Seeking good fortune and avoiding misfortune, I became a legend in the entertainment industry by avo

Chapter 181 Ten Days at Purple Mountain

boom!

The shells exploded fifty meters away, and dirt and gravel rained down on them.

Zhang Qilin instinctively curled up, his ears ringing, his nostrils filled with the mixed smell of gunpowder and blood.

He lay prone in a foxhole, holding a Type 24 rifle in his hand, the butt of the rifle against his shoulder.

"Ergou! Ergou, are you still alive, you son of a bitch?!" someone roared from the side.

Zhang Qilin turned his head and saw a face covered in black ash, with cracked and bleeding lips and bloodshot eyes.

That was his class monitor, surnamed Chen, but he couldn't remember his full name yet.

"Live," he shouted, his voice hoarse like a broken bellows.

"If they're still alive, keep fighting! The Japanese devils are coming again!"

Zhang Qilin poked his head out.

On the eastern slope of the second peak of Zijin Mountain, withered shrubs are burning, billowing black smoke.

A small squad of Japanese soldiers was creeping upwards in skirmish lines, their khaki uniforms appearing and disappearing in the smoke.

Machine gun bullets whizzed over the trench, hitting the rocks behind and sending up a shower of sparks.

Memories flooded back like a tide.

His name was Wang Shuangxi, a native of Xinyang, Henan. He joined the army in 1936 and was assigned to the 2nd Company, 1st Battalion, 3rd Regiment of the Training Corps.

I'm 23 years old this year, and I have a younger sister.

The squad leader's surname is Chen, his given name is Chen Dahe, and he is from Shandong.

The skinny guy on the left who keeps chanting "Amitabha" is Zhao Xiaohai, a local from Nanjing.

The one lying shirtless behind the heavy machine gun on the right is the big guy, Sun Mancang.

"Aim carefully and fire! Don't waste bullets!" Sergeant Chen roared.

Zhang Qilin took a deep breath, suppressed his violent heartbeat, adjusted the sight to 300 meters, and aimed at a Japanese sergeant who was crouching and advancing.

Hold your breath.

Pull the trigger.

boom!

The gun slammed against my shoulder with the recoil, causing a sharp pain.

Through the smoke, he saw the sergeant's body sway and fall down.

"Okay," Sergeant Chen patted him on the shoulder.

But there was no time to celebrate.

Japanese grenade launchers rained down on the position one after another.

A shell landed three meters to the left front. Zhao Xiaohai didn't even have time to scream before he was blown away by the blast wave. One of his arms landed at Zhang Qilin's feet, his fingers still twitching slightly.

"Xiao Hai!" Sun Mancang's eyes reddened as he frantically fired a heavy machine gun down the mountain.

Zhang Qilin's mind was buzzing.

This is not a movie; there is no slow motion, no tragic music.

Only real, brutal death.

One second the person was chanting sutras and asking for blessings, the next second they turned into a pile of broken pieces of flesh.

"Don't just stand there, load the ammunition," Sergeant Chen kicked him in the shin.

Zhang Qilin, his hands trembling, pulled out a five-round clip from the bullet pouch and loaded it into the magazine.

My fingers were so frozen they were stiff, and I couldn't align them with the bullet inlet several times.

Down the mountain, the Japanese troops advanced another fifty meters under the cover of machine gun fire.

You can see the face under the helmet now.

Each face, young or weathered, was covered in mud and held a fierce look in its eyes.

They charged forward, roaring, and fell one after another.

But the Japanese troops continued to advance.

The distance is less than 100 meters.

"Fix bayonets!" Sergeant Chen braced himself on his rifle and was the first to jump out of the trench. "Brothers, let's fight those bastards!"

Zhang Qilin then jumped out.

Charge, roar, the thud of bayonets piercing flesh, warm blood spraying onto faces, the enemy's wide-open eyes in their dying moments—

A Type 38 rifle bayonet pierced his abdomen.

excruciating pain.

Zhang Qilin looked down and saw that a bayonet had pierced through his back, with blood dripping from the tip.

He looked up and saw that the Japanese soldier was only about eighteen or nineteen years old, with freckles on his face and eyes full of fear and madness.

The two stared at each other for a second.

Zhang Qilin used his last bit of strength to push the Type 24 rifle in his hand forward.

The bayonet was plunged into the enemy's chest.

The two fell down at the same time.

My vision began to blur, and all I could hear was my own heavy breathing and the faint sounds of gunfire in the distance.

The sky was leaden gray, with black smoke drifting through it.

dying.

The thought was terrifyingly clear.

Then, darkness swallowed everything.

When he regained consciousness, Zhang Qilin found himself lying behind a collapsed brick wall.

He was holding the grip of a Czech light machine gun.

The gun barrel was frighteningly hot, and the air was filled with the smell of overheated metal.

A group of Japanese soldiers advanced in shifts, using the broken walls on both sides of the street as cover.

"Damn it," Zhang Qilin instinctively pulled the trigger.

Da da da da da————

At that moment, two Japanese soldiers suddenly rushed out of the alley on the left, brandishing bayonets and yelling as they charged forward.

The distance was too close; the machine gun couldn't be turned around in time.

He threw aside the machine gun and drew his pistol from behind his waist.

boom!boom!

Two Japanese soldiers fell to the ground.

But the right side also came up.

A bayonet was plunged into his right rib.

Zhang Qilin grunted, grabbed the gun barrel with his left hand, and swung his pistol with his right hand, smashing it onto the other man's helmet.

With a loud "bang," the Japanese soldiers staggered.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Zhang Qilin drew his bayonet and stabbed back.

Blood spurted out, hot enough to burn your hand.

He leaned against the broken wall, feeling his life force rapidly draining away with the wound under his ribs.

