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

The morning mist had not yet dissipated along the banks of the Yangtze River.

Academician Yuan An practically crashed into the command area.

This usually refined and composed old scientist now had disheveled hair, crooked glasses, his chest heaving violently, and he was clutching a silver-white metal box tightly in his hand.

"Old Wang—General Wang!" His voice was hoarse, almost to the point of being broken. "It's connected! The communication from 1937—it's been re-established!"

Wang Kangmei suddenly turned around, and all the staff officers and officers around her stopped what they were doing.

"What's connected? What about the picture? What about the sound?" the old general asked in rapid succession.

"No visuals! Only intermittent electromagnetic signals!" Yuan An held the metal box up to his face, his hands trembling.

"Spatiotemporal communication is inherently unstable, and now there's a phase shift—we can send signals, but the receiver is randomly appearing near the 1937 anchor point!"

He gasped for breath, his eyes bloodshot.

"We absolutely need Comrade Bian Yun! Only his body—only the 'time-space imprint' he created through time travel—can stabilize the signal and establish a two-way connection!"

All eyes instantly focused on Bian Yun.

No hesitation.

Bian Yun stepped forward and took the silver-white metal box from Yuan An's hands.

The box is very light, weighing only about two kilograms, and its surface is covered with a special composite material that feels warm to the touch. In the very center is a circular transparent area, within which tiny, nebulous specks of light are suspended.

The instant Bian Yun's fingertips touched the box—

hum-

Inside the box, the silver light spots that were originally rotating slowly suddenly accelerated!

From an elegant nebula vortex, it transformed into a raging, silvery-white energy storm!

"Back off!" Yuan An shouted hoarsely.

Everyone in the command area instinctively stepped back, clearing out a central area.

The next second—

Light burst forth from the transparent viewing window in the center of the box!

It's not a straight beam of light!

It's a curve! It's twisted, spiraling, like a living vine of light!

They grow, intertwine, and entwine wildly in the air! The brightness is extremely high, yet strangely not dazzling; instead, it carries a cold, otherworldly texture.

The light first illuminated Bian Yun's face—a young, tired, yet exceptionally determined face.

Then it spread, illuminating the entire command area.

finally--

In the air, at a height of two meters above the ground, those vines of light began to weave.

An image that is not planar.

It is three-dimensional.

It is suspended, translucent, and breathtakingly detailed—

Holographic images.

Footage from 1937.

The video begins with a violently shaking darkness.

Sharp, distorted gunshots came from deep within the "screen".

There was a muffled thud, like an explosion through a thick quilt.

There were muffled, fragmented screams whose content was indistinct.

The image is shaking violently, the perspective seems to be moving at high speed, or... running?

A few seconds later, the shaking stopped.

The image stabilized.

The perspective seems to be from a high place—perhaps the top floor of a building that has been half-destroyed, or a sturdy high point of ruins.

Look down.

From above.

Then, everyone in the command area held their breath.

That's... the north bank of Luodian.

The morning light there finally managed to pierce through the thick veil of smoke that had lingered for days.

There are complete buildings. There are no living trees. There is no green grass.

There were only craters, densely packed, like earth repeatedly dug by a giant with a spoon. The larger ones were over ten meters in diameter and two or three meters deep, filled with murky blood. The smaller ones were like honeycombs, one next to another.

Between the craters lie rubble—once houses, shops, and residences. Now they are just piles of charred fragments.

It was scorched earth—land repeatedly burned by flames, turned charcoal black, and made a "crackling" sound when stepped on because it contained unexploded shrapnel and charred bones.

The screen moves...

Focusing on a trench—if it can even be called a trench.

It is located behind a relatively intact ruin, but half of it has been blown down. The remaining half is less than 1.5 meters deep and only wide enough for one person to curl up. The earthen walls are exposed, revealing embedded brick fragments and shrapnel.

People were lying prone in the trenches.

They were all wearing gray-blue military uniforms.

The lead one was positioned at a reinforced firing position at the very front of the trench.

His face was covered in dried blood and ash, making it impossible to see his features. His left eye was tightly bound with a dirty, blood-soaked strip of cloth—dark red blood was seeping out from under the cloth, perhaps from an injury, or perhaps… that eye was gone.

His right eye was still open.

It was wide open.

He stared intently ahead.

