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

Here's a brief explanation of the "Dragon's Breath" class thermobaric rocket.

It is not an upgraded version of traditional thermobaric weapons, but a special purified munition specifically developed for urban warfare, street fighting, and bunker clearing.

The Dragon's Breath Thermobaric Weapon also has a short name: the Integrated Weapon of Living Cremation and Terrain Reshaping.

Now, Bian Yun will use it to teach the Japanese 22nd Brigade in 1937 a lesson on "absolute destruction".

"First target: Artillery battalion."

Bian Yun's voice came through the car's communication system.

The screen showed that the three positions of the Japanese artillery battalion were arranged in a triangular pattern, with each position about 300 meters apart.

On each position, two or three 75mm mountain guns pointed their barrels to the sky, with ammunition boxes piled up beside them; the Japanese artillerymen were busy at work.

They were unaware that they had become the first item on the list.

"Let's save some Dragon Breath-class thermobaric rounds and use special thermobaric rounds instead." Bian Yun suddenly changed the ammunition selection, his tone as calm as if he were deciding what to have for dinner.

"Three shots in quick succession, covering the entire position."

Zhao Tiezhu immediately switched the ammunition type, and the turret of the 125mm main gun made a slight hydraulic sound as it slowly rotated, aiming the muzzle at the first position.

"First shot—fire!"

Boom-! ! !

The dull thud of the cannon made the tank shudder slightly. The moment the shell left the barrel, the flames spewing from the muzzle were particularly dazzling in the twilight.

Han Bin watched the trajectory of the shells—it was an almost straight line, ending at the first artillery position.

Two seconds later.

On the first position, fifty Japanese artillerymen were making final preparations before firing.

Sergeant Major Tanaka, the gunner, was looking around haphazardly, shouting:

"Load the shells!"

But after the loader pushes the heavy shell into the breech and locks it, the breech is closed.

The atmosphere here suddenly became very awkward.

The loader and Sergeant Tanaka stared at each other, speechless.

They want to fight back, but how?

He didn't even know where the enemy was.

Just then, Sergeant Tanaka suddenly heard a shrill whistling sound in his ear.

He raised his head.

Then I saw it.

A black dot rapidly magnifies in the field of vision.

"Stop fighting back, run!" he roared.

But it was too late.

The shell detonated for the first time ten meters above the center of the position.

There was no loud noise, only a muffled "plop," like a giant burping.

Then, the powder was sprinkled down like mist.

It was sprinkled on the gun barrel of the mountain gun.

It was spilled on the ammunition box.

It splashed onto Sergeant Tanaka's upturned face.

It was poured into the open mouths of every Japanese artilleryman—who was screaming in terror.

The powder has a strange sweetness, like fermented malt.

Then, 0.3 seconds later, it detonated a second time.

The effects of the special thermobaric bomb are different from those of "Dragon's Breath".

It does not pursue the ultimate temperature, but rather the maximization of effect.

The first detonation consumes oxygen.

The second detonation generated a high-temperature shock wave.

Sergeant Tanaka felt a sudden tightness in his chest, as if someone had used a vacuum pump to suck all the air out of his lungs.

He opened his mouth, trying to inhale, but couldn't get anything in. A strange "hoarse" sound came from his throat, like a leaky bellows.

Then, the heat wave arrived.

It wasn't flames, it was hot air.

Two thousand degrees Celsius.

His skin bubbled and carbonized in 0.1 seconds. The liquid in his eyes boiled and his eyeballs burst. His hair turned into a wisp of smoke, and his scalp contracted and cracked under the high temperature, revealing the white skull beneath.

However, the skull also began to carbonize under high temperatures.

He fell down, his head still tilted back.

As he fell, his body began to stiffen—his muscles solidified instantly under the high temperature.

When he landed, he was already a charred sculpture, retaining the posture he had in life.

The entire position consisted of fifty people and fifty sculptures.

Some of them were still in the motion of loading shells—hands outstretched and body leaning forward.

Some knelt on the ground in prayer—knees on the ground, hands clasped together.

Some tried to escape—one foot forward, body tilted.

