Yaoting’s gut twisted, but he kept his voice steady for Hanzhi. "Shut your trap," he threw at Facai, forcing a casual shrug. ""That’s my brother out there—clever as a fox. Bet he’s forging our rescue right now."

　　Hanzhi’s knuckles whitened where she gripped her sleeves. "Yaoting-ge... is Grandpa... still with us?"

　　Gone. Blown to bits or gunned down. The truth burned his tongue. "The Japs... they’d spare an old master," he lied, the words tasting like rust.

　　"Then where is he?" Her voice cracked.

　　"We’ll find him when we’re out," he soothed, squeezing her shoulder—too hard, too fast. "Master’s tough. He’ll be waiting."

　　Tears cut tracks through the dirt on Hanzhi’s face as she craned toward the shaft opening. Dusk oozed into their prison. Outside, silence pressed like a fist. "They’re gone, Yaoting-ge!" She spoke only to him—Facai dissolved into the shadows.

　　Facai’s thoughts wandered to Chongqing—his wife’s warm embrace, his boy’s sticky fingers clutching his neck. The voices of Yaoting and Hanzhi faded into background noise.

　　Hanzhi’s voice cut through: "Yaoting-ge! Human ladder! This pit’s barely four meters—you two stacked might just reach!"

　　Yaoting slapped his forehead. "Hell! Why didn’t that strike me? Facai—up on my shoulders!"

　　Facai jolted from a memory of his wife’s breath against his ear. "Dumbass! I’m one-fifty soaking wet. Your height?"

　　"One-seventy-five," Yaoting snapped.

　　"Three-twenty total. This grave’s four meters deep. Who grows an extra leg?"

　　"Just get up here!" Yaoting crouched, bracing like an ox.

　　Facai stomped onto his shoulders—solid as a brick shithouse. Yaoting groaned upward, muscles burning like coals.

　　Facai’s fingers clawed empty air—a hand’s width from freedom. "Fuck! Can’t fucking reach!" They crumpled to the dirt, gasping.

　　"Goddamn impossible!" Facai wheezed, spitting dust.

　　A voice showered from above: "Young Master! You breathing down there?"

　　Hanzhi choked out a sob-laugh: "San-shao!"

　　Yaoting grinned through gritted teeth: "Motherfucker!! Where’ve you been?"San-shao's whisper sliced through the darkness: "Young Master, not a sound! Japs searching house-to-house. Let me clear the exit first."

　　Pressed against Zhou Tong in the cramped shaft, San-shao felt her body heat radiating into his back. Her scent—soap and gunpowder—blended with the damp stone air. The unfamiliar pressure of her form against him tightened his muscles.

　　At eighteen, he'd never shared such closeness with a woman. Miss Dong's playful pinches back home seemed childish now. This intimacy—her steady breath warming his neck, the curve of her body molded to his—sent heat flushing his collar. He shifted his weight, boots scraping stone.

　　The tension lingered even as immediate danger faded. Zhou Tong, twenty-five and battle-seasoned, noted only a flustered youth—unaware of his discomfort.

　　Above, Jap boots hammered the earth for thirty minutes. Finding barren walls and ashes where papers once lay, they withdrew. Zhou Tong's foresight had burned every trace—their lifeline.

　　Zhou Tong edged backward in the cramped tunnel, but the narrow passage—barely wider than a man's shoulders—trapped her. Her body remained pressed against San-shao's back, the warmth between them undeniable. At least he faces forward, she thought. A face-to-face embrace would be unbearable.

　　Above, Jap boots scraped near the well's edge. A soldier seized the rope, jolting it until the bucket clanged against stone below. Zhou Tong's hand flew over San-shao's mouth. Both held their breath—statues in the gloom.

　　A shadow eclipsed the dim light above. Dark water shivered in the depths. A grunt echoed, footsteps fading.

　　San-shao shifted—his back pressing into her curves. Zhou Tong's whisper cut the silence: "Playing games?"

　　Heat flooded his cheeks. He jerked forward, creating sliver of space.

　　"Up. Now," Zhou Tong commanded softly. "Eyes sharp. Silent as shadow."

　　San-shao nodded, face aflame. Slinging his rifle, he gripped the rope and scissored up the moss-slicked stones. At the rim, he scanned the courtyard—emptied of life. He slid over the edge, rifle sweeping rubble before darting to the gate.

　　When he returned, Zhou Tong stood waiting by the well. "Gone?"

　　"Cleared out," he stammered, eyes fixed on broken bricks. "Sis, about... earlier... I've never been so close..."

　　Zhou Tong waved it away, a faint smile touching her lips. "Night's here. Your master needs us." She pulled a pistol from her trousers, striding into the ruins. San-shao trailed her through the maze of alleys, back to the bomb-shattered courtyard.

　　Pengze County had become a ghost town of silence—no lights, no voices, only the chill of deserted streets under night's cover. San-shao found Master Zhang Jinzhi's body slumped against a broken wall, fifteen bullet holes still seeping blood across his chest. The Jap corpses were gone.

　　Beside him lay a long sword, its blade gleaming cold in the moonlight. San-shao gently laid his master flat, then prostrated himself, forehead pressing dust.

　　He moved to the rubble-covered bunker entrance. "Young Master? You there?"

　　One by one, he hauled them out. Zhou Tong scanned the ruins, rifle ready. "Save words for safety," she ordered when all emerged.

　　Hanzhi spotted her grandfather's body. A broken sob escaped her as she collapsed onto him.

　　"I failed him, Little Sister," San-shao whispered, tears cutting through grime. Dong Yaoting and Zhang Facai knelt as one, kowtowing over their master.

　　When San-shao sought burial ground, Zhou Tong gripped his arm. "Trying to bring every Jap here?"

　　Hanzhi clung to San-shao's sleeve. "We can't abandon Grandpa!"

　　Yaoting looked away. Facai studied his boots.

　　"The bunker," San-shao said hoarsely. "He’ll rest there till we reclaim this land."

　　"Yes," Zhou Tong agreed. "Cover it. Return when safe."

　　They lowered Zhang Jinzhi into the earth. Hanzhi watched, silent tears falling as dirt swallowed her last kin.

　　"Move. Now." Zhou Tong led them through serpentine alleys—San-shao supporting Hanzhi, Yaoting and Facai trailing like ghosts.