In his right hand, he held a pair of binoculars—the lenses were broken, leaving only an empty frame and a few shards of glass. But he was still using it, trying his best to observe with that broken frame.

The telescope was pointed at the end of the street.

There--

The yellowish-brown tide is surging in.

The sixth Japanese attack.

Three Type 95 light tanks, arranged in a standard wedge-shaped attack formation, slowly rolled over the rubble and the uncollected corpses, like three steel behemoths.

The tracks crushed through broken bricks and bones, making a teeth-grinding "crunch-crunch" sound.

The 57mm main gun barrel gleamed with a cold metallic luster in the morning light, like a viper raising its head and turning from side to side, searching for any suspicious target.

At the front of the vehicle, two 7.7mm machine guns were already eagerly spitting fire.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat—! ! !

Bullets struck the broken walls, the scorched earth, and the long-dead corpses, sending up plumes of yellow dust and dark red bits of flesh and blood.

Behind the tanks were infantrymen.

Tawny military uniforms, gleaming bayonets, and a dense mass of heads.

At least two squads—more than four hundred men. Crouching low, using tanks as mobile cover, they advanced in alternating waves, a dark mass.

Like a moving, deadly swamp.

It's flooding in.

In the trenches.

The one-eyed company commander put down his broken binoculars.

He turned around and glanced at it.

Just one glance.

In the trenches, there were no more than fifty men who could still hold a gun steady and pull the trigger.

This already includes those lightly wounded soldiers who, after simple bandaging, can still shoot with one hand.

Everyone had the same expression on their face.

There was no fear.

There is no despair.

There was only a kind of almost numb, deep-seated weariness, and deep within that weariness, a cold, unquenchable killing intent.

We're running out of ammunition.

Heavy weapons?

It's already been burned out.

In the corner of the trench lay the wreckage of a heavy machine gun. The barrel had been blown off during a Japanese artillery barrage the previous afternoon, twisted like a pretzel.

A thick layer of dark red scabs had formed on the cooling cylinder, which was covered with ventilation holes.

That was the machine gunner's blood. He had half his body blown off; the blood sprayed onto the wound, cooled, and congealed.

Now, this once roaring heavy machine gun is just a silent corpse.

The same silence reigned in the trenches. No one spoke.

Only heavy, suppressed breathing could be heard.

And in the distance, that sound grew closer and louder, as if it would crush everything—

The roar of tanks.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Getting closer.

The one-eyed company commander looked at the three tanks and then at the more than four hundred Japanese soldiers.

Then, he took a deep breath, turned around, and looked at the soldiers.

He spoke.

His voice was not loud, and even a little hoarse.

"Brothers—"

He paused, a near-mad glint in his single eye:

"Behind us is Shanghai, our country."

"There, our elders and fellow villagers are, our parents and brothers are."

His voice began to rise:

"Did we cancel our order?"

"No!"

"From the day the Japanese invaded, our 7th Company, 3rd Battalion, 402nd Regiment, 67th Division of the 18th Army—"

"They haven't backed down an inch!"

He suddenly raised his right hand, not in a fist, but in his palm—a rough, cracked palm with black dirt and blood clogging his fingernails.

"We won't back down today!"

"die--"

He practically screamed it out:

"We will die on the battlefield!"

"die--"

The sound was deafening:

"We must take a bite out of the Japanese devils!"

"Let them know—"

His final words tore through the air, tore through time and space, pierced through eighty-eight years of war, and resounded in the command center in 2026:

"Chinese soldiers—"

"I'd rather die than surrender!!!"

"kill--!!!"

The first word "kill" burst from deep in his throat.

The second "kill" was shouted simultaneously by the fifty soldiers in the trench.

The third "kill" is the roar of everyone, using the last of their life force!

"Kill! Kill! Kill—!!!"

The roar was like thunder!

The ruins trembled! The scorched earth trembled! This land soaked in blood trembled!

The first soldier to rush out—no one in the command area in 2026 even saw his face clearly.

All that could be seen was a thin, gray-blue figure leaping up suddenly from behind a collapsed bunker on the right side of the trench!

Like a gray lightning bolt!

He was holding something in his arms.

It's not a gun.

There were six wooden-handled grenades.

He bound it tightly together with leggings—that rough, gray homespun cloth. Six threads were twisted together into a rope, the end of which he held firmly in his mouth.

