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

75. Do not charge! Do not charge! Do not charge!

"Da da da da da da—"

As Han Bin gripped the last grenade, his throat, burned by the poison gas, forced out a final roar, and led his fifty-seven brothers out of the trench—

He heard a sound he had never heard before, yet it was exceptionally pleasant.

That wasn't a "bang" from the Hanyang-made machine gun.

It wasn't a typical "slap" like a gossip.

It's not the "boom" of a hand grenade.

It was a kind of... continuous, crisp sound, like the sound of heavy rain hitting a tin roof.

Immediately afterward, in his blurred vision, the figures of Japanese soldiers wearing pig-snout gas masks and approaching with bayonets in hand suddenly began to tremble.

It's not an active shaking.

It is the uncontrollable spasm of the body after being struck by an invisible, enormous force.

The first Japanese soldier had a hole the size of a bowl explode in his chest, and he fell backward.

The second one's head exploded like a watermelon hit by a hammer.

The third one, the fourth one...

More than a hundred Japanese soldiers wearing gas masks fell down in a dozen seconds, like stalks of wheat swept by a sickle.

The blood mist exploded amidst the yellow poisonous smoke, blending into a bizarre and cruel pink hue.

Then, a voice rang out.

It didn't come from the ground.

It came from the air, clear, steady, with a metallic quality, piercing through the poisonous smoke, through the gunshots, through the despair of impending death:

"Commander Han—"

"Do not charge."

The sound was repeated three times.

Each repetition was heavier and more urgent than the last, as if someone were striking an alarm bell with a hammer.

"Step back."

"We'll be here to meet you."

Han Bin was stunned.

All his brothers who were still able to stand were stunned.

Reinforcements?

At this point, are there any reinforcements?

And... was he telling them to... back off?

"Commander..." Little Jiangsu, the student soldier from Zhenjiang carrying A Luo—rubbed his eyes with his festering hands, his voice trembling, "Am I...am I hallucinating...?"

Han Bin did not answer.

Because he saw it.

Steel.

Behind them stood dark gray, streamlined steel behemoths that looked like they had stepped out of mythology.

One, two, three...

A total of fifteen vehicles.

"Brothers, retreat!"

Han Bin's voice was hoarse like a rag, but he shouted it out with all his might:

"Reinforcements have arrived!"

"Retreat—join the reinforcements!!!"

Of the fifty-seven people, thirty-seven were still able to stand, and twenty were being carried on their backs. They began to retreat.

They moved very slowly.

Because the poisonous gas burned their eyes, many of them could only grope their way forward.

Because the poisonous gas burned their skin, every step they took felt like walking on a red-hot iron plate.

Because some people were already unsteady on their feet and needed their brothers to support them, or even drag them along.

But they are retreating.

Towards those steel behemoths, towards life, towards those unfamiliar comrades who tore a bloody path for them through the toxic smoke—

retreat.

And the steel behemoths are advancing.

Fifteen Qilin tanks advanced steadily and unstoppably forward.

at last.

Just as the poisonous smoke was about to completely engulf the fifty-seven staggering, retreating figures—

Fifteen Qilin tanks charged towards them.

The hatch of the first car, number 104, opened with a "whoosh".

Bian Yun poked half his body out from inside, extending his tactical gloved hand:

"Commander Han—come up here!"

Han Bin looked up.

His eyes, burned by the poison gas, could only see a blurry figure, but he could see the outstretched hand.

Then, without any hesitation, he grasped that hand.

warmth.

The hand was warm and strong, and it steadily pulled him up.

Then came the second, the third...

Bian Yun pulled Han Bin into the tank, then turned around to pull Xiao Jiangsu, Lao Shan, and A Ming...

Fifteen Qilin tanks, all with their hatches open.

The crew members leaned out and reached out to pull the Chinese soldiers, whose bodies were covered in sores and blood, but whose eyes still shone, into the vehicle one by one.

