Chapter 679: I Only Want Kuala Lumpur

Shanben Yifu stood outside the temporary command post, watching the soldiers below the hill who were resting.

The tents spread out densely like white mushrooms, yet the camp's atmosphere was dead‑still—no laughter, no clamor, only occasional groans of the wounded and the puffing sound of wind through the canvas. The living sat by the campfire, staring blankly at the flames, their hollow eyes making one reluctant to look longer.

Chief of Staff Tu Feiyuan Xian Da strode forward, his army boots thudding on the mud with a dull thump. He clenched a telegram in his hand, his expression so grave it seemed ready to drip water.

"General, General Zhou Zhen guo is sending a telegram."

Shanben Yifu took the telegram, his eyes scanning the few lines of text.

"Casualties are too great; halt the attack. Reinforcement divisions have set out and will arrive within three days. Their soldiers will be merged into your four divisions, and each division must be brought back to full strength. After three days, attack Kuala Lumpur again. ——Zhou Zhen guo"

He stared for a long time, his fingers lightly tapping the telegram.

"Full strength..." he murmured, his voice hoarse as sandpaper on steel, "Twenty‑five thousand per division?"

Tu Feiyuan Xian Da nodded: "The four reinforcing divisions total one hundred thousand men. General Zhou means to disperse those one hundred thousand into the existing four divisions so we can restore full combat power."

Shanben Yifu's fingers paused on the telegram.

"He's giving us a blood transfusion," he said, folding the telegram and slipping it into his pocket, "supplying us veterans with fresh troops, letting veterans lead the newcomers, to maintain combat effectiveness."

Tu Feiyuan Xian Da hesitated, lowered his voice and asked, "General, can the soldiers still fight?"

Shanben Yifu looked up at him.

That gaze made Tu Feiyuan Xian Da's heart tremble—tired, compassionate, yet as hard as steel tempered in fire.

"What do you think?"

Tu Feiyuan Xian Da gave no answer.

Shanben Yifu turned and stared at the distant, blood‑red Bendaer Mountain. Unclear corpses still lay on its slopes, and crows circled the sky, shrieking harshly.

"Tell the soldiers there are reinforcements," he said, "new men will take up their rifles. Let them rest properly for three days."

He paused, his voice dropping lower as if speaking to himself, "After three days, an even bigger battle awaits."

Shan Tian Yilang stood by the road, watching the marching columns.

They were fresh recruits shipped in from the sea—one hundred thousand men divided into four batches, moving toward the camps of the four divisions. They wore brand‑new earth‑colored uniforms, carried brand‑new Type‑38 rifles, and their faces bore the naïve curiosity of those who have never seen battle.

The road churned up dust. Footsteps clattered chaotically like a gaggle of toddlers learning to walk. Some looked around, some whispered, some wiped sweat in secret—though it was already tropical, they still wore the heavy uniforms brought from northern divisions.

A young soldier passed by him and couldn't help glancing again—at his bandaged left shoulder, at his weary face, at the indelible smoke stains and dark‑brown blood spots on his uniform.

Shan Tian Yilang also watched that soldier.

The kid looked under twenty, with fine fuzz on his lips. He shouldered his rifle, puffed his chest, trying to act like a veteran, but his eyes betrayed him—clear, clean, eyes that had never seen blood.

"What's your name?" Shan Tian Yilang asked suddenly.

The young soldier froze, hurriedly stood at attention, nearly tripping over his own foot, and blurted, "R‑report, sir, I'm Tian Zhong Yilang, from Hokkaido!"

Shan Tian Yilang nodded.

"Tian Zhong, have you ever killed anyone?"

Tian Zhong Yilang's face turned deathly pale. He opened his mouth, a gurgling sound coming from his throat, before managing, "N‑not yet, sir."

Shan Tian Yilang stepped forward and stood before him. He was half a head shorter than Tian Zhong Yilang, yet Tian Zhong felt as if a mountain loomed over him.

He reached out and patted his shoulder—the pressure neither light nor heavy, yet it made Tian Zhong shiver all over.

"Soon you will kill," Shan Tian Yilang said, his voice as calm as if commenting on pleasant weather, "and you'll watch those around you being slain. If luck is bad, you'll be slain yourself."

Tian Zhong opened his mouth but could not speak.

"Are you afraid?"

