Chapter 478: British Hundred Thousand

"We must retreat to the trench!" Jin Shunzhi shouted.

"How can we retreat? The fireteam's machine gun is behind us!"

The two exchanged a glance and saw the despair in each other's eyes. Advancing meant death, retreating also meant death. Either way was death.

At that moment, a familiar roar came from the battlefield's flank.

Jin Shunzhi turned his head—about three hundred yards to the right flank, another Degjun reserve unit had entered the fight. Its soldiers were short and stout, bow‑legged, brandishing bayoneted rifles, and were overwhelming a small group of Cao County troops in close combat.

It was another Sakura Nation mercenary unit.

And this time they were more numerous—at least a battalion, five hundred men. They had clearly received orders to "cleanse" yesterday's disgrace. A Sakura Nation lieutenant brandished his sword at the front and shouted in Japanese, "Kill all these Cao County scum! Not one left!"

Those words ignited the barrel of explosives.

The suppressed, not yet fully vented hatred from yesterday found its final outlet in the despair of tanks crushing everything.

"Fuck those bastards—!"

Someone shouted first, unknown who. Then, like a chain reaction, all the Cao County soldiers on the battlefield went mad. They stopped dodging bullets, stopped seeking cover, raised their bayonets, and charged the Sakura Nation unit under machine‑gun fire.

"Kill—!"

"Avenge Yong Hao—!"

"Avenge Hansong—!"

Jin Shunzhi also surged forward. He had no time to think, no time for fear; blood surged to his head, and his vision turned a bloody red. He lifted his rifle, leapt over corpses, stepped over shell craters, and rushed toward the nearest Sakura Nation soldier.

That soldier had just bayoneted a Cao County man and was pulling out his bayonet. Seeing Jin Shunzhi charge, he snarled and met him. Bayonet against bayonet, metal clanged.

Jin Shunzhi had never received formal assassination training, but he had hatred, brute strength, and a resolve to die together. He made no attempt to block, letting the opponent's bayonet pierce his left shoulder while he drove his own bayonet hard into the enemy's abdomen.

"Ugh—!"

Both screamed in agony. The Sakura Nation soldier released his rifle, clutched his stomach, and collapsed. Jin Shunzhi staggered back, the bayonet still lodged in the foe's body. He looked down at his left shoulder—the tip protruded from his back, blood gushing like a spring. It didn't hurt, only numb.

He pulled out the bayonet, discarded it, grabbed the enemy's rifle, and kept charging forward.

The battlefield turned into hell again.

But this time, hell held not only Cao County troops and Sakura Nation soldiers. Degjun tanks and infantry also surged in.

A Mark‑One tank tried to sweep the mêlée with its hull‑mounted machine gun, but the range was too short, friend and foe intermingled, and the gunner hesitated. In that instant, three Cao County soldiers leapt onto the tank's side; one produced an unknown explosive pack, lit the fuse, and jammed it into the tracks and hull gap.

"Get down—!"

A thunderous blast. The tank's left track was blown off, the road wheel shattered, and the hull tilted. The hatch opened; Degjun crew members tried to escape, but were instantly pierced by surrounding bayonets like a beehive.

Elsewhere, a Sakura Nation sergeant led a dozen soldiers in a bayonet formation, slaughtering Cao County troops. Li Chengcan flanked around, picked up a dropped light machine gun—unclear whether British Army or Degjun—mounted it on a corpse, and pulled the trigger.

"Rat‑tat‑tat‑tat—!"

The machine gun sprayed. Sakura Nation soldiers fell like wheat being cut. The sergeant was hit in the thigh, collapsed, and Li Chengcan rushed forward, bashing his buttstock once, twice, three times, shattering the man's skull.

Yet individual bravery could not change the battle.

More Degjun tanks swung around, machine‑gunning the mêlée zone. They cared not whether the dead were Sakura Nation or Cao County; to them all were "Eastern barbarians". Shells fell, exploding limbs and severed arms. Mortar rounds rained down like hail.

"Retreat! Full‑line retreat!"

From the rear finally came the British Army's retreat signal. But it was already too late. The front began to collapse.

First the right flank: a Cao County battalion was surrounded by Degjun tanks and infantry, all killed. Then the left flank: the fireteam's machine‑gun position was covered by Degjun artillery, Lieutenant Zuoteng was blown half a head off by shrapnel. With the fireteam gone, the Cao County troops instinctively fled backward.

"Chengcan! Move!" Jin Shunzhi, dragging his injured left arm, hauled the blood‑shot Li Chengcan.

"I won't go! I want to kill all these—"

"Do you wanna die, you fuck!" Jin Shunzhi roared, "Yong Hao is already dead! You want us all to die here?!"

Li Chengcan froze for a second, his gaze clearing a bit. He glanced at the battlefield—bodies strewn everywhere, flames leaping skyward, Degjun tanks crushing everything.

"Go!"

The two ran with the retreating crowd. Bullets chased from behind, people kept falling. Jin Shunzhi's left shoulder bled profusely; each step seared with agony. Yet he dared not stop—stopping meant death.

Passing the second trench, he saw a few Cao County soldiers fighting over a dead horse's flesh, slashing raw, blood‑soaked meat with bayonets and shoving it into their mouths. Some went mad, sitting amid corpses laughing. Others knelt, kowtowed to the eastern sky, then raised their guns and killed themselves.

Collapse, total collapse.

In the rear observation post, Major General Huo Lei Xiao stared at the scene through his telescope, his hand trembling slightly.

"General, the third defensive line is lost, the second line is falling, Degjun is counter‑attacking across the front," the staff officer's voice trembled, "We… we can't hold it."

"Casualties?" Huo Lei Xiao's voice was unusually calm.

"Preliminary estimate… British Army dead exceed thirty thousand, French forces near ten thousand, Eastern auxiliary units… over sixty thousand. Tank units completely destroyed."

One hundred thousand. Huo Lei Xiao closed his eyes. One hundred thousand living people who were charging and fighting yesterday now reduced to a cold number. And that number kept rising.

"Order a full‑line retreat," he said, "Fall back to the reserve line. Also… send word to London: the Somme Offensive, we have failed."

"Yes… yes!"

By the time the retreat order reached every unit still able to receive it, it was already three p. m.

Rain fell again, the cold winter rain washing the battlefield yet unable to dilute the thick smoke and scent of blood. Jin Shunzhi and Li Chengcan fled south with the routed troops, passing burning villages, leaping over blown‑up bridges, wading through rivers clogged with corpses. Along the way lay discarded gear: rifles, steel helmets, ammo crates, even artillery.

No one organized, no one commanded. The survivors had only one thought: flee, the farther the better.

At dusk they finally reached the British Army's reserve line—a hastily built trench system, its garrison fresh recruits pulled from the rear. The young soldiers looked at the blood‑soaked, hollow‑eyed, zombie‑like Eastern men, their faces showing a mix of fear and disgust.