He hunched over, almost touching the ground, running wildly among the rubble and bomb craters.

Like a moth drawn to a flame.

There is no turning back.

The Japanese tank machine gunner spotted him almost immediately.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat—! ! !

Two machine guns simultaneously turned, spitting fire and spraying bullets like water, chasing after his footsteps!

Puff puff puff puff—!

The bullets struck the broken bricks beside him, sending up plumes of white smoke and debris.

It struck the scorched earth in front of him, carving deep furrows.

The blow landed on the corpse behind him, splattering dark red flesh and blood.

He was shot.

When he was still twenty meters away from the first tank, a burst of blood suddenly exploded at the location of his left scapula!

The gray-blue military uniform was instantly stained red.

His body suddenly staggered, and he almost fell over.

But he didn't stop.

He gripped the bundle of grenades tightly with his right arm, braced himself with his left hand on the ground, and continued charging forward!

Twenty meters!

The tank's turret began to rotate, and the 57mm gun barrel, its dark muzzle, slowly aimed in his direction.

Fifteen meters!

The Japanese infantrymen on the tank also began to fire. The bullets became even denser, like a net of death closing in on him.

Ten meters!

He could now see the bits of flesh and mud stuck to the tank tracks.

You can clearly see that the paint on the sun emblem on the turret has peeled off.

You can now clearly see the ferocious face of the Japanese machine gunner behind the machine gun muzzle.

It's now!

He suddenly stopped in his tracks.

It's not exhaustion.

It was a voluntary stop.

Then, he looked up.

In the command center in 2026, it wasn't until this moment that everyone could see his face clearly.

It was a very young face.

They are at most eighteen or nineteen years old.

His cheeks were sunken from thinness, his cheekbones prominent. His lips were chapped and cracked, covered with bloody cuts. But his eyes—large and bright—were like two flames that had not yet been extinguished in the ashes.

His face was covered in sweat, mud, and blood.

But he was smiling.

He grinned, revealing his crooked teeth stained with blood.

A bright, clean, and even somewhat childlike smile.

Amidst the cacophony of gunfire.

Amid the roar of tanks.

Under the shadow of death.

He smiled.

Then, he released his grip on the fuse.

With all his might, he roared—

The sound, transmitted through time and space, carrying the static of electricity, yet resounded with crystal clarity on the banks of the Yangtze River in 2026, echoing in everyone's ears:

"Little Hubei—"

"Didn't give any to our ancestors—"

"How shameful!!!"

Before he could finish speaking...

He pulled the fuse.

laugh--! ! !

White smoke suddenly billowed out from the bundle of six grenades twisted together.

It made a sizzling sound.

Like the last sound of life.

He held the bundle of grenades high in the air with both hands.

It's not about throwing it away.

It's a gift.

Like a devout believer, offering the most precious sacrifice.

Then, with the last of his strength, he aimed at the junction of the tank's tracks and hull—

It slammed down hard!

The grenade bundle traced a brief arc in the air.

Then--

boom--!!!!!!!!!

The explosion was muffled and heavy, yet it carried a power that seemed to tear everything apart.

Not a sound.

It was the combined roar of six grenades exploding almost simultaneously!

Like a giant using the heaviest hammer to pound the gates of hell!

The Type 95 light tank suddenly jumped upwards!

Then, the left track snapped, two road wheels were blown off, and twisted metal parts flew everywhere! The vehicle lost its balance and tilted sharply to the left at a 30-degree angle, the turret jammed in its tilted position, and could no longer turn.

The tank is broken.

Thick smoke and flames billowed from the damaged parts of the vehicle.

The fate of the Japanese soldiers inside is unknown.

And that young soldier—

He lay on the edge of a shell crater, about five meters away from the tank.

His chest was ripped open by shrapnel from the explosion, leaving a huge, gruesome wound.

blood.

It's not a flow.

It is a surge.

Like a river bursting its banks, it gushed forth from the horrific hole in his chest, soaking his tattered uniform and the scorched earth beneath him.

His face turned deathly pale at a speed visible to the naked eye.

But he was still smiling.

I turned my head to look at the tank that was billowing smoke and stuck in place, unable to move.

The smile on the face of this eighteen-year-old Chinese boy grew wider and wider...