A Chinese sniper's ambush at 26 Luoshi Street had wiped out over twenty men—the entire 3rd Squad, 1st Company, 1st Battalion of the Boten Brigade's 1st Regiment garrisoning Pengze. Among the fallen lay a junior lieutenant. When Colonel Takeomiya Jirō received the report, he exploded. Pengze was taken! Chinese forces fled! How dared these rats slaughter his men! That damned courtyard had mocked his complacency.

　　Poison gas no longer choked Pengze's skies, revealing streets carpeted with bodies—Chinese soldiers and scattered civilians, all victims of the toxin. Bomb-gutted buildings slumped into rubble mountains, transforming the county into a cemetery emptied of life. "Goddammit!" hissed one of Zhou Tong's agents cloaked in beggar's rags, crouching in the ruins. "Why only our boys rotting here?"

　　Colonel Takeomiya Jirō clenched the casualty report in his fist. That damned Chinese sniper was still alive. The bombing hadn’t done the job. He sent out a full squad to sweep the blasted courtyard, their bayonets jabbing at the rubble, boots crunching over broken tiles and scorched beams.

　　Nearby, five MBIS agents—disguised in beggars’ rags caked with blood and dust—quietly withdrew deeper into the ruins. Even in disguise, caution was essential. One wrong step, An Tao thought grimly, and these rags become our burial robes.

　　San-shao Dong paced restlessly, like a caged wolf. His boots carved shallow lines in the dirt, back and forth, again and again. His face was tight with unease. Zhou Tong, meanwhile, was in her office, burning documents exchanged with MBIS headquarters. The firelight flickered across her features as she fed page after page into the flames—preparing, clearly, to flee Pengze County.

　　The five agents slipped into a narrow alley leading toward the courtyard, blending with the walls, steps feather-light over the moss-slicked bricks. But they hadn’t gone unnoticed.

　　From the shadows emerged men in civilian clothes—faces that looked Chinese, but beneath the disguises were Japanese soldiers of Taiwanese descent. Once the uniforms came off, they were indistinguishable from locals.

　　An Tao’s instincts screamed. The look was too clean. Something was off.

　　“Those sons of bitches,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t be fooled—they look Chinese, but they’re Japanese soldiers from Taiwan. Goddamn traitors. When we strike, make it fast and silent. No hesitation.”

　　The others nodded silently, then spread out, disappearing into the shadows.

　　The plainclothes soldiers trailing them suddenly lost their mark. Confused, they crept down the alley, glancing around, unaware death was already behind them.

　　An Tao moved first—hand clamping hard over a mouth, dagger flashing across a throat. Blood sprayed from the gash, hot and violent, splattering the wall in streaks of red.

　　The Taiwanese soldier kicked and thrashed, choking on his own blood.

　　Across the alley, the other agents struck with the same ruthless precision—palms muffling screams as steel punctured flesh. One gurgled as his windpipe was sliced open. Another beat his heels in a frantic death rattle against the ground, blood pooling in the cracks of the bricks.

　　One of them gasped, “We... share the same blood...”

　　An Tao’s voice was ice: “Then you can share the same grave.”

　　And just like that, the alley fell silent again—painted in steam and blood.

　　The five agents had just finished the plainclothes Japs when dozens of Taiwanese soldiers in full Imperial uniforms surged from alleys—rifles leveled. An Tao’s team froze. Hands flew toward hidden pistols—

　　*Crack-crack-crack-crack!*

　　Type 38 rounds punched through cloth and flesh.

　　An Tao’s body jerked like a broken puppet, blood welling from thirty holes. His men collapsed, bullet-riddled sacks leaking crimson.

　　Gasping through shattered lungs, An Tao wrenched his pistol free.

　　*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

　　Three wild shots tore skyward as he crumpled.

　　An Tao and his men had fallen. In less than thirty minutes since slipping into the alleys, all five lay dead. Their sacrifice drew the Japs away from No. 26 Luoshi Street—and the gunfire that ripped through the lanes felt like it was tearing through Zhou Tong’s own walls.

