Chapter 678: Should We Replenish?

Fukuda Yataro said nothing.

Shanben Yifu poured himself another drink.

"Fukuda, do you know what I saw when I went up the mountain today?"

Fukuda Yataro shook his head.

"I saw a soldier holding his comrade's head, crying nonstop. That head—just the head. The body was nowhere to be found," Shanben Yifu's voice was very calm, but that calm made it harder to bear, "I also saw a soldier stabbing a Yingguo officer with a bayonet. He stabbed him dozens of times, still stabbing. His eyes were red, he couldn't see anything, yet he kept stabbing."

He drank the glass.

"These soldiers aren't born demons. This war turned them into this."

Fukuda Yataro was silent for a long time.

Then he also lifted his cup and drank it in one gulp.

"Shanben, after we finish Ji Long Po, can we... become normal people again?"

Shanben Yifu gave no answer.

Outside the tent, wind swept over the battlefield, carrying the smell of blood and burnt flesh. In the distance, someone sang—a folk song from Sakura Nation, about hometown cherry blossoms and mother's rice balls.

That singing, on this corpse‑strewn battlefield, sounded especially mournful.

3 a. m., the temporary camp at the foot of Ben Da Er Shan.

Shan Tian Yilang sat on a stone, a small campfire burning before him. The firelight cast his shadow onto the tent behind him, stretching it long and long. He had been sitting for three hours, unmoving, silent, just staring blankly at the fire.

The wound on his left shoulder throbbed again. Blood seeped under the bandage, mixing with sweat, sticky. Yet he did not change the dressing, did not call anyone, just endured.

Footsteps came from beside him. The Deputy carried two rice balls over and sat beside him.

"Colonel, you haven't eaten all day. This was just heated, have some."

Shan Tian Yilang took the rice ball, bit it. The rice was soft, wrapped around salty pickles, tasted good. But he chewed slowly, as if chewing sand.

The Deputy looked at him, about to speak but stopped.

"If you have something to say, speak."

The Deputy hesitated, lowered his voice: "Colonel, this afternoon... that matter, have you heard about it?"

Shan Tian Yilang's chewing paused.

"What matter?"

"The prisoners," the Deputy's voice dropped further, "the 3rd Regiment captured over two hundred Yingguo prisoners. When they were being taken down the mountain, they passed a field of our soldiers' corpses... then, nobody knows who fired first. By the time an officer rushed in to stop it, more than a hundred were already dead."

Shan Tian Yilang set the rice ball down.

"And now?"

"The remaining prisoners have been locked up. The soldiers who fired are also locked up. I heard there are thirty‑seven of them."

Shan Tian Yilang was silent for a long time.

He recalled the scene from the morning assault. Those soldiers charged three times, were repelled three times. The last time, he saw with his own eyes a young soldier—looks under twenty—hit by a Shell, his body blown in two. The upper half flew several meters, and when it hit the ground, his eyes were still open.

He remembered that soldier's gaze. That gaze he would never forget in his lifetime.

It wasn't fear, not pain, but an indescribable, hollow feeling, as if nothing remained.

"Colonel?" the Deputy called softly.

Shan Tian Yilang came to himself.

"What do you think of those thirty‑seven?"

The Deputy was stunned, then shook his head: "I... I don't know. They killed the prisoners, which violates military discipline. But... they just lost so many comrades, watching friends blown up, beaten to death..."

He could not continue.

Shan Tian Yilang watched the campfire, the flames dancing in the night wind like countless struggling hands.

"Go back to sleep. Let the higher-ups handle this."

The Deputy stood, bowed to him, turned and left.

Shan Tian Yilang kept sitting, staring at the fire.

He recalled a line his drill instructor said when he first enlisted: "War will turn good people into demons, and demons into good people. After the war, look in the mirror; you may not recognize who you are inside."

He didn't believe it then.

Now he believes it.

4 a. m., Shanben Yifu's tent was still lit.

He sat on a marching cot, a map of Malaya spread before him. Ben Da Er Shan was marked "Occupied," the next target—Ji Long Po—encircled with a big red circle.

Tu Fei Yuan Xian Da pushed open the tent and walked in, holding a cup of hot tea.

"General, you haven't slept all night again."

Shanben Yifu took the tea, did not drink, and placed it on the box beside him.

"Can't sleep."

He looked at the map, his finger pointing at Ji Long Po.

"Tu Fei Yuan, how many Yingguo troops will be stationed at Ji Long Po?"

"The two divisions transferred from Burma should already be there. Adding the irregulars conscripted locally in Malaya, at least... forty thousand."

"Forty thousand," Shanben Yifu repeated. "What about us? How many are still combat‑ready?"

Tu Fei Yuan Xian Er was silent for three seconds.

"The 1st Division still has over three thousand, the 2nd Division over four thousand, the 3rd Division was shattered, fewer than two thousand can move. The 4th Division is more intact, about twenty thousand. Adding artillery, engineers, logistics... the total able to fight is roughly thirty thousand."

Shanben Yifu closed his eyes.

Thirty thousand versus forty thousand.

And the Yingguo defend, we attack.

"General," Tu Fei Yuan Xian Da said softly, "the soldiers are exhausted. This battle at Ben Da Er Shan has cost too much. If we don't rest and go straight into Ji Long Po..."

"I know." Shanben Yifu interrupted him, "But the Yingguo people won't wait for us to regroup. They only keep gathering, their fortifications become more solid. When we finish regrouping, we may have to face sixty thousand people, eighty thousand people."

He opened his eyes and looked at Tufei Yuan Xian Da.

"Send word to each corps: rest for three days. After three days, continue the push north."

Tufei Yuan Xian Da opened their mouth, wanted to say something, but ultimately didn't speak. They stood at attention, saluted, turned and left.

In the tent, only Shanben Yifu remained.

He stood up, walked to the tent entrance, lifted the curtain, and looked at the night outside.

In the distance, on the summit of Bendaer Shan, a campfire burned. It was the sentries' fire, reminding everyone— the mountain still stands, the position still holds, they have won.

But he knew the price of victory was too great.

So great that he didn't know how to face the families of the dead, how to face those still alive but already changed, how to face himself.

The wind blew from the mountain side, carrying the scent of blood and burnt flesh.

Shanben Yifu inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled.

"Twelve thousand." he murmured, "twelve thousand fine young men of the Sakura Country… just for this mountain."

No one answered him.

Only the wind kept blowing.