Chapter 692: Myanmar Campaign 4

Ten days later, beneath the city of Nibeidu, the general assault began.

Mucun Jianyi lay on the launching position, gripping his rifle tightly.

His leg still ached, the wound from the English‑Canadian operation hadn't healed cleanly. But he had to go up. th Division arrived, and the survivors of the Seventh Division also had to follow. General Xiaoyuan Chuan said this was the final battle; capture Nibeidu and Burma would be theirs.

Next to him lay several unfamiliar faces—new recruits of th Division, just arrived from the homeland, their faces still bearing the naiveté of never having seen battle. They looked around curiously, whispering, having no idea what awaited them ahead.

A young recruit shuffled over, lowering his voice to ask, "Veteran, are you scared when it comes to fighting?"

Mucun stared at him, silent for a second.

"Scared," he said, "but once the fighting starts, you forget the fear."

The recruit was stunned for a moment, wanting to ask more, but the whistle sounded.

"Charge!"

Mucun sprang up, running forward with the crowd.

This time, he was not alone. Beside him were men in earth‑colored fatigues—the Myanmar Independence Army, wielding the gun Lanfang had just delivered, charging behind the Sakura Nation soldiers. Their movements lacked the Sakura soldiers' polish, but their eyes held a light Mucun recognized—the light of hatred.

Ahead lay the British Army's position: three tiers of trenches, dense clusters of machine‑gun nests. The Yingguo had built there for two months, turning Nibeidu into a massive fortress.

The machine gun roared.

Bullets swept over like a downpour. Soldiers around him fell in waves, their screams, shouts, and explosions blending together. Mucun lay on the ground, his face pressed to the mud, hearing bullets whizz past his head. Mud splashed into his mouth, tasting both sour and metallic.

"Get up! Charge!"

Someone kicked him. He looked up and saw a blood‑smeared officer shouting at him. The officer's left eye was gone, just a bloody socket, yet he kept shouting.

Mucun scrambled to his feet and kept charging.

Thirty meters, twenty meters, ten meters—

He leapt into the trench.

The trench was packed with people—British, Sakura Nation, Burmese—all mixed, fighting with bayonets, rifle stocks, fists, even teeth, battling desperately. Blood splattered on his face, into his eyes, obscuring everything; all he knew was stab, stab, stab.

A British soldier lunged at him. Mucun raised his rifle, bayoneting the man's abdomen. The man let out a horrible scream, fell to his knees, clutching his belly. Mucun withdrew the bayonet and thrust again, and again, and again—

When he came to his senses, the man's face was already mangled.

Mucun leaned against the trench wall, gasping heavily.

He killed another. He lost count of how many.

Ang Dan crouched in the trench, his hands trembling.

Ten minutes earlier, he had been in the Myanmar Independence Army's training camp, practicing assassinations with a wooden gun. Ten minutes later, he was in this trench full of corpses, blood, and screams, killing with a real firearm.

Just now he had killed a British soldier. He was a white man with blond hair and blue eyes, only a few years older than him. When the man charged, Ang Dan instinctively raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The man fell before him, a bloody hole in his chest, eyes still open, staring at him.

Ang Dan wanted to vomit, but couldn't.

"What are you standing still for? Forward!" a veteran of the Sakura Nation kicked him.

Ang Dan scrambled up and ran forward with them.

At the trench's end, a group of British soldiers were surrendering. They raised their hands, knelt, shouting something. Ang Dan didn't understand, but he knew it was pleading for mercy.

Sakura Nation soldiers surged forward, bayoneting the surrendering men.

Ang Dan froze there, watching the men fall one after another.

"You…what are you doing?!" he shouted in Japanese, "They're surrendering!"

A Sakura Nation officer turned to look at him, his gaze as cold as a winter river.

"Surrender? There is no surrender on the battlefield. Only the living and the dead."

Ang Dan opened his mouth but could not speak.

He looked down at the corpses beneath his feet—British, Sakura Nation, Burmese. Blood had turned the trench bottom's soil into slush, sticky underfoot.

He suddenly didn't know what he was doing.

For independence? For freedom? For Burma?

Or for killing?

When the second line of trenches was taken, it was already afternoon.

Mucun leaned against a stack of sandbags, breathing heavily. A shrapnel wound sliced his left arm, blood streaming down, but he couldn't tend it. He only wanted to breathe, to slow his wildly beating heart.

Next to him sat the one‑eyed officer. The officer was smoking; the smoke curled, trembling in his hand, yet he inhaled slowly and forcefully.

"Veteran," Mucun began, his voice hoarse, "are we still going to fight?"

The officer gave him a glance.

"Fight. The third line of trenches hasn't been taken yet."

Mucun closed his eyes.

Still have to fight. Still have to charge. Still have to kill.

From afar came the shouts of the Myanmar Independence Army—something in Burmese. Mucun didn't understand, but he knew it was a charge order.

He opened his eyes, struggling to rise.

"Move."

When Ang Dan surged with the Sakura Nation soldiers into the third trench, he no longer thought of anything.

He only knew to run, to fire, to pull the trigger the moment he saw someone in British uniform. His mind was a blank, driven solely by instinct.

A British soldier burst from a corner, gun aimed at him. Ang Dan instinctively pulled the trigger— it jammed.

The British soldier's barrel was already pointed at his face.

At the very last moment, a veteran of the Sakura Nation lunged forward, plunging a knife into the British soldier's back. The man let out a horrible scream, collapsing before Ang Dan.

The veteran looked at Ang Dan, cursed something, then kept charging forward.

Ang Dan froze for a second, then swapped magazines and kept up.

He didn't know the veteran's name, nor why he saved him. But he knew that without that man, he would already be a corpse now.

At the end of the trench, a British Army officer stood there, raising his pistol and firing at the soldiers rushing forward. His aim was very accurate, one shot per man, and three Sakura Nation soldiers fell before him.

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

The officer fell with a single shot.

Angdan rushed forward and stood before him. The officer was still alive, a blood‑filled hole in his chest, blood gurgling out. He looked at Angdan, his lips moved as if to speak, but the blood surged out and blocked his throat.

He died.

Angdan stood there, staring at the corpse.

Golden hair, blue eyes, looking very young. Perhaps, like him, he also had parents waiting at home.

He didn't know.

He only knew that he had killed another person.

Inside Naibi Du City, the street fighting entered its third day.

Mucun leaned against a broken wall, chewing a compressed biscuit in large bites. The biscuit was as hard as stone, grinding his teeth, but he couldn't care less. It had been three days; he had barely eaten anything, hadn't slept, surviving solely on this mouthful.

A few new recruits of the th Division crouched nearby, speaking softly.

"I heard once the fighting's over we can go back home?"

"Probably. The troops in Malaya have already rested."

"I'm still alive... I can hardly believe I'm still alive..."

Mucun said nothing, continuing to chew that biscuit.

Alive? He had survived Yangon, Dangji, Yingjiawu, Naibi Du. But his brother Tianzhong Yilang, the brother who wrote him letters and told him "being alive is enough", died in the ruins of Kuala Lumpur.

He didn't know how much longer he could live.

Maybe the next Shell, maybe the next bullet, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.

But at least for now, he is still alive. He can still eat biscuits, still breathe, still think of his brother.