Chapter 680: Inside Is Hell

Attack day, 3:50 a. m.

Tian Zhong Yilang lay in the trench, his hands gripping a Type 38 rifle tightly.

The rifle stock pressed against his chest, hurting sharply, enough that he could count the wood grain lines. Yet he dared not move—he feared that any movement would make him wet his pants.

All around were people—black and pressed down, lying in the trench, in shell craters, wherever they could lie. No one spoke, only heavy breathing and occasional dry retching. Someone was chanting, a faint buzzing, like a swarm of flies.

Shan Tian Yilang lay to his left. The badly wounded colonel, at this moment, held a binocular, watching the faint outline of a distant city. The lenses reflected weak starlight, like two eyes flickering in the dark.

"Colonel," Tian Zhong Yilang whispered, his throat dry and tight, "how much longer?"

Shan Tian Yilang did not turn around: "Ten minutes."

Ten minutes.

Tian Zhong Yilang swallowed a mouthful of saliva. His throat was so dry it seemed about to smoke, yet he dared not drink water—drinking would make him need to pee, and wetting his pants would invite ridicule. The veteran beside him had said that in battle the worst fear is wetting oneself; a soaked pair brings a chill, the chill brings illness, and illness brings death.

In the distance, the outline of Kuala Lumpur grew clearer. It was a quiet city, its streets empty, only occasional flickers of light. Yet Tian Zhong Yilang knew that behind those lights hid 45,000 enemies.

They were also waiting.

Also waiting for dawn, for the attack, for killing.

"Colonel," Tian Zhong Yilang asked again, his voice even lower, as if fearing someone might hear, "will we die?"

Shan Tian Yilang finally set down the binoculars and turned his head toward him.

That gaze, Tian Zhong Yilang would never forget in his lifetime—tired, compassionate, yet resolute. Like a father watching his child ask, "Are there ghosts when it gets dark?"

"Yes," Shan Tian Yilang said, "but try not to die. Only the living can return home."

Tian Zhong Yilang nodded forcefully, his eyes a bit watery. He quickly blinked, holding the sour feeling back.

3:58 a. m.

Shan Tian Yilang raised his right hand.

The hand hovered in the air for a full two seconds.

4:00 a. m.

The hand came down hard.

Behind them, over three hundred pieces of assorted artillery roared simultaneously.

In that instant, Tian Zhong Yilang felt the sky collapse.

The artillery was not a single blast but a continuous roar, making his ears buzz and his chest resonate. Shells whistled overhead like countless trains streaking across the sky, dragging sharp whistles toward Kuala Lumpur.

In the distance, that quiet city was instantly lit by fire.

Clusters of flames rose, one after another, illuminating the whole night sky. Explosions reached from several kilometers away, sounding like muffled thunder. The sturdy buildings collapsed under the bombardment, the fortifications built for half a month turned to fragments, and the British Army soldiers hidden behind the shelters were now struggling in hell.

The bombardment lasted a full two hours.

Tian Zhong Yilang lay in the trench, listening to the sounds, watching the fire. His hands kept shaking, his teeth chattered in his mouth, producing a clacking sound. He wanted to stop, but he couldn't.

Shan Tian Yi Zuo's hand pressed on his shoulder.

The hand was steady and strong.

"Almost there," Shan Tian Yilang said.

6:00 a. m., the artillery ceased.

The world fell silent suddenly.

That silence was more terrifying than any sound.

A whistle sounded.

Sharp and shrill, it ripped through the death‑like stillness.

"Kill them!"

Shan Ben Yifu stood on a small hilltop, holding a binocular and watching the distant battlefield.

After the 4 a. m. artillery halted, the world fell into dead silence.

Tian Zhong Yilang lay at the edge of the ruins, his ears buzzing, the bombardment's roar turning into a continuous humming. He opened his mouth, trying to swallow saliva to moisten his throat, but found his mouth as dry as if it held sand.

Someone beside him nudged his shoulder.

Colonel Shan Tian lay on his left side, his face covered in ash, a fresh wound on his forehead with blood and mud smeared on his brow. He raised his right hand and pointed forward.

Tian Zhong Yilang looked in that direction—about two hundred meters ahead, Kuala Lumpur's blocks crouched like a silent giant in the morning mist. The silhouettes of the British‑style buildings were faint, collapsed houses exposed charred skeletons, the streets empty save for wrecked vehicles and scattered rubble.

"Move," Colonel Shan Tian's voice was soft.

Tian Zhong Yilang scrambled to his feet, his legs a little weak. He gripped his Type 38 rifle, slinking forward behind the silhouettes ahead. The ground was littered with broken stone and glass shards that creaked underfoot. Around him, veterans constantly overtook him, moving more nimbly, hunched, muzzle forward, eyes scanning the surroundings like wolves.

Fifty meters—nothing.

One hundred meters—still nothing.

Ahead was a row of street‑side shops, their signs blown to pieces, windows shattered, the dark doorframes like gaping mouths. Tian Zhong Yilang saw a silhouette moving within a frame—it was the vanguard, already slipping into the building.

He suddenly felt a strong urge to urinate.

The feeling was so intense he almost stopped on the spot to pull down his trousers. But the scarred veteran beside him glared, his look saying, "If you dare pee, I'll kill you."

He could only hold it, his lower belly tightening, the inner thigh muscles twitching.

Then the gunfire started.

Not a single shot, but a rain‑like barrage of roar.

Dense flames erupted from the building ahead, and soldiers charging in fell in sheets like cut wheat. Someone fell from a second‑floor window, a blood‑filled hole gaping in his back. Another struggled at the doorway, trying to climb out, only to be hit in the head by subsequent shells; his body twitched twice then went still.

"Get down!" Colonel Shan Tian's shout came from behind.

Tian Zhong Yilang threw himself to the ground, his face pressed to the earth, smelling the mingled scent of scorched soil and blood. Shells whistled overhead, rattling the wall behind him, debris splattering over him.

He turned his head sideways, seeing a soldier lying three meters away, a hole in the back of his head, blood spilling and seeping across the ground like a slowly crawling black snake.

It was Tian Zhong Yilang's first time seeing a dead person.

He stared at the blood‑snake, at the face buried in the earth—young, perhaps younger than him, lips slightly parting as if murmuring in sleep.

【61】 He wanted to close his eyes, but they would not obey, staying fixed open.

"Mortar!" Lieutenant Yamada's voice rang out again, "Suppress the second‑floor fire!"

From behind came the muffled blast of a mortarshell being fired. A few seconds later, smoke rose from the building ahead. The machine‑gun fire thinned out a bit.

"Charge!"

Lieutenant Yamada had already rushed to his side, grabbed his collar and hauled him up. Tanaka Ichiro staggered after them, his foot stepping on something soft— it was a corpse, its chest still bleeding, but he didn't look down.

He charged into that building.

Inside was hell.