Chapter 472: Somme River, the Awakening of Blood Vengeance

The cold fog wrapped around the mound by the Somme River like a burial shroud.

At five a. m., the sky was still leaden gray, and frost clung to the barbed wire at the front of the trench. Jin Shunzhi lay in the mud, his fingers frozen purple, yet he gripped the Type 38 rifle tightly. The chrysanthemum emblem on the stock glowed a cold, hard metallic hue in the dim light—it was the symbol of the Sakura Nation, now held in the hands of a Cao County man.

"Get up! Everyone get up!"

Rough Japanese rang out in the trench. Lieutenant Zuoteng—a thirty‑something Sakura Nation officer with a small mustache—was kicking the soldiers huddled in the corner with his leather boots. He was one of the supervision team commanders for this batch of "labor personnel."

"Attack in half an hour! Check your weapons! If you don't want to die, charge forward!"

Jin Shunzhi numbly got to his feet and brushed the mud off his uniform. The gray "work uniform" was as rough as a sack, its cuffs already frayed. Around him were hundreds of young men with the same faces, mostly seventeen to twenty‑five, their eyes hollow, lips chapped. No one spoke; only heavy breaths condensed into white mist in the cold air.

They had been crouched in this preparatory trench for two days and two nights. They disembarked at Marseille Port, took a train north, then were hauled by trucks like livestock onto this northern French plain. A British Army officer gave orders in English, and a Sakura Nation officer rendered them into Japanese—or rather, cursed while translating. Training? Only three days. They were taught how to pull the bolt, how to lie prone, how to run after the men ahead.

"Remember," Lieutenant Zuoteng had stood at the front of the line, speaking in a contemptuous tone that every Cao County man could understand, "you are here because of the Imperial Army's grace. Those who survive the battlefield will bring money home. The dead… at least their families will receive compensation."

Grace. Jin Shunzhi chewed on the word, his stomach churning with sour bile. He recalled the ropes at Renchuangang, the suffocating stench in the cargo hold, his mother's heart‑rending cries when he was dragged away. His younger brother Shuntai was only fifteen, and now only a woman remained at home.

"Jin, what are you daydreaming about?"

His fellow townsman Pu Yonghao nudged his arm. Yonghao was two years older, a fresh lash mark on his face—he had been slower by half a step in yesterday's training and was struck with Zuoteng's sword sheath.

"None." Jin Shunzhi shook his head, pulled the talisman from his chest. The embroidered peace charm on the rag was stained, his mother's stitches faintly visible in the dim light. He pressed it to his forehead and whispered in Korean, "Mother, I will come back alive."

"Dream on," sneered a gaunt young man beside him. His name was Li Chengcan, had a few days of schooling, and always spoke with a bite. "We're just cannon fodder. The British paid two hundred pounds for our lives, the Sakura Nation men took half, and from the remaining half they deducted transport, food, and equipment costs… the amount that actually reaches our families is enough to buy a few bags of rice?"

No one replied. Everyone knew he was speaking the truth, but no one was willing to admit it.

The engine's roar rose from the morning mist.

Twenty massive hulks rolled in slowly from behind—bodies of steel, rhomboid outlines, their tracks creaking heavily as they rolled over the muddy ground. They were Mark I tanks, the British's secret weapon. The hull was camouflaged, long gun barrels protruding from each side like the tentacles of a prehistoric beast.

"Look! That's a tank!" a Cao County soldier shouted.

"It can stop bullets, it can cross trenches," Lieutenant Zuoteng explained, a rare moment of pride in his voice, "charge with it, and your chances of surviving are higher."

Jin Shunzhi stared at the nearest tank. It was parked a hundred yards away, its engine idling, the exhaust belching black smoke. In the turret, a British tank crewman stuck his head out, wiping the periscope with a cotton rag. The soldier was young, wearing a leather cap, his face smeared with oil. He glanced this way, his eyes showing little emotion, as if looking at a pile of tools awaiting use.

"Tools," Jin Shunzhi thought. "We're all tools. Cao County men are consumables, the tank is a steel tool, the British use tools to consume consumables, to exchange for German consumables."

What simple arithmetic.

"All attention!"

The British Army commander's voice came through the loudspeaker, and after the Sakura Nation officer's translation became a staccato command:

"... first wave... follow the tank... maintain a scattered line... occupy the first trench and then consolidate the position... no retreat..."

The translating Zuoteng added impatiently, "Did you hear that? Wherever the tank goes, you charge! Anyone who falls behind, the supervision team will deal with them!"

"Supervision team." Jin Shunzhi glanced back. Fifty yards behind the trench, a dozen Sakura Nation soldiers manned machine guns, their barrels not aimed toward the Degjun but at their own backs.

"Six o'clock sharp."

The sky turned a sickly, pale white. The artillery barrage began.

First came a shrill scream—a sound that tore the air, making teeth ache, sweeping over the heads. Then, in the direction of the distant Degjun positions, continuous flashes of fire erupted. The ground trembled, soil was hurled into the sky, splintered wood, metal shards, severed limbs… all mingled in the orange‑red explosions. The British artillery was making its final fire preparations.

Jin Shunzhi covered his ears. Each explosion felt like a heavy hammer striking his chest, shaking his innards. Some began to vomit, some curled into balls, some muttered prayers. Pu Yonghao clutched his arm, his fingernails digging into the flesh.

"Don't be afraid," Jin Shunzhi said in Korean, unsure whether he was comforting Yonghao or himself, "the barrage stops, then it's our turn."

The barrage lasted twenty minutes.

When the last Shell fell, the battlefield suddenly fell into an eerie silence—only the crackle of burning flames and a faint wail from afar.

Then the whistle sounded.

"Advance! All advance!"

The tank engines roared, tracks began to turn. Twenty steel behemoths formed a loose horizontal line, slowly crawling out of the position, rolling over shell craters, crushing the remaining barbed wire. Behind them, the first five thousand Cao County soldiers were driven out of the trench, spilling over the muddy open ground like a tide.

Jin Shunzhi was in the third row. He hunched, his rifle slung across his chest, taking uneven steps as he followed the men ahead. The ground beneath was soft, rotten mud; each step felt like struggling in a swamp. Cold wind poured into his collar, freezing him into a shiver.

"Spread out! Spread out!" the Sakura Nation officer roared from the flank.

But no one truly spread out. The crowd instinctively clustered, as if a dense formation could bring safety. Jin Shunzhi saw, ten meters to his left, a young man step on something—perhaps an unexploded Shell, perhaps a landmine—and a flash of fire lit the spot; the man's lower body vanished instantly, his upper body was thrown by the blast, spun twice in the air, and slammed heavily into the mud.

The scream was drowned by the explosions.