But everyone died.

They died like unfired terracotta figurines.

The Japanese army's second position was 300 meters away from the first position.

The Japanese artillerymen here witnessed everything that happened on the first position.

They saw the fog.

I saw those corpses that had turned into charred sculptures.

"What...what is that..." a young Japanese loader asked, trembling.

Lieutenant Yamamoto, the gunner, was deathly pale, but he forced himself to remain calm: "The Chinese have a new weapon! Quick! Adjust the gun barrel! Fire west! The enemy must be over there!"

The artillerymen frantically turned the cannons around.

But they were too far away, and they didn't know where the enemy was.

West? To the west is wilderness, ruins, and the horizon.

There were no tanks, no artillery positions, nothing at all.

"Lieutenant...where are you shooting..." The aiming hand's voice was choked with sobs.

"Anything goes! Attack west! Quickly!"

The shell is loaded, and the muzzle is raised.

Lieutenant Yamamoto aimed himself—in fact, he didn't know where he was aiming, he just randomly pointed in a direction.

"Ready—"

His fingers rested on the firing cord.

Then he heard it.

The second cannon shot rang out.

It was a strange whistling sound.

It wasn't the whistling of incoming shells; they were used to that sound.

This time it was a heavier, slower sound, like the panting of a locomotive.

This time, Lieutenant Yamamoto heard it very clearly.

Because the shells were right above their heads.

He raised his head.

I saw that black dot.

Same as before.

Fog, suffocation, high temperature.

His last thought was: Where is the enemy...?

Then, consciousness vanished.

The second position, with four mountain guns and sixty Japanese artillerymen, experienced the exact same process as the first position over the next three minutes.

Suffocation, carbonization, transformation into sculpture.

The only difference was that there were a few more mountain guns on this position, their muzzles pointing in the wrong direction.

They melted and deformed under high temperatures, and the cannon barrels drooped softly, like dying snakes.

The third position.

The Japanese artillerymen here have gone completely mad.

We have seen the fate of the first two positions.

"Run—!!!" I don't know who shouted it first.

Everyone threw down their weapons and equipment and ran wildly backward.

But they can't outrun artillery shells.

"Third move—release!"

Zhao Tiezhu completed the last shot of his three-shot burst.

The shells arced through the air and landed in the most densely packed area of ​​the fleeing crowd.

The fleeing Japanese soldiers fell to the ground as if an invisible giant hand had pressed down on their necks.

They died in a running posture—one leg forward, body leaning forward, their faces contorted with extreme terror.

Then it carbonizes and solidifies.

And so a group of charred sculptures, still in a running posture, appeared in the field.

Like an absurd, hellish painting about escape.

Bian Yun didn't look at the hellish painting; he spoke coldly:

"Second target: the main assembly point of the 4th Regiment."

Inside the Qilin Tank, Bian Yun switched screens.

This was the biggest objective—three main positions, each with approximately five hundred Japanese soldiers.

They had just witnessed the "mysterious disappearance" of the command post, brigade headquarters, and artillery positions, and were now in a state of extreme panic.

The thermal imaging image shows:

On the first front, some people knelt down and prayed, asking for the protection of Amaterasu.

Some people tried to escape—but didn't know where to run, and just kept going around in circles like ants on a hot plate.

Some people hysterically fired shots into the sky, the bullets flying into nothingness. They didn't know where the enemy was; they were just shooting instinctively.

But more often than not, they stood still, their eyes vacant, waiting for their unknown fate.

"This time, use artillery to launch cluster missiles," Bian Yun ordered, his voice still calm. "Full coverage."

Zhao Tiezhu took a deep breath.

He knew what this meant—a single artillery-launched cluster missile could cover an area the size of a football field, releasing hundreds of submunitions.

They need to fire three.

"First one—launch!"

Missiles take off.

It flew over the first position and disintegrated at a height of 100 meters.

More than two hundred small fragmentation shells, like dead dandelion seeds, drifted down.

Each fragmentation bullet explodes upon impact, releasing thousands of steel balls.

The steel balls are very small, each only the size of a mung bean.