Looking down, I saw that part of my intestines had spilled out.

My vision blurred again.

This time, the death was slower, and the pain lasted for about two minutes.

In the final moments, he heard the faint sound of bugles in the distance, but he didn't know which unit was launching a counterattack.

Then, darkness.

The third time, he became Zhao Dezhu, a native of Haozhou, Anhui. In a machine gun bunker near the Sun Yat-sen Mausoleum, he was hit by direct fire from a Japanese cannon, the bunker collapsed, and he was buried alive.

The fourth time, his name was Zhou Shuisheng, a native of Meixian, Guangdong. He fought a bayonet battle with the Japanese army at the Tiger Cave position and was stabbed through by three bayonets at the same time.

The fifth time —

The sixth time —

The seventh time —

Every death felt incredibly real.

The pain was real, the fear was real, the despair was real, and so were the shattered thoughts in the final moments.

About my hometown, about my family, about the promises I never had time to keep —

Each time he is reborn, he becomes a different person.

To possess all of that person's memories, emotions, and habits.

Then you experience battles, experience death, and are reborn in the instant of death.

Later on, he became bloodthirsty, and his only thought each time he was reborn was to live a little longer and kill a few more Japanese soldiers.

He used all the skills he had learned and tried every method he could think of.

However, he never lived more than half a day.

Ten days later.

"ah----!!!"

Zhang Qilin suddenly sprang up from the bed, letting out a beast-like roar.

The world spun around.

He fell off the bed, his body trembling violently on the concrete floor.

The smell of gunpowder and blood still lingered in my nostrils, the sounds of gunfire and screams still filled my ears, and the cold touch of a bayonet still pierced my skin.

The door was pushed open.

Zheng Feng stood at the door: "Zhang Qilin? What are you doing here—"

He hadn't finished speaking.

Zhang Qilin, who was on the ground, pounced on him like a cheetah.

Zheng Feng instinctively turned to the side, dodging the elbow strike, and at the same time used his arm to block Zhang Qilin's second attack.

The two people started fighting.

Zhang Qilin's movements were haphazard, yet ruthless and precise, each strike aimed at vital points.

throat, eyes, groin —

That's not something taught in combat training; it's a technique used by those who survive on the battlefield.

Zheng Feng was forced back two steps by his crazy energy.

But it's only two steps.

Zheng Feng is the training staff officer of the special operations brigade and has rich combat experience.

He seized an opening in Zhang Qilin's defenses, forcefully pushed him down onto the bed, pressed his knee against his back, and twisted his arm behind his back with one hand.

"Zhang Qilin, I am Zheng Feng, your instructor."

Zhang Qilin was still struggling.

His eyes were red, his pupils were constricted, and he was breathing rapidly.

That wasn't the look in his eyes during training; it was something else entirely.

Zheng Feng had seen that kind of look before.

I've seen it through the eyes of a true veteran.

People who have been on the battlefield, people who have killed, have a different look in their eyes.

"Zhang Qilin," Zheng Feng tightened his grip, pinning Zhang Qilin firmly to the bed, "wake up!"

A few seconds later, Zhang Qilin's body slowly relaxed.

My breathing was still labored, but it wasn't as rapid anymore.

The red light in his eyes faded somewhat, but that unfamiliar feeling remained.

Zheng Feng slowly loosened his grip, but not completely, maintaining a posture where he could regain control at any moment.

"Are you alright?" Zheng Feng asked.

It took Zhang Qilin a long time to utter a sound.

"----water."

Zheng Feng got up, poured a glass of water, and handed it to him.

Zhang Qilin's hands were shaking violently, and half of the water in the glass spilled out.

He brought the water glass to his lips and gulped it down.

Zheng Feng helped Zhang Qilin sit up on the bed: "What's wrong?"

Zhang Qilin leaned against the headboard, closed his eyes, and his breathing gradually calmed down.

He cannot say that he experienced the ten-day Battle of Zijin Mountain as a "reincarnation of Qingyi".

Zhang Qilin thought of an excuse, and after a long pause, he slowly said, "What we teach at the film academy is a kind of methodological approach—an extreme method of immersing oneself completely in the role, but this time—it's gone a bit too far."

99

What does "passed" mean?

Zheng Feng frowned, clearly not understanding.

Zhang Qilin continued, "I wanted to experience what it was like for the soldiers in the Battle of Nanjing, so I—put myself in there, constructed a battlefield in my mind, and then threw myself into it."

"Construct?" Zheng Feng looked at him. "You mean, you've been fighting a battle in your head the whole time?"

Zhang Qilin nodded: "Ten days, died countless times."

Zheng Feng fell silent.

He looked into Zhang Qilin's eyes, and that look was still there.

That wasn't an act; that's the look in the eyes of someone who has truly experienced life and death.

"What's your current condition?" Zheng Feng asked. "Are you able to get out?"

Zhang Qilin was about to say that everything would be fine in a few days, but the obsession with living a few more days resurfaced in his mind.

He knew it was the obsession in the hearts of those who had experienced it.

Those lives lost in the flames of war, carrying with them the desire to survive and the longing for their loved ones, left an indelible mark on his heart.

After a while.

"I can't get out," Zhang Qilin raised his head, his eyes red, "those images, those sounds, they keep replaying in my mind—"

Zheng Feng stared at him for over ten seconds: "What kind of role are you playing?"

"The Battle of Nanjing, Zijin Mountain, the Training Corps," Zhang Qilin said.

Zheng Feng was silent for a moment: "How can I help you?"

Zhang Qilin thought for a moment and then asked, "Instructor Zheng, how did the soldiers of the Training Corps survive the Battle of Zijin Mountain?"