　　Then came three sharp cracks.

　　*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

　　Zhou Tong’s breath caught. An Tao’s final salute. Three shots—their agreed signal screaming through the dawn: *"Mission over. We’re done. Stay alive."*

　　"They’re gone," she whispered. A tear streaked through the gunpowder smudge on her cheek.

　　San-shao stiffened. "Sis? How can you tell?"

　　Zhou Tong pressed a finger to her lips. Beyond the wall, leather boots hammered cobblestones—Japs kicking in doors one house at a time.

　　San-shao swung his rifle toward the courtyard entrance, knuckles white.

　　Zhou Tong grabbed his arm. *"Not a word! They’ll breach the gate in seconds!* Follow me—down!" She hauled him toward the cellar.

　　San-shao trembled visibly. Zhou Tong sensed his tension through their close proximity. "Don't panic," she said calmly. "This is Pengze's MBIS command post. There's an escape tunnel below for emergencies."

　　He stopped abruptly. "No, Sis. Master Dong and the others are still hiding underground. I won't escape without them."

　　Zhou Tong stared, surprised. "They matter that much?"

　　"Absolutely." San-shao nodded fiercely. "If I abandon them, my reputation in the jianghu would be ruined!"

　　Zhou Tong chuckled involuntarily. "What do you know of the jianghu?"

　　"Rescuing Master Dong is my jianghu!"

　　Approval flashed in Zhou Tong's eyes. "For your jianghu, then," she declared, seizing his collar. "This deputy station chief will join you. We hide now, rescue tonight."

　　She pulled him toward a stone well. "I'll descend first to open the passage. Follow when I signal." San-shao watched Zhou Tong grasp the rope and slide down with practiced agility.

　　San-shao stared into the well's murky depths. Three endless minutes passed before Zhou Tong's command echoed up: "Drop!" Rifle slung over his shoulder, he seized the rope—her arms snagged him mid-fall. Warmth swallowed him whole; the scent of gunpowder and jasmine flooded his senses as soft curves molded against his spine.

　　She yanked him into a recess in the stone. Thud-thud-thud—boots stampeded into the courtyard like spooked cattle. Her breath feathered against his neck: *"Don't. Breathe. Japs inside." Blind in the suffocating dark, he burrowed deeper into her embrace, every muscle taut.

　　Below, hell broke loose. Artillery screamed—wood splintered, beams shrieked, raining dirt on Dong Yaoting, Zhang Facai, and Zhang Hanzhi. The girl shook like a leaf in a typhoon. Yaoting arched his body over hers—rocks hammering his ribs. Silence. Then—*"Gone," he breathed.

　　Zhang Hanzhi lurched up. "Grandpa! Where's San-shao—"

　　Yaoting clamped a hand over her mouth. "Searches come next. House-to-house. Stay. down."*

　　Facai spat dust. "Dumbass! How d'you know this shit?"

　　"History books," came the flat reply.

　　Zhang Hanzhi whimpered. "Shut your trap, girl!" Facai snarled. *"Wailin' brings devils!" Her tears froze mid-cheek, dissolving into silent, shoulder-shaking hitches.

　　Time oozed like cold tar. "I'll scout the exit," Yaoting rasped.

　　Facai shouldered past. "Forget my extra year a' service? My damn turn!"

　　"Finally dawn on you, veteran?" Yaoting scoffed. "All gas, no guts!"

　　Facai clawed at the dirt walls—crashed back. Slid. Tumbled. Failed.

　　"Pathetic!" Yaoting shoved him aside. Fingernails ripped bloody as he scrambled—clumps of earth surrendering to gravity. Both collapsed, gulping air like beached fish.

　　Zhang Hanzhi’s whisper cut the dark: "San-shao’d have scaled this blindfolded. He knows how to move."

　　Yaoting’s jaw clenched. Facai grinned poison: "Truer words—night and fucking day."