The desolate courtyard stirred with life as they gathered. Zhou Tong’s office—left of the stone corridor—lay ransacked by Jap searches. She lit an oil lamp with practiced hands, its flame pooling on weary faces.

　　Hanzhi’s pallor contrasted with Zhou Tong’s flushed cheeks—both finely carved by hardship, one blossom fresh, one in full bloom. San-shao crouched by the door, sniper rifle cradled, ears pricked for danger, eyes scanning moon-washed yards. Mosquitoes whined. *Smack!* His palm met his neck.

　　"We break out tonight," Zhou Tong declared. "Daylight’s suicide."

　　Yaoting cleared his throat. "Sis... what do we call you?"

　　She smiled. "Deputy Director Zhou Tong, Pengze Station, MBIS Nanchang Branch. Lieutenant Colonel." Her gaze flicked to San-shao. "This morning, en route to the 53rd Division HQ for documents, I saw Japs spewing poison gas. The 167th at West Gate shattered—retreating east." She paused. "Covering my mouth, I cut through Luoshi Street’s back alleys. Spotted a figure in a tree—our army uniform. Watched him."

　　Facai snorted. "That dumbass stayed out guarding Master’s body! Lucky he did—or we’d still be trapped like rats!" He jabbed a finger at Yaoting. "Didn’t think how we’d climb out, huh? Our ‘human ladder’ fell short!"

　　Zhou Tong’s eyes locked on San-shao by the doorway. "How many Japs did you drop from that tree?"

　　San-shao shrugged. "Twelve or thirteen, maybe. A lieutenant among ’em." He spat. "Didn’t count. But those bastards spoke Chinese—Taiwanese conscripts! Sons of bitches forgot their ancestors! Jap running dogs!"

　　Zhou Tong nodded grimly. "San-shao’s right. Pengze fell to the Hota Detachment—Taiwanese conscripts. Nanchang intel warned us: these Japs spearheaded the Matang Fortress attack. Brainwashed for decades. Brutal mountain fighters."

　　Yaoting spat: "Motherfuckers forgot their roots!"

　　Facai cut in: "Cursing won’t fill bellies! Commander Zhou—how do we break out?" He snapped to attention. "You command. We follow."

　　"Then listen close," Zhou Tong ordered. "There’s a well with a hidden door in its shaft. Untested escape tunnel—supposedly leads outside. We try it now."

　　Yaoting stared. "You never scouted it?"

　　"Station Chief’s dying words," she admitted. "No time to verify."

　　San-shao crouched by the well. "Tunnel’s narrow. Single file. Hunched over."

　　"Move out!" Yaoting commanded.

　　Facai groaned: "Commander... any grub? Starving here!"

　　"No fires," Zhou Tong said. "Eat when we’re clear."

　　They descended: San-shao first, rifle ready; Hanzhi clinging behind him; Yaoting and Facai following; Zhou Tong guarding the rear.

　　San-shao crouched through the tunnel, torch flaring in his grip. After an hour's trek, he halted. "Commander Zhou—dead end." Yaoting and Facai slumped like deflated balloons, strength draining.

　　"Check left and right," Zhou Tong ordered.

　　San-shao scraped stone walls. "Solid rock. No exit."

　　Silence hung thick before her voice cut through: "Back. Now."

　　They retraced their steps—Zhou Tong leading, San-shao guarding the rear. Another hour bent double. At the well shaft, they hauled themselves up, collapsing like broken puppets on the stones.

　　Zhou Tong stared into darkness. "The Station Chief never tested this route. Why dig a tunnel to nowhere?"

　　Yaoting, Hanzhi, and San-shao kept mute—defeat heavy as wet sand.

　　"San-shao," Facai wheezed. "What now?"

　　"Commander Zhou decides," San-shao deflected.

　　Zhou Tong sighed. "I trusted his word too much. Think—all of you."

　　San-shao felt Hanzhi's gaze in the gloom—a silent plea that steeled his spine. Her faith demands courage.

　　He rubbed his temples. "We’re safe here. But food..."

　　Yaoting kicked his boot. "Damn it! Spit it out!"

　　San-shao grinned. "Knew you’d bite, Young Master." He leaned in. "The Japs want Wuhan—Pengze’s just a stepping stone. They’ll open the gates soon—farms lie outside. When they do..." He spread his hands. "We walk free. Sound right, Commander?"