World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

3:50 a.m. on the day of the attack

Tanaka Ichiro lay prone in the trench, his hands gripping his Type 38 rifle tightly.

The butt of the rifle pressed painfully against his chest, so painful that he could count the grain of the wood. But he dared not move—he was afraid that if he moved, he would wet his pants.

People were everywhere. A dark mass, lying prone in the trenches, in the shell craters, in every available spot. No one spoke, only heavy breathing and the occasional retching. Someone was chanting, the sound faint, a buzzing like a swarm of flies.

Yamada Ichiro lay prone to his left. The wounded colonel was holding binoculars, gazing at the faint outline of a city in the distance. The binoculars reflected the faint starlight, like two eyes twinkling in the darkness.

"Colonel," Tanaka Ichiro said in a low voice, his throat dry and tight, "how much longer?"

Yamada Ichiro didn't turn around: "Ten minutes."

ten minutes.

Tanaka Ichiro swallowed hard. His throat was parched, but he dared not drink water—drinking water would make him want to urinate, and if he wet his pants, he would be laughed at. The old soldier next to him had said that the worst thing in war was wetting your pants; if you wet your pants, you would catch a cold, and if you caught a cold, you would get sick, and if you got sick, you would die.

In the distance, the outline of Kuala Lumpur grew clearer. It was a quiet city, its streets deserted except for the occasional flicker of lights. But Tanaka Ichiro knew that behind those lights lurked 45,000 enemies.

They are waiting too.

They were also waiting for dawn, waiting for the attack, waiting to kill.

"Colonel," Tanaka Ichiro asked again, his voice even lower, as if afraid of being overheard, "will we die?"

Yamada Ichiro finally put down his binoculars and turned to look at him.

That look in his eyes—he was tired, compassionate, yet resolute. Like a father watching his child ask, "Will there be ghosts when it gets dark?"

"Yes," Yamada Ichiro said, "but try not to die. Only by living can you go home."

Tanaka Ichiro nodded vigorously, his eyes stinging. He quickly blinked, trying to suppress the tears.

3:58.

Yamada Ichiro raised his right hand.

The hand remained suspended in mid-air for a full two seconds.

The four seasons are complete.

The hand suddenly fell.

Behind them, more than three hundred cannons of various types roared simultaneously.

In that instant, Ichiro Tanaka felt like the sky had fallen.

The cannon fire wasn't a single sound, but a continuous roar that made ears ring and chests resonate. Shells whistled overhead like countless trains speeding across the sky, trailing sharp whistles as they flew towards Kuala Lumpur.

In the distance, the quiet city was instantly illuminated by the firelight.

Clusters of flames rose, one after another, illuminating the entire night sky. The explosions, carried several kilometers away, had become muffled thunderclaps. The sturdy buildings collapsed under the artillery fire, the fortifications that had been under construction for half a month were blown to pieces, and the British soldiers hiding behind their bunkers were now struggling in hell.

The shelling lasted for a full two hours.

Tanaka Ichiro lay prone in the trench, listening to the sounds and watching the flames. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and his teeth chattered in his mouth. He wanted to stop, but he couldn't.

Yamada Ichiro placed his hand on his shoulder.

That hand was very steady and strong.

"It'll be soon," Yamada Ichiro said.

At 6:00 AM sharp, the artillery fire ceased.

The world suddenly fell silent.

That silence was more terrifying than any sound.

The whistle blew.

Sharp, piercing, it tore through the deathly silence.

"Kill them!"

Kazuo Yamamoto stood atop a small hill, holding up binoculars and looking at the distant battlefield.

After the gunfire ceased at four in the morning, the world fell into dead silence.

Tanaka Ichiro lay prone at the edge of the ruins, his ears ringing; the roar of the shelling had turned into a continuous buzzing. He opened his mouth, trying to swallow to moisten his throat, but found his mouth as dry as if it contained sand.

Someone nudged his shoulder.

Colonel Yamada Ichizo lay on his left, his face covered in ash, a fresh wound on his forehead, blood mixed with dirt smeared on his brow bone. He raised his right hand and pointed forward.

Tanaka Ichiro looked in that direction—two hundred meters ahead, the streets of Kuala Lumpur resembled a silent behemoth crouching in the morning mist. The outlines of the British-style buildings were faintly visible, the collapsed houses revealed their charred skeletons, and the streets were deserted, with only wrecked vehicles and scattered rubble.

"Let's go." Colonel Yamada's voice was very soft.

Tanaka Ichiro scrambled to his feet, his legs feeling weak. He gripped his Type 38 rifle tightly and crouched low to follow the figure ahead. The ground was covered in pebbles and broken glass, crunching underfoot. People kept passing him; the veterans were much more agile, their backs hunched, rifles pointed forward, their eyes scanning the surrounding windows like wolves.

Fifty meters, and there was no movement.

One hundred meters, still nothing.

Ahead was a row of shops lining the street, their signs blown to pieces, their windows shattered, and the dark doorframes resembling gaping mouths. Tanaka Ichiro saw figures moving inside the doorframes—it was the advance team, already inside the building.

He suddenly felt the urge to urinate.

The feeling was so intense that he almost stopped and unzipped his pants. But the scarred veteran next to him glared at him, his eyes saying: "If you dare pee, I'll kill you."

He could only hold it in, until his lower abdomen tightened and the muscles on the inside of his thighs twitched.

Then a shot rang out.

It wasn't a single sound, but a deafening roar like a torrential downpour.

Intense flames erupted from the building ahead, and soldiers who rushed in fell in droves like felled wheat. Some fell from second-floor windows, their backs gaping in blood. Others struggled to crawl out of the doorway, only to be struck in the head by subsequent bullets, their bodies twitching twice before going still.

"Get down!" Yamada Ichisuke's shout came from behind.

Tanaka Ichiro collapsed to the ground, his face pressed against the earth, the smell of scorched earth and blood filling the air. Bullets whizzed overhead, pounding against the walls behind him, splattering debris all over him.

He turned his head and saw a soldier lying three meters away with a hole in the back of his head, from which blood was flowing slowly down the ground like a black snake crawling slowly.

That was the first time Tanaka Ichiro had ever seen a dead person.

He stared at the blood snake, at the face buried in the earth—a young face, perhaps even younger than himself, its lips slightly parted, as if murmuring something in its sleep. He tried to close his eyes, but they wouldn't obey, remaining fixed in the air.

"Mortars!" Yamada Ichizo's voice rang out again, "Suppress fire on the second floor!"

The muffled thud of a mortar shell firing came from behind. A few seconds later, smoke rose from the building ahead. The machine gun fire thinned out.

"Rush!"

Yamada Ichisuke had already rushed to his side, grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him up. Tanaka Ichiro staggered after him, stepping on something soft—a corpse, blood still gushing from its chest, but he didn't look down.

He rushed into the building.

It's hell inside.