Chapter 681: “Make the Yingguo surrender

The hallway was piled with bodies in every direction—some British Army, some Sakura Nation soldiers, and a few civilians in plain clothes curled up in the corners, their bodies riddled with bullet holes. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood, so strong it made people want to vomit.

A British Army soldier stuck his head out from the stair corner, raising his pistol to fire downward. The veteran charging ahead lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger— it jammed. The British soldier's barrel was already aimed at him.

Tianzhong Yilang didn't know how he had done it.

He raised his gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The butt of the gun slammed into his shoulder, jolting him back a step.

The British soldier rolled down the stairs, fell into a pool of blood, twitched twice, then went still.

Tianzhong Yilang stood there, looking at the corpse. It was a young man with golden hair, blue eyes, his eyes still open, staring blankly at the ceiling. A bullet hole gaped in his chest, blood bubbling out.

"What are you standing around for? Up the stairs!" the veteran's shout snapped him back to reality.

He mechanically moved his legs and surged upward.

Every step in the stairwell was littered with corpses, every corner echoed with gunfire, and any door could conceal an enemy. He didn't know how many times he'd fired, how many he'd killed; he only knew the mechanical cycle of loading, aiming, shooting, loading, aiming, shooting…

When he finally burst onto the third floor, he found his whole body drenched in blood. He couldn't tell if it was enemy's, comrade's, or his own.

Commodore Luobote Ge Ni stood on the roof of a three‑story building, holding a telescope and watching the surrounding streets.

His command post was here—the tallest building in downtown Kuala Lumpur, formerly a bank office tower. From here he could overlook most of the city, see the houses blown apart by artillery, see the bodies strewn across the streets, and watch Sakura Nation soldiers scurrying through the ruins like ants.

"General," the adjutant ran up, panting, "the Third Battalion of the East District reports they are surrounded and request reinforcements."

Commodore Luobote Ge Ni did not turn around.

"No reinforcements."

The adjutant froze for a moment, opened his mouth, but said nothing and turned to go downstairs.

Commodore Luobote Ge Ni continued watching the streets.

Three days earlier he commanded forty‑five thousand troops: two Anglo‑Indian divisions, an Australian brigade, plus local Malay colonial forces. The fortifications had been built for half a month, ammunition stocks were ample, and he had thought they could hold for at least a month.

Now the East District had fallen, the North District was in fierce fighting, the South District was sealed off by Sakura Nation artillery, and the West District troops were pulling back toward the city center.

And the Sakura Nation's assault never paused for a moment.

He saw on a distant street a dozen or so Sakura Nation soldiers advancing. They stuck to the wall base, moving in three‑person squads, taking turns covering each other. One soldier sprinted around a corner, immediately dropped to crouch and raised his gun to aim; the two behind hurried past him and kept moving forward. Their coordination was as practiced as if they'd trained a thousand times.

The British Army's machine gun swept from a second‑floor window, pinning them down. But soon a mortar Shell landed precisely on that window, silencing the machine gun. The Sakura Nation soldiers seized the chance, rushed through the street corner, and vanished into another ruin.

Commodore Luobote Ge Ni set the telescope down.

He recalled London three years ago, remembered a staff officer patting his shoulder and saying, "Luobote, Malaya is the pearl on the British crown; its defenses are as solid as gold soup."

"As solid as gold soup."

He gave a wry smile.

From below came a dense barrage of gunfire, getting closer. The adjutant ran up again, this time his face ashen.

"General, the Sakura Nation has reached the lower floor! We must retreat!"

Commodore Luobote Ge Ni looked at him, silent for three seconds.

"You may go."

The adjutant was stunned.

"General..."

"I am the commander," Commodore Luobote Ge Ni cut him off, "this is my position. I will stay until the end."

The adjutant's eyes reddened. He saluted, turned, and rushed down the stairs.

Commodore Luobote Ge Ni lifted the telescope again, watching the Sakura Nation soldiers drawing ever nearer. He could now see their faces—fatigued, filthy, but with something in their eyes that terrified him.

That something was called madness.

By the third day of street fighting, there were no rules left.

Tianzhong Yilang leaned against a broken wall, gasping for breath. His rifle lay on its side, the barrel so hot it could fry an egg. Three days had passed; he hadn't slept a wink, hadn't eaten a hot meal, and when thirsty he drank from his military canteen—the water tinged with the smell of blood, but he couldn't bother.

Next to him crouched the veteran with a scar on his face. The veteran's left arm had been shot, crudely bound with bandages, blood still seeping out. Yet he kept smoking, drawing slowly and deliberately, each puff filling his lungs.

"Kid," the veteran suddenly said, "how many have you killed?"

Tianzhong Yilang shook his head.

He didn't know. The first day he stormed into that building he killed a few, later in the street fights a few more, and after that he stopped counting. Counting was useless; it only gave him nightmares.

The veteran smiled. The smile tugged at the scar on his face, making it look especially grim.

"Not counting is a good thing. Counting keeps you sleepless."

From afar gunfire rang again, dense and drawing nearer.

Tianzhong Yilang grabbed his gun, stuck his head half‑out to look outward. Across the street, a dozen British Army soldiers were retreating. They ran while firing back, bullets pinging against the walls. Behind them, more than twenty Sakura Nation soldiers gave chase, shouting as they ran, like a pack of rabid beasts.

A British Army soldier was hit in the leg, fell to the ground. He struggled to get up, but the pursuers were already upon him. A bayonet drove into his back; he let out a horrible scream and lay motionless.

Tianzhong Yilang watched the scene, feeling nothing.

Three days ago he would have been scared, nauseated, wanting to vomit. But now he just watched, as if viewing a movie from a great distance.

"Move," the veteran stood, picked up his gun, "it's our turn now."

Shantian Yizao leaned against a bombed‑out truck, taking inventory of the survivors.

First Regiment, three hundred twenty‑one remaining.

Before the assault there had been two thousand five hundred.

He watched the soldiers—some leaned against the wall staring blankly, some clutched their guns and dozed, some etched something into the wall with bayonets, some bandaged wounds, blood smearing their hands. No one spoke, no one wept, they simply carried on in silent solitude.

A young soldier came over, handing him a rice ball.

"Major, you haven't eaten anything for three days."

Shantian Yizao took the rice ball, took a bite. The rice was hard, with a burnt flavor, but he chewed slowly and deliberately.

The soldier didn't leave, standing there, hesitant to speak.

Shantian Yizao looked at him, "If you have something to say, speak up."

The soldier lowered his head, his voice small: "Colonel, how much longer… do we have to fight?"

Yamada Ichisa fell silent for a few seconds.

He looked at the buildings still burning in the distance, at the corpses strewn haphazardly, at the gray figures moving through the ruins.

"Fight until the Yingguo surrender," he said, "or we all die."