Chapter 696: I

Zhao Dengyu stood inside the command post, his ears still buzzing. He shook his head vigorously and shouted into the megaphone, "All units, report!"

The megaphone crackled with report after report:

"First mechanized infantry division reporting! Tank units are ready, can depart at any moment!"

"Second infantry division reporting! Infantry have boarded the vehicles, standing by to go!"

"Third infantry division reporting! Same as above!"

"Seventh division reporting!"

"Eighth division reporting!"

"Ninth division reporting!"

Zhao Dengyu nodded and turned to look at Wang Tieshan.

"Old Wang, it's your turn."

Wang Tieshan stood at attention, saluted, and strode out of the command post.

Five minutes later, the engines of more than five hundred tanks roared in unison. The sound was deep and powerful, like five hundred beasts growling low. Black diesel smoke billowed from the exhaust, stark in the dawn. Tank crews stuck half their bodies out of the turrets, waving at the infantry behind them and shouting something. The infantry crowded onto trucks, rifles raised, caps waving, howling in response.

Wang Tieshan stood atop a No. 2 tank, flag of command raised in his hand. He watched the countless tanks and trucks, the soldiers shouting, and suddenly felt an urge to cry.

It had been twenty years. From the bicycle era to now five hundred tanks and 120,000 troops—Lanfang had truly risen.

He inhaled deeply, raised the command flag, and swung it forward forcefully.

"Depart!"

The tanks moved. Over five hundred, arranged in dozens of Columns, a steel torrent surging toward the Sinai Peninsula. The tracks kicked up dust that blotted out the sky, like a yellow dragon crawling across the ground. Behind them trailed thousands of trucks packed with soldiers, a massive tide stretching beyond sight.

Zhao Dengyu stood outside the command post, watching the massive army pass before him.

A young soldier passed by, unable to resist glancing again—Zhao Yanwang, the legend who spent three months in Holldasa and forged 120,000 men into an iron army. Zhao Dengyu also looked at him—the kid seemed under twenty, still bearing a hint of childishness, but his eyes shone terrifyingly.

"Kid, are you scared?" Zhao Dengyu suddenly asked.

The soldier froze briefly, then puffed out his chest: "Not scared!"

Zhao Dengyu smiled, the grin pulling at the wrinkles on his face, looking somewhat feral.

"If you're not scared, that's right. Those who are scared are already dead."

He patted the soldier's shoulder, turned, and walked back to the command post.

Behind him, the steel torrent kept pressing forward.

The vanguard of the First mechanized infantry division reached the British Army's first defensive line at 06:40.

Wang Tieshan sat inside the No. 2 tank, peering forward through the periscope. Intelligence indicated a British Army brigade of over three thousand, fortifications built over three months, should be here. Yet now the so‑called 'defensive line' lay silent, not a single silhouette in sight.

"Stop the tank." he ordered.

The tank halted. Wang Tieshan climbed out of the turret and raised a binocular.

The first trench lay two hundred meters ahead. It was dug deep and wide, meeting the British Army's usual standards. Three strands of barbed wire stretched across the front, with torn cloth strips fluttering in the wind. Yet the trench itself—empty.

"Send a platoon over to check." he said to the nearby communications soldier.

A platoon of soldiers crouched forward. They approached the wire cautiously, used mine detectors to sweep the ground, and after confirming no mines, cut a gap and slipped inside. Then they knelt at the trench edge, rifles raised, peering in.

Seconds later, a soldier stood and waved toward them.

Wang Tieshan's heart sank sharply.

He leapt from the tank, striding toward the trench. The adjutant and guard hurried after, shouting while running, "Division commander, be careful!"

Wang Tieshan ignored them. He rushed into the trench, stood at its bottom, scanning the surroundings.

Empty.

The trench was well‑built and sturdy. Firing positions, shelters, ammunition depots—all present. The ammo depot still piled boxes of bullets and grenades, left behind. The shelter was strewn with dry straw, and a few tea jars half‑emptied, the water still warm.

Wang Tieshan crouched, ran his hand over the dry straw. Imprints showed someone had slept there. He then felt the tea jar—still warm, indicating the occupants had left only recently. (It could also be the heat from shells reheating it, hahaha.)

"Relay orders to all units," he said, standing, his face ashen, "continue advancing. Check the second defensive line, the third defensive line, all of them."

Twenty minutes later, reports from the units came in one after another.

Second defensive line—empty.

Third defensive line—empty.

All fortifications on the British Army's positions—empty.

Wang Tieshan stood in the third‑line trench, looking at the fortifications shattered by artillery, and suddenly felt as if he were punching cotton.

Over a thousand guns, fifty thousand shells, an hour of relentless bombardment—just pounded a mound of earth.

A soldier passed by, muttering softly, "Damn, the Yingguo are really fast."

Another soldier replied, "No kidding, they didn't even have time to clean the tea jars."

"Shut up!" the squad leader roared, and the two soldiers quickly tucked their necks, daring not speak again.

Wang Tieshan emerged from the trench, stood on a high ridge, raised his binoculars toward the west. In the distance a faint plume of smoke could be seen—a retreating Yingguo force racing toward the Suez Canal.

"Where's the reconnaissance aircraft?" he asked.

The adjutant replied, "It took off ten minutes ago and is now tracking."

"Keep them on his tail. Tell Division Commander Zhao, the Yingguo have fled."

Zhao Dengyu received the news while having breakfast in the command post: a bowl of millet porridge, two steamed buns, a dish of pickled vegetables. He had just taken a bite of a bun when a communications soldier burst in, slamming Wang Tieshan's telegram onto the table.

"Division commander, urgent telegram from Commander Wang!"

Zhao Dengyu picked up the telegram, glanced at it, and was stunned for three seconds.

Then he flung the bun onto the table and shouted profusely:

"Damn it! I fired fifty thousand shells and all we got was a pile of dirt?! The Yingguo's damn fast—faster than a rabbit!"

Li Tiejun stifled a laugh, handed over the freshly returned reconnaissance telegram: "Division commander, the reconnaissance aircraft reports the Yingguo main force is withdrawing toward the Suez Canal, at a Distance of about… forty kilometers."

"Forty kilometers?" Zhao Dengyu's eyes lit up, "Can we catch up?"

The tank unit should give full‑speed pursuit and should be able to intercept part of them before the canal.

Zhao Dengyu waved his hand grandly: "Chase! Tell Wang Tieshan, don't worry about formation; run as fast as you can! Infantry ride trucks to keep up! Catch the Yingguo and that's victory!"

He stood up, grabbed his cap, put it on, and strode outward.

Li Tiejun was startled for a moment: "Commander, where are you going?"

"Frontline!" Zhao Dengyu said without turning his head. "I want to see with my own eyes how those Yingguo bastards run!"