangely, as if it had been corroded by strong acid. Even the stones on the roadside were hissing and emitting white smoke.

And fifty meters ahead of this "venomous python"—

A trench.

A ditch dug with a shovel, no more than 1.5 meters deep and no more than 80 centimeters wide.

Fifty-seven people remained in the ditch.

Han Bin, the commander of the 62nd Regiment, lay prone on the edge of the trench, tightly covering his mouth and nose with a wet towel.

The towel was soaked in toxic gas, and a yellowish-green liquid dripped down the fabric onto his wrist.

The skin immediately began to turn red, blister, and ulcerate.

But he didn't let go.

It cannot be loosened.

Once you relax, take the next breath, and your lungs will begin to melt from the inside out.

"Commander... I can't see him... Commander..."

(Commander... I can't see anymore... Commander...)

A voice with a heavy Hakka accent from Meixian, Guangdong, rang out from a corner of the trench, so weak that it was almost inaudible.

Han Bin suddenly turned his head.

In the corner, there was Ah Ming—a Hakka boy from the mountainous area of ​​Meixian County, who had just turned eighteen this year. Before enlisting in the army, he worked in the village herding cattle and sang a beautiful folk song.

He was curled up on the ground, his hands tightly covering his face. Yellow and bloody fluid kept flowing from between his fingers, and his face was swollen like a steamed bun, with only two thin, bleeding slits remaining where his eyes should have been.

"It's alright, I'm here."

(It's okay, I'm here.)

Han Bin crawled over and hugged Amin tightly.

His movements were very gentle, as if he were holding a fragile porcelain doll, afraid of hurting the boy's festering skin.

"Captain... I'm so tired, so wounded..."

(Team leader... I feel so uncomfortable, it's so itchy...)

Another voice rang out, speaking in Mandarin with a Luoyang accent from Henan.

A Luo—a twenty-year-old blacksmith's apprentice in Luoyang City, whose arm muscles were thicker than those of his peers when he enlisted in the army—was frantically scratching his arm with his fingernails.

His arms were covered with a dense network of blisters, some of which had been scratched open, and pus and blood mixed with yellow venom flowed out, leaving twisted, worm-like marks on his faded military uniform.

"Don't scratch!" Han Bin roared, his voice hoarse from the burns caused by the poison gas. "If you scratch, the poison will penetrate even deeper!"

But it didn't work.

Alo was still scratching, crying as he did so, tears mixing with the poisonous liquid streaming down his face.

"It itches...it's so itchy...Captain...I can't stand it anymore..."

Han Bin's eyes reddened.

He wasn't crying—the poison gas had long since rendered him unable to shed tears.

It was burned by anger.

He surveyed the trenches.

Fifty-seven people.

They come from all over the country and have all sorts of accents.

After the original regiment was broken up, they drifted here like dandelion seeds scattered by the wind, landing on the scorched earth of the 62nd Regiment, and took root again.

Ah Ming, a Hakka from Meixian, Guangdong, loves to sing folk songs and even talks in his sleep in Hakka.

A Luo, a blacksmith's apprentice from Luoyang, Henan, has strong arms and can straighten a crooked bayonet.

Lao Shan, a native of Yan'an, Shaanxi, was originally a cart driver. He speaks with the ruggedness of the Loess Plateau, and his first words are always "Oh my god!"

Xiao Su, a native of Zhenjiang, Jiangsu, was fair-skinned and delicate. Before the war, he had studied at a private school for two years and was one of the few literate people in the entire regiment. He always carried half a copy of "Three Hundred Tang Poems" with him.

Chuanwazi, a native of Chengdu, Sichuan, is short but clever and witty. He worked as a waiter in a teahouse before the war.

Xiang Yazi, a native of Changsha, Hunan, has a fiery temper, loves spicy food, and says "I" more often than "I".

Lu Dahan, a native of Jinan, Shandong, was 1.8 meters tall. Before the war, he worked as a porter at the dock and could eat eight steamed buns in one meal.

Huizhou boy, from Huangshan, Anhui, speaks softly, but when it comes to bayonet fighting, he's more ruthless than anyone else.

They were complete strangers.

It was war, it was invasion, it was the flames of war that ignited on this land that brought them together in this trench.

They gathered in the trench that was about to be swallowed by the poisonous smoke.

"Old Shaanxi!" Han Bin roared, "Your legs can still move, carry A-Ming on your back!"

At the other end of the trench, a man from Shaanxi, who had been shot in the left calf but whose right leg was intact, gritted his teeth and got up.

His face was also burned by the poison gas, covered with large blisters, some of which had ruptured and were oozing pus, but his eyes—those eyes unique to the people of the Loess Plateau, as thick and resilient as the loess itself—still shone.

"Sure!" the old man from Shaanxi replied in his thick Shaanxi accent, limping over and squatting down. "Guangdong boy, get on! I'll carry you!"

Amin groped around, grabbed Lao Shan's shoulder with his festering hands, and leaned over him.

"Xiao Su!" Han Bin continued to call out, "You carry A Luo on your back!"

A young soldier wearing broken glasses, the lenses shattered down to just the frames, was barely held up to his face by strips of cloth.

He staggered over. He was Xiao Su, from Zhenjiang. He could write poetry and paint. His biggest dream before the war was to study at National Central University in Nanjing.

