Chapter 474: He Died

Jin Shunzhi finds a corner to sit, drinks a mouthful of water from a canteen. The water is cold, tinged with the smell of iron rust. He looks beyond the trench—on the smoke‑filled battlefield, of the twenty tanks only fourteen are still moving, the rest either destroyed or immobilized. Farther away, the third wave attack column is gathering, again a dense mass of gray figures.

How long will this battle last? He doesn't know. He only knows that each extra minute lived brings him one step closer to death.

As he numbly chews dry bread, a strange feeling crawls up his neck.

Not the sound of artillery, not the sound of guns. It's… a sound. From the depth of the Degjun defensive line, faint but unusually familiar.

A speaking voice. Short, coarse, with a certain rhythm.

Japanese.

Jin Shunzhi jerks his head up, looking toward the direction of the Degjun third defensive line. The Distance is about four hundred yards, obscured by smoke, but the voice is indeed drifting over.

"Yonghao," he nudges his fellow countryman, "listen."

Pu Yonghao perks his ear, his face changes: "Is that… Japanese?"

Li Chengcan also heard it. He climbs to a slightly higher spot, squints to observe. "There's a reserve unit moving behind the Degjun defensive line. Look at those steel‑helmet silhouettes… they don't look like Deguo people."

Indeed. Standard Degjun M1916 steel helmets have protruding ear guards, a clear silhouette. But those moving behind the line wear helmets slightly different—more rounded, ear guards shorter. Moreover, they are generally shorter, their gait…

"Bow‑legged." Li Chengcan spits out three words.

The term pierces everyone's heart like an ice spear.

The Cao County people are too familiar. The Sakura Nation soldiers' traits: short and stout, bow‑legged (caused by lifelong inward‑knee kneeling and marching training), a slight wobble when walking. That is a identification mark etched into their bones after years of colonial rule.

"Impossible," a Cao County soldier mutters, "how could Sakura Nation people help Deguo?"

"What's impossible?" Li Chengcan sneers, "If the Yingguo can buy us, the Deguo can't buy them? It's all business."

Jin Shunzhi's hand begins to tremble. Not fear, but another more primitive emotion surging. He recalls his father—the man who was beaten to death on the Hansong street for not bowing to Sakura Nation patrol police. He recalls his sister—employed by Sakura Nation merchants as a maid, three months later returned as a body riddled with wounds. He recalls the annual "imperial grain" the village must pay, the Japanese forced at school, the contemptuous eyes of Sakura Nation police when they broke into his home searching for "rebellion books."

Hatred. The hatred buried for twenty‑six years, suppressed by fear, now ignited on this unfamiliar Faguo battlefield by the familiar language and figures.

"Quiet!" Lieutenant Zuoteng notices the commotion, "Prepare to attack!"

But no one listens. All Cao County soldiers stand, looking toward the rear of the Degjun defensive line. Those figures become clearer—about a company in Scale, roughly two hundred men, entering the third trench's reserve position. They converse, occasional laughter, relaxed as if in a drill.

Then, they saw the Cao County soldiers in this trench.

Distance three hundred yards, separated by smoke, but both sides recognized each other.

A Sakura Nation officer—by his shoulder boards a captain—climbs onto the parapet, raises a binocular to look this way. He sees Lieutenant Zuoteng's Sakura Nation uniform, sees the supervising team's machine gun, and also sees the dense, gray "work clothes" of the Cao County soldiers.

He puts down the binocular, his face showing an unmasked contemptuous smile. That smile is all too familiar to Jin Shunzhi, on the faces of the Renchuangang military police, on the faces of Hansong street patrol police, on the faces of all Sakura Nation rulers.

The captain turns, says something to the soldiers behind him. Then, he draws his sword.

In the sunlight, the sword reflects a cold gleam. It is the Sakura Nation officer's command sword, its sheath black, the hilt wrapped with a white strap.

The captain takes a deep breath, lifts the sword forward—

"Charge—!"

Pure, Guandong‑accented Japanese, booms across the battlefield like a thunderclap.

"Sousi gege—!"

The two hundred Sakura Nation soldiers behind him roar in unison, bayonets thrust, leaping out of the trench, launching a counter‑assault this way.

In that instant, time froze.

Lieutenant Zuoteng is stunned. He clearly didn't know there were Sakura Nation troops in the Degjun camp.

The British Army commander in the rear observation post, through his binoculars, sees this scene and is also stunned. "Whatthehell…Japanese?" (Seeing a ghost…Japanese?)

But the quickest to react are the Cao County soldiers.

Jin Shunzhi doesn't even think. When that "Sousi gege" pierces his ears, when that familiar charge stance fills his sight, twenty‑six years of accumulated humiliation, fear, hatred erupt like a volcano.

"Ah—!"

He lets out a beast‑like howl, not Japanese, not Chinese, but a pure, primitive Cao County language roar. He raises his rifle, without waiting for orders, the first to leap out of the trench.

"Damned Sakura Nation devils—!"

Pu Yonghao follows, jumping out, eyes blood‑red.

Then the third, fourth… the tenth… the hundredth. Throughout the second trench, every Cao County soldier still able to stand, as if pulled by the same string, all surged forward. No organization, no orders, not even a glance at the supervising team.

The supervising team's Sakura Nation machine gunner is stunned. Lieutenant Zuoteng shouts wildly: "Stop! No unauthorized charge! Stop!"

But no one heeds him. The Cao County soldiers go mad, charging the two hundred Sakura Nation soldiers, shouting in Korean as they charge:

"You bastard!"

"Give back my father's life!"

"Hansong's debt must be paid!"

The opposing Sakura Nation soldiers also freeze. Their expected scenario was that these "inferior races" Cao County soldiers, seeing the Imperial army charge, would either flee or kneel and surrender. They never imagined these "slaves" would dare to thrust their bayonets and counter‑charge.

But the battlefield allows no hesitation.

Two crowds of people collide violently between the two trenches, across the cratered and corpse‑filled no‑man's zone, crashing loudly.

Jin Shunzhi aims at the captain who swings the sword. He remembers that contemptuous face. Thirty yards, twenty yards, ten yards—

The captain also sees him, surprise flickers in his eyes, then turns feral. He grips both hands on the sword, assuming a standard sword‑cut stance.

"Lowly Cao County people, dare—"

The words are cut off.

Jin Shunzhi does not thrust with his bayonet. In the last three yards he drops low, a sliding sweep evades the sword's slash, while his rifle sweeps horizontally, smashing the captain's knee side.

"Crack!"

The sound of bone shattering. The captain cries out, kneels on one knee. Jin Shunzhi has already sprung up, flips his rifle, using the stock—exerting all his strength—smashing the captain's face.

One hit, two hits, three hits. The bridge of the nose collapses, teeth fly, eyes burst. Until the face turns into a blood‑smeared mess, until the sword falls into the mud, Jin Shunzhi keeps pounding.

"Shunzhi!" Pu Yonghao grabs him, "He's dead!"