Tian Zhong remained silent for three seconds, then nodded vigorously. The nod was so large his hat tilted.

"Afraid."

Shan Tian Yilang suddenly laughed—a laugh he himself hadn't noticed, tinged with melancholy.

"Being afraid is right. Those who aren't afraid are already dead."

He turned and said to the adjutant behind him, "Assign this soldier to the 1st Regiment, 3rd Battalion. Follow me."

The adjutant stood at attention, "Yes!"

Tian Zhong stood there, watching the bandaged figure recede. Sunlight stretched his shadow long across the dust‑filled road.

An older veteran came over and patted his shoulder. A scar ran from the corner of his eyebrow down to his chin, giving him a fierce, grim appearance.

"Kid, you're lucky. Being personally selected by Colonel Shan Tian gives you a slightly better chance of surviving."

Tian Zhong wanted to ask why, but the veteran had already left.

He stood still, watching the marching columns, the unfamiliar faces, and the endless tents in the distance.

Three days later, he would follow that heavily wounded colonel to attack Kuala Lumpur.

What he didn't know was that on this journey he would witness, with his own eyes, what is called hell.

The tent was packed with people—the division commanders of the four divisions, the regimental commanders of each brigade, the artillery commander, the logistics officer, the communications officer, and several liaison officers from Lanfang. A kerosene lamp hung in the center, its flame flickering in the night breeze, casting everyone's shadows onto the canvas like a troupe of silent ghosts dancing.

Shanben Yifu stood before a huge map of Malaya, holding a slender bamboo rod in his hand.

The map was densely marked with red and blue pencils—the red arrows indicated their attack direction, the blue circles the British Army's defensive positions, and the black crosses the identified minefields and machine‑gun nests.

"Kuala Lumpur," he said, pointing the bamboo rod at the red‑circled spot on the map, producing a soft tap, "do you know how many troops the Yingguo have gathered here?"

No one answered.

The tent was so quiet one could hear the sizzle of the kerosene lamp's wick.

"Intelligence shows at least forty‑five thousand men: two Anglo‑Indian divisions transferred from Burma, one Australian brigade, plus local Malayan colonial troops. Well‑equipped, morale… not yet broken."

He paused, drawing a circle with the bamboo rod on the map, spanning from the city's north to its east, then from west to south.

"Kuala Lumpur is the capital of Malaya, the Yingguo's administrative center there. It has comprehensive fortifications, solid buildings, and a maze of intersecting streets. Once inside, it becomes street fighting."

He turned, looking at the silent generals.

The lamp's light fell on their faces, casting deep shadows. Their faces were gaunt, eye sockets hollow, stubble sprouting messily. In the battle of Bendaer Mountain, among those present, who hasn't lost several brothers?

"Street fighting—what it means, you all understand clearly."

Major General Mucun, commander of the First Division, spoke, his voice hoarse like a broken bellows: "General, how many men do we have?"

"Including the newly recruited troops, the four divisions are at full strength, one hundred thousand men."

A slight stir arose inside the tent.

One hundred thousand versus forty‑five thousand. More than double the manpower advantage.

But no one cheered.

Because everyone knows that in siege battles, especially street fighting, the attackers always suffer far heavier casualties than the defenders. In the battle of Bendall Mountain, they took the hill defended by eight thousand British troops at the cost of twelve thousand men.

What about Kuala Lumpur?

Forty‑five thousand British Army troops—how many will die?

Shanben Yifu looked at the silent faces.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, his voice low but each word like a nail driven into wood, "many will die. It could be more than at Bendall Mountain."

He set down the bamboo pole, his hands braced on the table. The table's edge was already soaked with sweat.

"But we must fight. Capture Kuala Lumpur, and Malaya will be ours. The Yingguo will be driven out of the Malay Peninsula completely. Our supply lines will be secure. We will have a foothold in Southeast Asia."

He scanned each person.

"Three days later, at four o'clock in the morning, the general assault will begin. The First and Second Divisions will attack from the north, the Third and Fourth Divisions from the east. The artillery will commence covering fire two hours early.."

He paused.

"I have only one demand: take Kuala Lumpur. No matter how many die."

The tent fell silent for three seconds.

Then everyone rose together, the wooden chairs scraping a harsh sound across the floor.

"Yes!"

That "Yes" roared as if from the chest, shaking the oil lamp's flame.