Atravessando o Rio Xiang: Sou um soldado do Exército Vermelho, mas não sei fazer nada

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