Five or six people were crammed into a tank.

It's a bit cramped, but we can still squeeze in.

……

Inside car number 104.

Han Bin was crammed into the cramped space behind the passenger seat, with Xiao Jiangsu, Lao Shan, and A Ming, who was being carried on Lao Shan's back, squeezed around him.

The moment the hatch closed, a soft "hiss" sound came from inside the vehicle.

"Qilin Tank, NBC protection system activated," Bian Yun's voice came from the driver's seat. "Filtration system in operation, positive pressure forming inside."

Next, cool, clean air with a faint ozone scent began to circulate internally.

Han Bin took a deep breath.

It has no sweet, fishy smell, unlike poisonous gases.

There was no burnt smell of gunpowder.

There was no bloody, rusty smell.

Only clean.

It was as clean as the air in the mountains and forests of his hometown after the rain, as he remembered it.

His eyes suddenly welled up with tears.

Little Jiangsu, the student soldier from Zhenjiang with broken glasses, squeezed next to Han Bin, curiously looking at everything inside the car.

He looked at the flickering screens.

Looking at those sophisticated instruments.

Looking at the interior wall of the car, there was a small, but exceptionally brightly colored sticker—

"You..." Xiao Jiangsu's voice was soft, with a youthful clarity and timidity, "Which part... are you from?"

Bian Yun turned her head.

He looked at the boy whose face was covered in festering blisters, but whose eyes behind his glasses remained clear; he looked at the tattered military uniform that revealed the cotton wadding; he looked at the fingernails that had fallen off the boy's fingers as he gripped the gun.

Bian Yun's voice also softened:

"We came from 2026."

"The Chinese People's Liberation Army"

"We've come to pick you up."

Little Jiangsu stared blankly at Bian Yun, mouth agape.

2026 years?

People's Liberation Army of China?

He doesn't understand.

But he looked at his commander.

Han Bin was also stunned.

This tough, unyielding man, this regimental commander who would stuff his intestines back in after being shot out on the battlefield and continue charging, now had wide eyes and trembling lips, wanting to say something, but—

Unable to make a sound.

When he shouted for retreat, the poison gas burned his vocal cords, causing him to temporarily lose his voice.

He could only look at Bian Yun.

Look into Bian Yun's eyes.

There was something in those eyes that he had never seen in anyone else's eyes before.

It's not pity.

It's not sympathy.

It is not charity.

It is respect.

It is the respect that comrades show to each other.

It is a sign of respect from later generations for the martyrs.

It is a sign of respect for those who come to keep their promise and for those who are holding fast to their principles.

Han Bin suddenly felt like crying; tears mixed with pus and blood on his face flowed into the corners of his mouth.

It was salty and bitter, but in his heart... it was sweet.

Because he knew that when they held out in the toxic smoke, they were not forgotten, lonely souls.

Because eighty-nine years later, there are still people who remember them, and there are still people who travel through time to shake their hands and say to them:

"We've come to pick you up."

"Commander..." Little Jiangsu panicked when he saw Han Bin crying, and tried to wipe it away with his festering hands. "Why are you crying... Don't cry..."

But tears also fell from his eyes.

This seventeen-year-old boy, who studied at a private school before the war and dreamed of going to university in Nanjing, this boy who carried his brothers through the poisonous smoke and did not retreat in the face of bayonets—

She cried too.

Bian Yun looked at them.

Watching Han Bin silently shed tears.

Seeing Xiao Jiangsu crying helplessly.

I watched as the old man from Shaanxi wiped his face hard, but he couldn't wipe away the redness in his eyes.

Looking at Ah Ming—that Hakka boy from Guangdong—even though he couldn't see, he heard the troupe leader crying and started sobbing along with him.

Bian Yun's voice also lowered:

"Feel sorry."

"We...we're still a little late."

Han Bin shook his head violently.

He shook his head with all his might.

He opened his mouth, trying to make a sound, but only a "hoarse" sound came out.