Now, his face is covered with blisters from the toxic gas burns, some of which have burst, and yellow fluid is flowing down the broken frames of his glasses.

"Brother from Henan, I'm sorry to offend you." Xiao Su spoke in a soft, steady voice with a Wu accent. He carried A Luo on his back, moving very carefully, as if afraid of hurting his brother's festering skin.

Han Bin looked at his brothers.

Looking at these young people from all over the country, who should have been working in the fields, studying in schools, or making a living in the city.

Looking at their festering faces, festering hands, and festering skin.

Look at the last glimmer of light in their eyes.

"Brothers."

Han Bin's voice rang out through the toxic smoke, hoarse, but clear as a tolling death knell:

"This might be... the last time we travel together."

(This might be... the last time we fight side by side.)

He raised the Hanyang rifle in his hand—the stock was covered with scratches, each scratch representing a Japanese soldier who had died by his gun. But now, there wasn't a single bullet in the chamber.

"We're out of ammunition."

"Reinforcements... I'm afraid we won't be able to wait."

"Poison gas...it's about to spread."

He paused, then took a deep breath—the air, filtered through a damp towel, still carried a pungent mustard smell, and inhaling it felt like being scraped by a red-hot knife, causing him excruciating chest pain.

Then, with all his might, he roared out that sentence:

"Killing one Japanese soldier is a good deal, killing two is a bonus!"

(Killing one Japanese soldier is not a loss, killing two is a gain!)

"Let's be brothers again in our next life!"

"Let's be brothers again in the next life!!!"

Fifty-seven voices, speaking different dialects, exploded simultaneously.

Hakka (Guangdong), Luoyang (Henan), Yan'an (Shaanxi), Zhenjiang (Jiangsu), Chengdu (Sichuan), Changsha (Hunan), Jinan (Shandong), Huangshan (Anhui)...

Different accents, different intonations.

But the same determination.

They faced death in the same way.

Similarly—no regrets.

.........

"Fix bayonets—!!!"

Han Bin roared.

Click, click, click—

Even though the rifle was empty.

Although the bayonets were rusty and some even had their blades chipped.

Although the hands holding the gun were festering, trembling, and some fingernails had fallen off from scratching.

But those who could still move fixed their bayonets in perfect unison.

That's muscle memory formed from countless training sessions.

It's an instinct etched into your bones from countless life-or-death battles.

It is the last dignity of soldiers—Chinese soldiers.

Old Shaanxi carried Amin on his back, standing on one leg, holding a gun in his right hand, the butt of the gun resting on his uninjured left shoulder. His left leg wound was still bleeding, staining the simple leg wrap red.

Xiao Su carried A Luo on his back, his eyes behind the broken lenses of his glasses fixed intently ahead. His knuckles were white as he gripped the gun.

It wasn't out of fear, but because of the effort; I used up the last of my strength.

The Sichuan native spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, grinned, revealing teeth blackened by the poison gas: "Damn it, in my next life, I still want to be a Sichuan soldier!"

Xiang Yazi wiped the pus from his face, his eyes fierce: "Even if I die, I'll bite off a piece of that Japanese devil's flesh!"

Lu Dahan took a deep breath, his chest bulging like a volcano about to erupt: "Shandong men don't back down!"

The boy from Huizhou didn't speak, but gripped his gun tightly, his fingers gently stroking a name engraved on the buttstock—the name of his brother who had died in battle.

Han Bin stood at the very front.

He held the scratched Hanyang rifle in his left hand, and with his right hand he drew the last grenade from his waist—a wooden-handled, border-area type, the fuse already pulled out, and held it in his hand.

"Brothers."

Han Bin's voice was very soft, so soft that only a few people around him could hear it:

"Don't stop when you rush out."

"If we can kill one, we can kill one."

"Pull the pin if you can."

"we……"

He paused, and his eyes finally reddened—not because of the poison gas, but because of something else, something hotter and more painful than the poison gas:

"Give the people behind us more time to leave."

…………

Yellow, toxic smoke had already reached the edge of the trenches.

They were less than ten meters from the trench.

Han Bin could clearly see the distorted figures of Japanese soldiers wearing pig-snout gas masks in the smoke.

They were holding Type 38 rifles with bayonets fixed, lined up in skirmish lines, and slowly approaching.

Like a group of ghosts dressed in human skin who crawled out of hell.

Han Bin raised his rifle and was the first to rush out, his bayonet pointed at the approaching ghostly figures in the smoke.

He opened his mouth, wanting to shout the final charge—

But the poison gas burned his throat, and he could no longer make a sound.

He could only manage a broken, beast-like roar squeezed from his chest:

"kill--!!!!!"

Fifty-seven people.

Thirty-seven bayonets.

Twenty brothers, already incapacitated, were carried on his back.

They were about to break out of the trenches.

Rushing towards the toxic smoke.

Rushing toward death.

They charged towards the group of well-equipped, gas-masked soldiers who outnumbered them by dozens of times—

brute!

…………

And at this moment,

A different kind of roar came from the sky.

It wasn't a Japanese plane.

It was something heavier, more majestic, more like thunder rolling across the sky—

The roar of steel.

Fifteen dark gray Qilin tanks, like steel mountains rising from below the horizon, cleaved through the morning mist, through the smoke of battle, and through all the despair of this era—

coming……