Chapter 162: Aftermath of the

Whoosh— whoosh—

The sharp howling tore the muggy Myanmar air, as one gray‑steel‑painted fighter and bomber after another roared past the clouds over Lashu.

The engines' massive roar was deafening, as if even the sky shivered under the pressure of this steel torrent.

Each time the formation swept over, the th Division camp below instantly boiled, soldiers poking their heads out of foxholes and tents, waving and shouting toward the sky, cheers rising and falling, soaring into the clouds.

It was because the victory at the Xibu Campaign let everyone taste for the first time the sweet fruit of three‑dimensional air‑ground coordination.

The unit that once could only endure Japanese Army bombings on the ground now has its own skyward guardians, and that pride spreads across every face.

The th Division's troops also received air support in Myanmar for the first time.

Before entering Myanmar, the British and the Americans' promised air support was as useless as a fart.

At this moment, inside the lead fighter, Song Yunfei looked through the cold glass of the canopy, his gaze sweeping the verdant yet lethal jungle below like a hawk.

He glanced to the left, confirmed the bearing, and deftly opened the radio channel.

"018, 019, watch your bearings," Song Yunfei's voice cut clear through the hiss of electricity, "Go down and check that village. It's at three o'clock, the last node on the Japanese Army's retreat route."

The village Song Yunfei fixed his eyes on was the Japanese Army's final stop during its retreat.

"Yes, Captain!"

"Copy that, Captain!"

With the order given, two BF‑109 fighters that had been circling aloft responded swiftly, their wings tilting slightly like two hawks spotting prey, instantly breaking away from the massive formation.

As they plunged sharply, the vibration grew stronger; they rode a brash gust, swooping low over the dead‑silent village.

Yet when the BF‑109's distinctive propeller whine cracked over the village, the whole place exuded an oddly eerie calm.

No panicked silhouettes, no rising smoke, not even a trace of camouflage could be discerned. Because of their speed and low altitude, the pilots could only see neatly arranged houses, yet the village seemed utterly lifeless.

They saw not a single person from the air.

"018 calling, target area normal, no anti‑air fire detected, no ground activity observed."

Finding nothing amiss, the two fighters, after confirming no threat, did not linger. They yanked their noses up, rejoined the high‑altitude squadron, and roared after the Japanese Army's fleeing forces to the south.

In fact, beneath those seemingly calm rooftops, the Japanese troops below had never left the houses. They didn't refuse to leave; they simply could not move.

In this damp, sweltering hell, the tropical diseases raging unchecked were scarier than any bullets.

Holding the rear guard in this tiny village was Lieutenant Colonel Sanmu Yilang of the Japanese Army. He leaned on his command sword, barely supporting his frail body, his gaze hollow as he scanned the surroundings.

In this garrison that had only moments ago been noisy, now only he could barely stand.

The soldiers who once obeyed him to the death now lay sprawled in the mud and under eaves. Their faces were blank, eyes sunken; many were at the brink of death, gasping in, exhaling out, their painful moans replacing former drill shouts.

Life here seemed no longer resilient, but like fragile dead branches, ready to snap at any moment.

They were on the verge of perishing.

When those two fighters had zipped over the town, the massive roar startled him. In that instant, Sanmu Yilang almost thought his shattered body would turn to ash.

But he did not die, and the aircraft dropped no bombs.

Sanmu Yilang feared no death; as a former Imperial Japanese officer indoctrinated with Bushido Spirit, dying on the battlefield was his destiny. Yet he rejected such meaningless death. In this alien jungle, the fight could not be waged at all.

Recalling the early days of planning the Lashu offensive, everyone had wildly endorsed it, as if victory were within reach; but when the troops reached the Defensive Line, the command hesitated, indecisive; later, the frontline command was completely wiped out by the opposing Chinese forces.

And they all agreed that on April 29, today, they would present the Emperor with the finest birthday gift.

Now, the 56th Division has become the gift of this terrifying primeval forest in northern Myanmar.

Although Sanmu Yilang was only a Lieutenant Colonel, after the heavy casualties, the Japanese Army's 56th Division now regarded a Lieutenant Colonel as a high rank, qualified to access core intelligence.

Thus, Sanmu Yilang knew about the chaos and collapse within the command.

Deep inside, Sanmu Yilang felt a bizarre sense of relief.

He was relieved he hadn't contracted the deadly malaria or dysentery, and had luckily evaded a fierce Chinese bombardment, surviving till now. Yet watching these subordinates on the brink of death, that relief seemed pale and feeble.

As for the others in the village, the Burmese.

Only the scattered white bones in the village attest that humans once lived there.

Meanwhile, at a rear camp dozens of kilometers away.

After receiving Song Yunfei's reconnaissance report, Jiang Anguo, without hesitation, ordered the troops to prepare to move.

With Jiang Anguo's single command, all units sprang into action; the bulky tents and nonessential supplies were left behind.

Now was a critical race against time; there was no moment to pack those trivial items. He merely informed the rear logistics, so they could be reused later or taken over by follow‑up units.

Before reaching the next camp, Jiang Anguo would simply purchase new tents with points, wasting no time on the old ones.

As for the soldiers bitten by poisonous snakes or stricken with malaria during the march, they were assigned to a garrison unit to guard the camp, with sufficient medicine left, as weapons were also desperately needed in the jungle.

Only a short chase into the rainforest later, Jiang Anguo endured great hardship.

Jiang Anguo dared not imagine how Li Yi's troops had once cut into the Thai rainforest, and how Li Yi managed to withdraw the entire force unscathed.

Unfortunately, Li Yi has now retreated into Xishuangbanna, moving toward Chanda, unable to carry out this mission.

In fact, since the pursuit of Jiu Mi Jingyi's parachute unit, he keenly sensed that the war should pause. Continuous high‑intensity combat and harsh terrain mean even steel‑clad troops need rest.

But precisely because of that cunning Jiu Mi Jingyi, like a thorn stuck in his throat, he missed the chance to crush the 56th Division's main force on the front lines.

Logically, Jiang Anguo should have killed Jiu Mi Jingyi for that, causing him to lose the opportunity.

Jiang Anguo's primary purpose in this pursuit was crystal clear: first, to utterly annihilate the living forces of the 56th Division.

Currently, supplies are ample, the Independent Regiment's units remain highly combat‑effective, morale is high, making this the optimal moment to expand the gains.

Second, to make up for the regret of not crushing the 56th Division in one blow at Lashu. He will act to prove this ace unit is not unbeatable.

The troops set out in grand formation.

Jiang Anguo stared at the suffocatingly dense forest ahead, the air filled with noisy birdcalls and insect chirps. Above, a brief spell of sunshine had returned, but the sun hadn't dried the ground, and the forest trail remained soggy.

Each step sank into the mud, pulling out with a 'squelch' sound. Even fully armed in thick rainboots, a misstep caused a slip and a splash of mud.

Yet this did not slow the Independent Regiment's advance at all.