Chapter 307: Killing the Devils Is Simple

Of course he didn't know; this wasn't the original wave of aircraft.

These aircraft formed the second attack formation, which, after the first wave bombed Xiaoting and just returned to the Changde base for an urgent ammunition and fuel resupply, took off again. Their original mission was a second round of support bombing on Xiaoting, but before landing they received an urgent telegram from William.

"Target: the northwest side of the Jingmen Mountains, dense Japanese marching columns, annihilate all!"

The pilots who received the order, together with ground crew, refueled and rearmed the P-38 fighter aircraft in the shortest possible time.

For the 116th Regiment, it was a nightmare with no end.

Just as He'er Jilong was still stunned, that familiar, terror‑inducing scream ripped the sky again. This time the sound was faster and fiercer, because the death god, brimming with hatred, was descending from the heavens.

"Scatter quickly! Take cover! More aircraft!"

Desperate cries erupted from the Japanese ranks. The morale that had just begun to gather shattered instantly like a soap bubble.

He'er Jilong watched the swooping formation of aircraft in the sky and felt a deep sense of helplessness. The enemy gave them no time to breathe, not even a chance to bandage wounds or collect bodies.

The tactic was like a cat catching a mouse, not rushing to kill it outright but to toy with it, watching the prey waste its last breath in terror.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

A fresh explosion roared again, louder and closer than before.

The rearmed P-38 fighter aircraft, now with fuller firepower, turned the already scarred valley into a furnace once more.

He'er Jilong watched the soldiers who had just gathered beside him be engulfed by fire in an instant, saw the regiment flag he had just raised torn apart by the blast wave, and the last spark of light vanished from his eyes.

It was a destined slaughter, with no escape and no refuge. In these barren hills without anti‑aircraft fire, the 116th Regiment became the lamb awaiting the butcher in this aerial hunting ground.

The thundering explosions grew sparser, but that did not signal death's end; rather, it marked the beginning of an even deeper terror.

Zhuge Mingliang had already fled to a safe zone, but he halted. An uncontrollable urge drove him to turn around, as if to verify his own masterpiece, and he inexplicably slipped back onto the hillside that had just been scorched by fire.

The scene before him could give any sane person a month‑long nightmare.

The once lush forest now consisted only of charred stumps; the ground was littered with craters of varying depth, and the soil still exhaled blue smoke.

The acrid burnt smell in the air was so intense it nearly suffocated you, mingling with sulfur, charred leather, and a nauseating scent of scorched protein.

At that moment, a heap of scorched earth ahead shifted slightly.

Zhuge Mingliang fixed his gaze and saw a curled humanoid figure struggling up from the ground toward him.

It was a Japanese soldier. Or rather, it had once been a Japanese soldier.

His uniform had been reduced to ash‑black shreds clinging to his body as a feeble cover. His skin blistered, ruptured, and curled; his entire face was a blur, features melted together, leaving only a black, gaping mouth that twitched and emitted a beast‑like, painful hiss.

Because of the extreme heat, a strange meaty aroma drifted from the soldier, like the scent of stew simmering at a New Year's feast, yet now it churned the stomach like a raging torrent.

Zhuge Mingliang stood there, his legs trembling uncontrollably. He was terrified.

It was his first time confronting such horror at such close range. The most primal, visceral fear of death clutched his throat like an icy hand. Instinctively he wanted to retreat, to turn and flee, away from this hellish monster.

"Help... help..."

The charred Japanese soldier seemed to recognize the person before him, extending a hand reduced to half a finger, as if trying to grasp something.

Zhuge Mingliang stared at that hand, at the pair of eyes burnt blind yet still groping toward him, and suddenly his terror peaked, followed by a strange metamorphosis.

"Since I'm already in hell, why not become a demon?"

He no longer retreated; instead, he stepped forward, inch by inch toward the dying Japanese soldier. His gaze shifted from terror to hollowness, finally settling on a near‑mad indifference.

He stopped one step away from the soldier. Nearby, a short Japanese dagger discarded in the mud lay with its blade stained by earth and dark‑red blood.

Zhuge Mingliang bent down and yanked the dagger out in one swift motion.

The soldier seemed to sense danger; the blurred visage twisted violently toward Zhuge Mingliang, emitting an indistinct, terrified whimper.

Too late.

Zhuge Mingliang lunged, grabbing the charred, brittle hair that reeked of rot. The feel was coarse and disgusting, like clutching dry grass and rotting flesh.

The soldier's body convulsed violently, trying to struggle, but it was as brittle as a burnt log, with no strength left to resist.

Zhuge Mingliang hesitated not a moment; his hand was steady, so steady that even he was surprised. The cold dagger pressed against the place where the soldier's neck should have been.

"Sss—"

It was the light sound of a blade slicing through rotting flesh and cutting cartilage, faint yet crystal‑clear on the silent slope.

A gush of black‑red warm fluid erupted instantly, splashing Zhuge Mingliang's hand and face.

The soldier's struggle ceased at once; his heavy body went limp, discarded by Zhuge Mingliang like a sack of trash.

Dead? Just like that?

Zhuge Mingliang stared blankly at the dagger in his hand, at the fresh blood dripping from his fingertip, and then at the motionless corpse at his feet.

The "Tai Jun" who had once towered over him, inspiring terror and forcing him to grovel and flatter, the symbol of brutality and slaughter, at this moment, reduced by a single cut to a piece of dead flesh.

So, killing the devils was that simple.

An unprecedented thrill surged through his body like electricity, shooting from the soles of his feet up to the crown of his head.

"Ha ha… ha ha… hahahaha!!"

Zhuge Mingliang suddenly threw his head back, laughing hysterically at the rolling black smoke in the sky. His laugh was sharp and mournful, echoing through the empty valley, sounding more chilling than wailing ghosts.

He laughed as tears and blood on his face mixed and ran down his mouth—salty, metallic, and sweet.

He laughed so hard he bent forward and backward, unable to straighten his back, laughing like a madman.

In that instant, the timid, servile traitor Zhuge Mingliang died, replaced by a vengeful demon crawling out of the blood pool. He finally understood that these so‑called "Imperial Japanese Army" were merely beasts stripped of a vicious shell, easy to slaughter.