Chapter 687: Battle of Yangon

The sun was rising, brightening the whole sea area. Yet beneath that brightness lay dark‑red sea water, countless corpses, and people still struggling, still charging, still dying.

Lin.

Here.

You said, those who are dead—did they know they would die?

Lin Zhongfu was silent for a long time.

I don't know, General.

Xiaoyuan Chuan set down his telescope and turned to look at him.

"I don't know either," he said, "but I know they are dead and we are still alive. The living must remember them."

He paused, his voice dropping lower: "Remember how they died, why they died."

Lin Zhongfu opened his mouth, as if to speak, but in the end said nothing.

In the distance, gunfire on the beachhead continued. The living were still charging.

When the second trench was taken, it was already nine a. m.

Tianzhong Erlang leaned against the trench wall, gasping for breath. His left leg was still bleeding; the wound, soaked in sea water, had turned pale and swelled as thick as a thigh. He tore open a first‑aid kit to try bandaging it, but his hands shook so badly he could not wrap the bandage properly.

Next to him crouched the blood‑smeared veteran. A wound above his left eye was still oozing, yet he acted as if nothing, lighting a cigarette. The smoke was damp, hissing as he drew, but he smoked slowly and deliberately, each drag filling his lungs.

"Veteran," Tianzhong Erlang began, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable, "... do we still have to fight?"

The veteran gave him a glance and exhaled a puff of smoke.

"Fight. The third trench hasn't been taken yet."

Tianzhong Erlang closed his eyes.

We must fight. We must charge. We must kill.

He opened his eyes and looked at the corpses in the trench. There were British Army soldiers, Indian soldiers, and Sakura Nation soldiers. Some had just died, their blood still hot; others had been dead for a while, their bodies already stiffening. Blood had turned the trench floor mud into a slushy mess, each step sticky, feeling like walking in a swamp.

A young soldier crawled past him, dragging a broken leg. The leg was missing below the knee, leaving only a blood‑smeared stump. They moved very slowly, crying out with each step. A long trail of blood trailed behind.

No one tended to them. No one had the strength to tend to them.

Tianzhong Erlang watched the person crawl by, saying nothing. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak; he couldn't find the words.

The veteran stood up and pressed the cigarette butt into the trench wall, extinguishing it.

"Move. It's time to go up."

Tianzhong Erlang struggled to stand. The wound on his leg tore with pain, making him grit his teeth. Yet he clenched his jaw and followed the veteran forward.

At the end of the trench, toward the third trench, gunfire still rang.

At noon, the beachhead position was fully captured.

Xiaoyuan Chuan stepped down from the landing craft onto the beach. Underfoot was soft, sand, and something he couldn't identify that dug into his soles. He didn't look down, but he knew what it was.

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu followed behind, his complexion ghastly.

The beach was littered with countless corpses. Some floated in sea water, tossed by the waves; some lay on the sand, faces buried; some curled up like sleeping children. Seagulls circled overhead, screeching, occasionally diving to peck at the bodies that had not yet stiffened.

Xiaoyuan Chuan walked over those corpses, step by step, moving very slowly.

He saw a young Sakura Nation soldier lying on the beach, his face turned to one side. The face was very young, seeming under twenty, eyes still open, staring at the sky. A bullet hole marred his chest, the blood long dried, leaving a dark‑brown mark.

He saw another soldier curled into a ball, hands covering his abdomen. A blast had ripped a hole in his belly, intestines spilling out, piled on the sand, already torn apart by seagulls.

He saw three soldiers packed together, as if even in death they still clutched each other's hands. Their bodies were riddled with bullet holes, blood gluing them together, making it impossible to tell who was who.

Lin Zhongfu followed behind, his steps growing slower. His complexion grew ever whiter, and finally he could not hold back, stumbling to the side, leaning on a reef and vomiting.

Xiaoyuan Chuan did not stop.

He kept moving forward, passing those corpses, the wounded still moaning, and the survivors kneeling on the ground, staring blankly.

Reaching the end of the beach, he halted.

There stood a young soldier, drenched in blood, his face covered in ash, eyes hollow like two dried wells. He stood there, staring at the corpses, motionless.

Xiaoyuan Chuan walked over and stood before him.

The soldier slowly turned his head, looking at him. Those eyes made Xiaoyuan Chuan's heart tremble—only someone who had lost everything could have that gaze.

"What is your name?"

"Tian... Tianzhong Erlang."

Xiaoyuan Chuan nodded.

"Tianzhong, do you know how many died today?"

Tianzhong Erlang looked at him, saying nothing.

"Eight thousand," Xiaoyuan Chuan said, "eight thousand Sakura Nation soldiers died on this beach."

He pointed at the bodies wrapped in white cloth, at the remains still being washed by the waves, and at the severed limbs being carried away.

"Some of them shouted 'Mother' as they died, some shouted 'His Majesty the Emperor,' and some just died without a word. They are dead; we are still alive."

Tianzhong Erlang's tears fell.

"General, I... I killed someone," his voice trembled, "I killed an Indian soldier; he knelt and begged me, he kept begging, but I still... still stabbed him."

Xiaoyuan Chuan looked at him, silent for a long time.

Then he reached out and placed his hand on Tianzhong Erlang's shoulder.

"Tianzhong, do you know why I'm still standing?"

Tianzhong Erlang shook his head.

"Because I've killed people too. Many, many," Xiaoyuan Chuan said, "so many I can't count them, so many that when I close my eyes I can still see them."

He paused: "But we must stay standing. If we fall, those who died will have died in vain."

Tianzhong Erlang's tears flowed even more fiercely.

Xiaoyuan Chuan patted his shoulder.

"Stay alive. Alive, only then can you remember those who have died."

He turned and left, continuing onward.

Behind him, Tianzhong Erlang stood there, watching the corpses, watching the sea water dyed red with blood, watching the crows circling in the sky.

Alive.

He recalled the words written in his brother's letter—'Just stay alive.'

But living like this, does it still count as living?

He didn't know.

All he knew was that he was still standing here, still breathing, still able to see this hell.

And those who had died could no longer be seen.

At dusk, the setting sun was sinking into Mota Ma Bay.

The sea surface was stained a blood‑red, like an inverted sky, like endless flowing blood, like the eyes of eight thousand people who could never return home.

Most of the corpses on the beach had already been carried away, leaving only patches of dark red stains, reminding people of what had happened here. Wave after wave rolled in, washing over the bloodstains, but they would not wash away. The blood had seeped into the sand, into the soil, into every corner of this land.

In the makeshift camp, the survivors sat in small groups. No one spoke, no one moved, just sitting there like clay statues.