Eu me tornei poeta através de cem batalhas: do sangrento combate no Rio Xiang à batalha de Shang Gan Ling
Sem sistema de apoio, sem portais, apenas sangue fervendo de patriotismo — Long Wencheng atravessou para a época da travessia do Rio Xiang. Ele não contava com sistemas, apenas com sua coragem inabalá
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“Pain! It hurts!!!!”
Long Wencheng clutched his head, feeling as though it were being torn apart. All around him, rifles cracked in rapid succession, mingling with explosions that shook his eardrums.
At that very moment, scalding blood splashed across his face, jolting him instantly awake.
Long Wencheng watched helplessly as a soldier in a gray-blue uniform collapsed stiffly right in front of him. The red star on the soldier’s cap shone dazzlingly beneath the sunlight.
Was this… the Red Army?
“Commander, are you all right?!”
The voice was young and hoarse. Long Wencheng turned toward it.
A small soldier stood there, covered in blood and mud. He looked no older than fourteen or fifteen, and his face still bore traces of childish innocence.
Then Long Wencheng remembered. This was his orderly, Little Stone.
As for himself, he had become Long Wencheng, commander of the Eighteenth Regiment of the Sixth Division of the Third Red Army Corps, fighting a desperate delaying action against the enemy pursuing from the rear during the Bloody Battle of the Xiang River.
He knew this unit. During the bloody battle at the Xiang River, the Eighteenth Regiment had held the area around Xinxu against the pursuing Nationalist forces. In the end, the entire regiment had been wiped out, without a single survivor. The ferocity of its sacrifice rivaled that of the Thirty-Fourth Division, later known as the “Death Rearguard Division.”
“I… I’m fine.”
Long Wencheng waved his hand and looked around. The Red Army