Chapter Seven: The Bloody Battle at the Gate of China

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

A dark mass of Japanese soldiers, rifles at the ready and led by their officers, surged toward the position. Under the command of Chen Qingzhi, the men of the First Battalion raised their weapons and fired back, the chaotic sounds of gunfire echoing as they unleashed a fierce barrage against the enemy.

“Fire! Give them everything you’ve got!” Chen Qingzhi shouted as he raised his rifle and fired again and again. One after another, the enemy soldiers fell before his marksmanship—every shot a clean headshot.

His skill was uncanny, almost supernatural; whomever he aimed at fell dead, terrifying the Japanese officers so thoroughly that they cowered behind their advancing men, barking orders with their sabers raised high.

The rapid staccato of machine-gun fire rang out.

Tiger, cradling a Czech light machine gun, swept the field with relentless fire. Japanese soldiers charging forward were cut down in droves, collapsing as if mown by a scythe, their bodies writhing and then going limp.

Yet, even this ferocious firepower could not halt the Japanese assault. For every man who fell, more leapt forward to take his place. They trampled the corpses of their fallen comrades, shouting imperial slogans as they surged forward without end.

There were simply too many.

They attacked in full companies, one after another, giving the defenders no respite at all—like wave after wave battering the bulwark of the battalion’s position.

“Kill them all!” a Japanese officer shouted, saber brandished high. Many of the enemy knelt to return fire under the cover of their comrades.

With each exchange, Chinese soldiers fell beneath the hail of bullets.

The battle, barely begun, had already reached a fever pitch—blood spraying, flesh torn, severed limbs scattered everywhere.

“Commander, we can’t hold them much longer! They’re about to overrun us!” A desperate cry jolted Chen Qingzhi from the frenzy. He looked toward the voice and saw a section of their defense about to be breached.

“Quick! Throw grenades!” Chen Qingzhi ordered.

At his command, a dozen men opened the crates in the trenches, drew out grenades, pulled the pins.

“Ready—throw!”

At once, a volley of grenades arced through the air.

A series of thunderous explosions erupted. The Japanese vanguard, just meters away, was engulfed in fire and shrapnel. More than a dozen were killed instantly, clearing a wide swath in front of the position.

Seeing the effect, Chen Qingzhi rejoiced. “Again! Don’t stop!”

The savage battle raged on over this patch of earth, the sounds of slaughter carrying for miles. Nearly two thousand lives had already been lost or maimed in the struggle for this ground.

Bodies lay everywhere, blood pooled and ran across the earth, forming crimson puddles.

The defenders, soldiers of the Republic, fought with wild, desperate fury—mindless of death. Time and again, the Japanese forced their way to the Zhonghua Gate, only to be driven back by the battalion in brutal counterattacks. The position changed hands several times, each side unwilling to yield.

“Long live the Empire!”

“Banzai!”

The enemy, too, fought with reckless abandon, screaming as they charged the barricades.

Since arriving on the battlefield, the Japanese had advanced unopposed—never before had they met resistance like this. Now, at Zhonghua Gate, they suffered a bitter setback.

And what humiliated them most was that it was only a single battalion of “Chinese rabble” standing in their way. If it had been a regiment, perhaps their pride would have been less wounded—but to be stalled by a mere battalion? It was a slap to the face of their empire.

Their soldiers considered themselves invincible; yet here, they were being held back. If word of this reached others, would the 115th Regiment ever live it down?

Intolerable!

Now the Japanese needed no urging from their officers. Eyes bloodshot, they hurled themselves at the defenses, trampling their own dead, indifferent to anything but reaching the ramparts. The only thought in their minds: take this position, kill every Chinese defender, and thus avenge their fallen comrades.

“Long live the Empire! Kill the Chinese!”

They charged, howling, launching a fierce counterattack.

A hail of bullets swept the barricades, forcing the defenders to duck for cover. The Japanese pressed their advantage, closing in on the forward trenches.

Seeing this, Chen Qingzhi shouted, “Brothers, hold fast!”

“Our capital is at our backs—our families, our loved ones—they’re behind us, counting on our protection! Brothers, stand firm! We cannot let the enemy through!”

“Kill! Kill the devils!” Tiger, machine gun in hand, face twisted in fury, fired wildly into the enemy ranks.

“We pledge to live and die with this position!”

Emboldened, the soldiers’ eyes blazed red; hoarse, they shouted defiance and fired with renewed ferocity.

But they were too few.

No matter how valiantly they fought, no matter their desperate resistance, they were only two or three hundred facing an endless tide. For every enemy felled, two more surged forward; for every two, a host replaced them.

Soon, the wave broke over them. The first Japanese soldier vaulted into the trench, then a second, a third.

“Damn it! Fix bayonets!” Chen Qingzhi barked, fitting his own and charging the enemy.

A Japanese soldier, rifle leveled, bared his teeth in a savage grin. “Baka! Chinese, you’re dead!” he shouted, lunging with his bayonet.

Chen Qingzhi sneered. As the most elite commander of the Wolf Fang Special Operations Battalion, he was not impressed. What the enemy thought a swift strike seemed slow and clumsy to him. He sidestepped and thrust, his bayonet piercing the enemy’s throat.

The throat, with its arteries, is a vital target. A wound there means death in moments. Compared to the heart or the abdomen, where a man might struggle on, a pierced throat offers no chance for resistance—once struck, death is certain.