But there are too many.

Tens of thousands of steel balls, like a metallic rainstorm, covered the entire position.

The Japanese soldiers on the first position saw "fireworks" in the sky.

The missile's disintegration was beautiful, like festive fireworks.

Then, they heard a "whoosh" sound.

Like the wind blowing through a wheat field.

And then—

Puff puff puff puff puff—! ! !

The sound of steel balls piercing flesh was as dense as raindrops hitting banana leaves.

A Japanese soldier was kneeling in prayer when a steel ball was shot into his head, exiting through his chin, bringing out a mass of brain matter and broken bones.

A Japanese soldier fired a shot into the sky, and a steel ball shattered his arm, pierced his chest, and smashed his face.

Some Japanese soldiers stood frozen in place as steel balls pierced their bodies from the front and exited from the back, leaving dozens of through holes.

The rain of steel balls lasted only five seconds.

Five seconds later, there was no one left standing on the position.

There were only convulsing corpses scattered all over the ground, and blood flowing into streams.

The screams were short and rapid, then quickly subsided—because most people died instantly.

Those that weren't quite dead writhed in pools of blood, emitting inhuman groans.

"Second one—launch!"

The second position.

The same rain of steel balls.

"Third one—launch!"

The third position.

When the last missile's steel ball fell, the remaining 1,500 main force soldiers of the 4th Regiment all died in agony.

"The third target: the 22nd Brigade Command Post." Bian Yun continued calmly, as if ordering food at a restaurant.

The 22nd Brigade Command Post was located in a village.

More than a dozen houses were requisitioned by the Japanese army, and vehicles frequently entered and exited. Thermal imaging showed that there were at least a hundred heat sources inside.

"Weapon selection: 'Dragon's Breath' thermobaric rocket," Bian Yun said.

"emission."

The rocket was launched.

Three seconds later, flowers of death bloomed in the sky above the village.

White light.

A muffled thud.

Then, the village disappeared.

It wasn't just partially damaged; it was completely wiped out.

More than a dozen houses, along with the Japanese staff officers, communications soldiers, and logistics personnel inside, were all vaporized within three seconds.

A black glass disc with a diameter of about eighty meters appeared on the spot.

The disc was as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the last rays of the setting sun.

The densely packed carbonized outlines on the disc resemble an abstract rubbing of the human body.

"Now, there's only one target left." Bian Yun stretched his neck.

The ultimate target was Major General Yoshikatsu Kuroiwa, commander of the 22nd Brigade.

The old fox made his judgment the instant the shells went off and the instant he saw Chiyo and the officers "disappear".

This was not a war he could comprehend, nor was it a force he could contend with.

So he ran away.

He abandoned the brigade command, the artillery battalion, and the 4th Regiment, and with a dozen or so personal guards, he hid in a typical Jiangnan courtyard—white walls and black tiles, which may have originally belonged to a landlord or gentry.

The house has a deep basement, which was used to store grain and treasure in the past.

Black Rock hid inside.

The basement was dark, with only a kerosene lamp. The walls were made of blue bricks, half a meter thick. The ceiling was a two-meter-thick layer of rammed earth.

"I can't find me, I can't find me..." Kuroiwa muttered to himself, his face filled with fear.

"Heavenly punishment can't find me... I'm underground... so deep..."

Lieutenant Ono, the captain of the personal guard, handed over a water bottle: "General, have some water."

Heiyan took it, his hands trembling, spilling half the water.

"Ono... tell me... what exactly was it..." His voice trembled. "It wasn't a cannon... it wasn't a bomb... it was... divine punishment...?"

Ono remained silent.

He didn't know either.

"General, should we... surrender?" a young guard whispered.

"Baka!" Kuroiwa jumped to his feet, but his legs gave way and he sat back down. "Surrender? Surrender to whom? Where are the enemies? Have you seen them?"

Nobody saw it.

The enemy is like a ghost, like a god, who only brings down fire and death from the sky, but never shows himself.

"How did it find me...?"

Black Rock continued muttering, "I've been hiding underground... this thick layer of earth... how is it going to find me..."