Chapter 695: Empty City Stratagem

The night in Huo Erda Sa was cold enough to freeze a person to death.

Zhao Dengyu stood on the sand dune outside the temporary command post, wrapped in that faded army greatcoat, watching the dense artillery positions before him. Moonlight fell on the desert, casting a pallid glow; more than a thousand guns of various calibers lay under the moon like a herd of sleeping giants—75‑mm mountain guns, 105‑mm howitzers, 150‑mm heavy howitzers, arranged in rows and lines, their muzzles raised high, pointing toward the Sinai Peninsula.

Chief of Staff Li Tiejun emerged from the command post, holding an enamel jar, its heat rising in the cold air as white vapor.

"Division commander, have a sip of hot tea. You've been standing for an hour."

Zhao Dengyu took the jar, didn't drink, just held it to warm his palm.

"What time is it?"

"Three forty. Fifty minutes left."

Zhao Dengyu nodded, said nothing.

In the distance, shadows moved across the artillery positions. The gunners performed final checks—cleaning the barrels, adjusting elevation, moving Shells. The Shells brought in from the rear piled into small hills, their cold metallic sheen glinting in the moonlight. The soldiers handling them were shirtless, drenched in sweat, their breath forming white clouds that mingled like a pot of boiling water.

A young artillery second lieutenant ran to a 150‑mm heavy gun, patted the barrel, and said to the nearby section leader, "Old section leader, this big fellow—how big a crater will one shot make?"

The section leader was a veteran in his early thirties, his face bearing the composure of someone who had seen the world. He glanced at the lieutenant, pulled half a cigarette from his pocket, struck a match, and took a deep drag.

"How big? Stand there, one shot and you won't even find a single hair."

The lieutenant swallowed, his eyes shining terrifyingly: "Then the Yingguo people must have been blown away?"

"Blown away?" the section leader exhaled a puff of smoke. "You'll see soon enough. An hour of bombardment, fifty thousand Shells raining down, will turn the Yingguo trenches into the surface of the moon."

Inside the command post, the telegraph machine clattered nonstop. Signalmen ran back and forth between the tents, delivering the latest weather data, target coordinates, and firing parameters to every artillery position. The staff gathered around the chart table, marking each fire point, each cover, each communication trench of the British Army with red and blue pencils.

Li Tiejun walked over and handed a freshly received weather report.

"Division commander, the reconnaissance aircraft just sent back. Over the Sinai Peninsula, wind from the southeast, wind force level three, visibility good. Bombardment conditions perfect."

Zhao Dengyu glanced at it, then returned the report to Li Tiejun.

"Tell each battery to follow the original plan. After the bombardment starts, adjust elevation every ten minutes, extending fire by one hundred meters. Let the Yingguo taste what a steel storm is."

Li Tiejun nodded, turned to give the order.

Zhao Dengyu continued standing on the dune, watching the eastern horizon grow brighter.

It was close.

Four o'clock.

"Division commander," a voice called from behind. It was Wang Tieshan, deputy division commander of the First Mechanized Infantry Division, a man in his early forties with a scar running from his eyebrow to his chin, a souvenir from the household war twenty years ago. He wore a crisp officer's uniform and strode up to Zhao Dengyu.

"Old Zhao, our tank units are ready. Five hundred twenty‑three tanks, all fully fueled, Shells loaded, the soldiers have had a hot meal and are just waiting for your cannon fire."

Zhao Dengyu looked at him and suddenly asked, "Old Wang, what are the Yingguo doing right now?"

Wang Tieshan paused, thought, "Probably sleeping. This hour is when people are most drowsy."

"Sleeping," Zhao Dengyu repeated, then laughed, "Let them sleep. Later, let them never wake up."

Four twenty‑two.

Each battery transmitted its final report:

"First battery ready!"

"Second battery ready!"

"Third battery ready!"

"Heavy battery ready!"

One after another, like the death god's roll call.

Zhao Dengyu walked back to the command post, stood by the window, and raised his right hand.

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

The second hand ticked—four twenty‑nine minutes fifty‑five seconds, fifty‑six, fifty‑seven, fifty‑eight, fifty‑nine—

Four thirty exactly.

The hand dropped sharply.

"Fire!"

In that instant, Zhao Dengyu felt the sky collapse.

It wasn't a single thunderclap, but the roar of more than a thousand cannons firing together. The muzzle flames merged into a sheet, lighting the whole night sky, brighter than the brightest lightning. The shockwave could be felt hundreds of meters away, rattling the glass windows of the command post, making the cups on the table jump and smash, resonating through every chest.

Shells whooshed overhead, not one or two, but an endless barrage, like a thousand trains streaking across the sky, dragging death's whistle toward the Sinai Peninsula.

Zhao Dengyu rushed to the window, raised his binoculars.

In the distance, the direction of the British Army positions was instantly bathed in fire.

Flames rose in clusters, one after another, unending, as if the gates of hell had been kicked open. Those three‑month‑old trenches, those sandbag‑built machine‑gun emplacements, those reinforced‑concrete permanent works, in front of the Shells were like paper—torn up, shredded, flung into the air, then falling back down.

The explosions, heard from over ten kilometers away, had become a muffled thunder, but that thunder was not a single or double boom, it was a continuous roar that made the sand beneath the feet tremble slightly.

"Good!" Wang Tieshan slammed his fist on the table. "Blast them!"

Zhao Dengyu did not cheer. He held the binoculars, watching the fire‑shrouded positions, muttering, "Strike, strike, strike—send the Yingguo back home."

The bombardment lasted a full hour.

During that hour, more than a thousand cannons never paused for a second. The gunners, shirtless and drenched in sweat, mechanically repeated loading, aiming, and firing. Shell casings clanged at their feet, piling into small hills. The smell of gunpowder was choking, yet no one wore masks—there was no time.

A young gunner, after loading a Shell, leaned on the gun carriage and gasped for breath. His ears rang, hearing nothing, only seeing the section leader's mouth moving as he shouted something. He frantically shook his head, pointing at his ear, indicating he couldn't hear.

The section leader leaned close, shouting at his ear with his loudest voice, "Keep firing! Finish before you speak!"

The gunner nodded, gritted his teeth, and hoisted another Shell into the muzzle.

Five thirty, the bombardment stopped.

The world suddenly fell silent.

That silence was more terrifying than any sound.