Chapter 1: Soul Transmigration Amid the Bloodshed of the Xiang River

Wang Lin’s final memory was the screech of his electric bike’s tires skidding and the truck barreling toward him.

When he opened his eyes again, an overwhelming stench of blood filled his throat, mingling with sporadic gunshots and the anguished groans of the dying.

“Cough… cough, cough!”

He struggled to crawl out from a heap of corpses, thick blood oozing from his forehead, his palm pressing against the cold, sticky earth—soaked through with blood.

Looking down, he found himself clad in tattered gray military fatigues, a leather belt at his waist holding a rusted Mauser pistol, its holster crusted with dried blood.

“I… didn’t die?”

He looked around in confusion. The sunset was crimson, bathing the scattered bodies in a bloody light.

Suddenly, fragments of memory surged forth—

Wang Lin, acting battalion commander of the 102nd Regiment, Red 34th Division. The 34th Division had been ambushed at Wentang; he’d been knocked unconscious by a mortar shell from the Guangxi Army, and when he awoke, the entire unit had been annihilated…

“Did I… transmigrate? Is this the Red Army of 1934? This is Wentang, Quanzhou.”

His whole body trembled, not from fear but from the weakness of massive blood loss. Yet now, occupying this body, was the soul from 2025—a delivery boy and web novel addict, useless at everything, no special forces training, no tactical acumen, no cunning. The original owner’s memories told him: The 34th Division, as the "desperate rearguard," had nearly fought itself to extinction covering the main force’s river crossing, ambushed here at Wentang; the division commander was leading the remnants east, trying to reach southern Hunan…

“Ding—”

Suddenly, a translucent 3D map unfolded in his mind, rough lines sketching the terrain within ten kilometers, reminiscent of old strategy game sand tables.

Battlefield Command System Activated!

- Real-time dynamic map: enemy (blue), friendly (red), civilians (gray), traitors (yellow), each point blinking, even marking patrol routes and sentry intervals.

- Triple Buff: Troop morale maxed, growth rate tripled—rookies become seasoned veterans after a single battle.

- Loyalty Detection: If allies betray, the map instantly marks them in yellow—no mental effort required. Wang Lin liked this feature.

He stared blankly for a while, then suddenly grinned.

“Is this cheat here to make me die faster?”

At the map’s edge, a faint red dot flickered, like a candle in the wind.

Wang Lin grabbed the broadsword at his feet, its handle wrapped with faded red cloth—a “souvenir” the original owner had brought from the Soviet region.

After passing two collapsed mud houses, he found the 34th Division’s commissar in a half-demolished home, a jagged wound torn open in his abdomen by shrapnel, intestines visible, blood pooling beneath him.

“Damn!”

Wang Lin’s scalp went numb. He knew nothing about first aid; the original owner was just a delivery boy, barely able to stick on a band-aid.

“Stop the bleeding—right, plug it up first!”

He clenched his teeth, yanked a coarse cloth shirt from a nearby corpse, balled it up, and pressed it fiercely against the wound.

“Ugh—!” The commissar convulsed in agony, barely able to groan.

Wang Lin recalled a battlefield hemorrhage technique he’d seen in short videos, wrapped a cloth strip three times around the commissar’s waist, and tied it tight.

“Northeast, five kilometers… Pinggangtou!”

The map showed it as gray (neutral), with an icon for a small pharmacy. Wang Lin fashioned a crude sling from cloth and hoisted the commissar onto his back.

Over a hundred pounds of dead weight nearly blacked him out; this body hadn’t eaten or drunk in more than a day.

“The original owner’s physique… at least better than a delivery boy’s.”

The village nestled at the mountain’s base, a dozen thatched huts encircling an ancient locust tree. Dried herbs hung outside the pharmacy, where an old man with a missing tooth was grinding medicine.

On seeing the uniform, the old man’s hand shook: “Red… Red Army?”

Wang Lin produced half a silver dollar (looted from a dead White Army soldier): “Save him, the money’s yours.”

The old man examined the wound, nodded: “Luckily the intestines aren’t damaged, but the wound’s too large and he’s lost too much blood. Whether he survives depends on fate.”

He mashed herbs with stove ash, smeared it on the wound, and poured a bowl of black herbal decoction down the commissar’s throat.

