On the eve of the fall of Liaodong, he led his troops in a remonstrance against the young marshal.

Fifty T-34 tanks were redeployed and opened fire at full capacity.

This time it was no longer a test, but a true crushing defeat.

Artillery fire, machine guns, and tracks, a trinity, swept across the Japanese positions like a red-hot iron comb.

The Japanese infantry regiment on the front line had already suffered more than half casualties under tank fire and machine gun fire.

The colonel was hit head-on by a 76mm shell, leaving not even a complete corpse.

Two of the three battalion commanders were dead, and the remaining one was trapped under an overturned ammunition box, his intestines spilling out onto the ground, still shouting "Forward!"

Three of the four infantry regiments were decimated in the blink of an eye.

The last regiment, the 73rd Regiment, was relentlessly pursued by Yuan Lang.

Taking advantage of the Japanese soldiers' confusion, Yuan Lang commanded a thousand elite soldiers to quickly maneuver and infiltrate, flanking the 73rd Regiment and cutting off their retreat.

Then the tank group turned its guns around and crushed them from the front.

The surrounding area is formed.

The Japanese soldiers of the 73rd Regiment were surrounded in an open area of ​​less than two square kilometers, surrounded by tanks and infantry.

Their machine gunners were targeted by snipers, and the grenade launchers were immediately bombarded by machine gun fire as soon as they were set up. Every time they tried to form an assault formation, several shells would fall in.

The battlefield was littered with severed limbs, the soil was soaked in blood, and the smell of gunpowder and blood mingled together, making it hard to open one's eyes.

The soldiers were too terrified to move. Watching the terrifying torrent of steel sweep across the battlefield, none of them dared to go and seek death.

Inoue was stiff all over in the command post.

He watched as one of his brigades, four regiments, was slaughtered right before his eyes.

The 73rd Regiment was surrounded on open ground. The T-34s formed a combat formation and slowly tightened the encirclement, like a pack of hungry wolves surrounding a flock of sheep waiting to be slaughtered, tearing them apart piece by piece.

With each cannon shot, a troop of imperial warriors fell.

With each burst of machine gun fire, dozens of people would convulse and fall to the ground.

The tank tracks rolled over trenches, foxholes, and soldiers lying on the ground pretending to be dead, crushing them into inhuman screams.

The Empire's warriors, those young men who charged forward shouting "Banzai," were swept out of the trenches like trash and crushed into meat patties by the tracks.

"No...it's impossible..."

Inoue couldn't believe it.

He suddenly drew his military knife and pushed open the door of the command post.

"Guards! Follow me!"

His guard was his last resort, two hundred men, all veterans among veterans, equipped with the best gear.

He kept it, intending to use it at the most crucial moment.

Now is the most crucial moment.

Inoue, holding his military sword with both hands, walked at the head of the guard.

Two hundred elite soldiers followed behind him, bayonets strapped to their shoulders, standing in perfect formation, their steps heavy, charging towards the steel torrent with a tragic grandeur.

They headed towards the besieged 73rd Regiment.

Inoue's military boots sank into the bloody mud, leaving a bloody footprint with every step.

Even if he were to die, he would die on the battlefield.

However, he was ambushed halfway there.

Directly in front of him, more than twenty people emerged from behind the wreckage of a destroyed car.

These people are different from the Northeast Army.

They weren't wearing standard combat uniforms, but rather a type of tactical uniform he had never seen before.

Their equipment was also completely different; each person was covered with all sorts of things he couldn't understand.

His face was painted with thicker greasepaint, his eyes were colder, and his whole body exuded a murderous aura forged from mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

The leader was a little over 1.8 meters tall, with a buzz cut, a scar on his cheek, and carrying a strangely shaped automatic rifle.

Wolf Warrior.

The twenty-odd people behind him were the sharpest knives in Zhang Xueming's hands.

Zhanlang spotted Inoue on the city wall and decisively led his men to intercept this fresh force.

Inoue sensed the intense killing intent emanating from Zhan Lang and couldn't help but shout:

"You idiots, who are you working for?"

Wolf Warrior didn't bother arguing with the Japanese, and simply emphasized two words.

"Get to work."

"Rat-a-tat-tat!"

"Rat-a-tat-tat!"

More than twenty Type 95 assault rifles opened fire simultaneously.

Not a single wasted word, not a single moment of hesitation.

A barrage of bullets rained down on Inoue and his guards, making a series of "thud" sounds, like a stone being thrown into mud.

Inoue's body began to tremble violently.

Two bullets struck his left and right chests, piercing his heart.

A bullet hit his head, and both red and white fluids flowed out.

Inoue's body fell backward, crashing into the mud, its eyes wide open, staring at the gray-black sky.

The two hundred elite guards behind him couldn't even last five minutes under the dense barrage of more than twenty automatic rifles.

When the bullets ran out, they changed magazines, then kept firing, like killing chickens, one after another falling down, corpses piled on top of each other, blood flowing into a small stream.

A deathly silence fell over the battlefield.

The remnants of the 73rd Regiment completely collapsed after witnessing their brigade commander being riddled with bullets.

First, someone threw down their gun, knelt on the ground, and burst into tears.

Then ten, one hundred, three hundred.

Type 38 rifles were scattered everywhere, and military flags were trampled into the mud.

Someone attempted seppuku but was restrained by his companions.

Some people were muttering to themselves, while others were kowtowing to the Emperor's photograph and crying like children.

"We surrender! We surrender!"

A major shouted in broken Chinese, knelt on the ground, and raised his military knife high above his head.

Yuan Lang stood outside the encirclement, coldly watching everything unfold.

He glanced back towards Fengcheng, where a signal flag was being raised on the city wall.

Zhang Xueming's order.

Yuan Lang lowered his gun.

"Disarm."

The 372nd Japanese soldier surrendered his weapon.

The 37th Brigade, at full strength, has 11,000 men and consists of four infantry regiments.

Ten thousand two hundred were killed in battle, three hundred were wounded, and those who surrendered were all captured.

The puppet Manchukuo army that followed Inoue had been terrified throughout the entire battle.

They first stared in disbelief as the Japanese soldiers charged, then watched in trembling fear as they were slaughtered.

When the 37th Brigade collapsed and surrendered, they threw away their guns almost without hesitation.

The remaining 10,000-plus people knelt down in neat rows on the ground.

Chang Yuchun climbed out of the tank, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a long plume of smoke.

He looked back at the city gate tower, where Zhang Xueming's command post was located, brightly lit.

A messenger ran up to him, stood at attention, and saluted.

"Commander Chang, this is the Commander's order."

Chang Yuchun took the cigarette out of his mouth:

"explain."

"The commander said that all these people are in your hands, and he trusts that you will not let him down."

Chang Yuchun's eyes lit up instantly.

His greatest hobby in life was dealing with prisoners of war.