“I have an unused grave in the hills behind, the militia never search there; I hide there myself when bandits come.” He spoke in a low voice, but Wang Lin already knew from the map that the old herbalist was trustworthy.

Wang Lin settled Cheng Cuilin in the tomb—a well-ventilated grave, not sealed, lined with dry grass. The commissar was placed atop it, a stone stele blocking the entrance so no one would guess there was someone hidden inside. Wang Lin left the last of his rations: “If he wakes, don’t let him leave. Wait for me. If I’m not back in twenty days, don’t wait anymore.”

By dusk, relying on the map, Wang Lin slipped into Guangtang Village like a stealth game—the village where the militia held prisoners.

Over seventy Red Army soldiers were tied together, locked in the ancestral hall. Outside, the militia guards were gambling dice around a fire.

“Only twenty-odd guards; looks like most have gone east to chase the division commander.”

Wang Lin found a dog hole, crawled through, and slit the throats of two sleeping sentries, covering their mouths.

The strongest man among the prisoners looked up, his Adam’s apple bobbing: “Battalion Commander Wang?” Clearly, some prisoners recognized him.

“Quiet,” Wang Lin whispered.

He cut their ropes with his knife, checked the hall, and noticed ammunition crates near the door.

He gently opened a militia ammo crate: grenades, cartridge pouches, and two boxes of brand new rifles—twenty Hanyang Type 88s, likely rewards from the main force to the militia.

“We can’t stay here or fight. If a shot’s fired, we can’t escape. Grab the weapons, use the dog hole, head for the mountains.”

Seventy-plus men slipped out relay-style, following Wang Lin as he avoided patrols and sentries with ease. The 34th Division was the Red Army’s rearguard; after the ambush at Wentang, the militia and Guangxi Army were all chasing the division commander, neglecting defense in the rear—and Wang Lin’s miraculous map made it effortless.

He decided to head northeast, hugging the mountain foothills for speed, planning to retrieve the commissar. Of the seventy-three he’d rescued, all were relatively okay; the wounded had probably been sent to the town or county—living Red Army soldiers were more valuable than dead.

“Listen up. When the militia discovers seventy prisoners escaped, they’ll search the area hard. We need to move fast. Twenty new rifles—pick twenty skilled hands to equip them. Split the grenades among the rest. Take whatever supplies we find. We need to reorganize.”

Without waiting for a response, Wang Lin started issuing orders. This group included soldiers from the 100th, 101st, and 102nd Regiments, a mix with no officers, only enlisted men.

“Any veterans with over two years’ service?” Wang Lin surveyed the ragtag group.

Five voices answered.

“I am.”

“Names and previous positions?”

“Chen Ahai, machine gunner, 2nd Battalion, 101st Regiment.”

“Zhang Hongtu, scout, 1st Battalion, 100th Regiment.”

“Huang Musheng, scout, 1st Battalion, 100th Regiment.”

“Lin Huowang, cook, 2nd Battalion, 101st Regiment.”

“Zheng Shuisheng, rifleman, 1st Battalion, 102nd Regiment.”

Two-year veterans still using rifles—likely snipers, Wang Lin thought, on hearing Zheng Shuisheng.

“I’m acting battalion commander of the 3rd Battalion, 102nd Regiment, Wang Lin. We’ll reorganize now. Good shooters, report to Chen Ahai and Zheng Shuisheng—eighteen rifles, two grenades each, form two squads. Chen Ahai and Zheng Shuisheng, you’re squad leaders, lead eight men each.”

“Yes.”

“Zhang Hongtu and Huang Musheng, pick eight agile, sharp-eyed men, form two scout teams, four men each. Each of you carries a sidearm, the rest don’t for now. Four grenades each, handle forward reconnaissance—one team left, one right. You’re team leaders. Don’t worry about rear or flanks yet.”

“Yes,” Zhang Hongtu and Huang Musheng saluted.

“The rest form a reserve platoon—I’ll act as platoon leader, Lin Huowang assists, responsible for supplies, carrying wounded, cooking, fetching water.”

“Yes, battalion commander.”

“Hurry, comrades, move quickly!”

After a bout of noisy scrambling, the group was finally reorganized as Wang Lin intended.

“Let’s go, to Pinggangtou. Follow me.”