Liusi Bridge was the only passage from Pengze County to Hukou. If Lieutenant Zuozhi Guixiu hadn’t forced Zhou Tong’s group to retreat over Majiazhuang’s back hills, they’d never have taken this route. But here they were—Zhou Tong, Dong Yaoting, Zhang Facai, and Zhang Han-zhi—pushing toward Hukou at double time. As they crossed Liusi Bridge, the Botian Detachment hadn’t yet launched its assault on Hukou. Instead, the Japanese units were sailing west from Madang, preparing to land near Niangniang Temple before striking Liusi Bridge. Control this bridge, and Hukou’s gates would swing wide open.

　　Chen Cheng’s Ninth War Zone intelligence had uncovered Botian’s plan. He’d ordered Guo Rudong’s 43rd Army to defend Hukou under Wang Dongyuan’s 34th Army Corps command. Wang Dongyuan was already mobilizing the 77th and 16th Divisions toward Niangniang Temple.

　　June 30, 1938.

　　The eve of the Battle of Hukou. The once-obscure Liusi Bridge was about to become hell’s cauldron.

　　Dong San-shao trudged toward Hukou, a sniper rifle and captured Type 96 light machine gun strapped to his back. He whistled tunelessly until dusk bled across the sky. Hunger clawed at his stomach. He scanned the horizon for chimney smoke—not a wisp in sight.

　　Every muscle screamed exhaustion. Worse—his throat burned like charred wood. Hours of combat without water left him gasping.

　　Dong San-shao had chosen mountain paths over main roads. Dense brush swallowed the landscape—even a nearby village would’ve been invisible. When no settlements appeared, doubt crept in: Had he taken a wrong turn? Then realization—this goddamned scrub was blinding him. He scrambled downhill.

　　The valley road unfolded like a promise. Follow it, and villages would come. His peasant instincts knew this truth. Twenty minutes later, a wisp of chimney smoke—he nearly wept with relief. His stride lengthened.

　　Villagers fed him stew and well water that night. An elder pointed northwest: " Liusi Bridge—ten kilometers. Cross it, and Hukou greets you. "

　　At dawn, he set out. A new fear gnawed him—this was the longest he’d ever been parted from Young Master Yaoting. Not during Wuhan school days, when San-shao brought weekly care packages from home. This felt like life-or-death separation.

　　This wasn’t about profound love for Dong Yaoting. A decade of servitude had forged one truth: protecting the Young Master was his sacred duty—and the key to winning First Miss Dong Yuwan’s favor.

　　"First Miss, how are you now?" Dong San-shao muttered as he walked, Dong Yuwan’s smile vivid in his mind. "Thirty days since we left home. Cheated death half a dozen times! But I held on—thinking of you." His heart ached for the past. Why had the Young Master chosen this cursed soldier’s life? This foreign torment wasn’t worth the cost.

　　His reasoning was simple: Uneducated, he knew only what Yaoting had taught him. Grand ideals? Meaningless. He trusted Yaoting completely—the boy he’d shared patched trousers with, suckled by the same wet nurse since infancy.

　　"Young Master—you alright?" Dong San-shao called out pointlessly. Truth was, Dong Yaoting had reached Hukou safely. Zhou Tong’s Military Statistics Bureau lieutenant colonel credentials secured them an audience with General Guo Rudong. Yaoting now lived in comfort—far removed from San-shao’s own struggle.

　　San-shao covered ten kilometers at a jog-trot. Within an hour, artillery booms shook the ground. Refugees streamed past—mothers dragging children, elders clutching bundles.

　　He grabbed a woman’s arm: "What’s happening?"

　　"Japs attacking Liusi Bridge! Battle up ahead!"

　　"How far to the bridge?"

　　"Cross that ridge—you’ll see."

　　San-shao pushed through the fleeing crowd, scrambling uphill. Twenty minutes later, he peered through his scope. Below, Nationalist troops clashed with Japanese devils—the 460th Regiment of the 77th Division. Their commander, Chen Ruqi, fought desperately.

　　Opposing them: Taiwanese conscripts under Major General Botian Zhongyi. Botian had sent Zuozhi Guixiu’s 50-man scout team west of Liusi Bridge—only to be wiped out by a lone Chinese sniper. For Botian, whose forces had swept through China unchallenged, this humiliation cut deep. How could a decorated officer like Zuozhi fall to some nameless Zhina rifleman?

　　During the Pengze County assault, Botian Zhongyi had seen his officers fall—picked off by Chinese snipers. Lieutenants and a field officer lost. Furious, he'd ordered poison gas to purge the city. But shifting winds spared the defenders. That sniper must have escaped with the retreating troops.

　　When Zuozhi Guixiu reported spotting the sniper at Majiazhuang, Botian snapped: "Capture or kill that Zhina marksman!" Yet twenty-four hours passed with radio silence from Zuozhi's team. A cold dread settled in Botian's gut—but the Hukou offensive took priority. Zuozhi's disappearance was shelved.

　　Unaware, Dong San-shao scanned the battle below. His captured machine gun? Useless without magazines—scrap iron. He hurled it into a ravine, gripping his sniper rifle.

　　Hukou meant finding Young Master Yaoting. Reaching Hukou meant crossing Liusi Bridge. Since Japs attack the bridge... Dong San-shao sprinted downhill, a plan forming: "This old man will shoot them in the ass!"

　　Ten minutes later, Japanese backs filled his scope.

　　Dong San-shao hadn’t counted his bullets. Reckless youth—blind to the trap ahead. Still, he crawled behind Japanese lines.

　　At 500 meters, he hunkered in a depression, rifle raised. Through the scope, Japanese soldiers in summer uniforms appeared. Their cap flaps drooped like panting dog tongues.

　　"Dog-fucked devils!" he cursed. "Calling you ghosts is too kind—you’re fucking mutts!"

　　His crosshairs found a Japanese lieutenant shrieking orders, sword high. Taiwanese conscripts charged the 460th Regiment’s lines. Commander Chen Ruqi bellowed—machine guns crisscrossing fire, scything down the front ranks.

　　Dong San-shao pulled the trigger. A silent round sliced through the sweltering stillness. Windless noon—bullet drift? A concept beyond him. How could he ponder what he’d never learned?

　　The bullet struck a soldier beside the lieutenant. Unaware of the sniper at their rear, the lieutenant blamed the frontal barrage. He kept swinging his sword, driving his men onward.

　　Dong San-shao scowled—his first missed shot. Why? Distance wasn’t the problem—he’d hit the soldier beside the lieutenant.

　　A memory surfaced: skipping stones on village ponds. Young Master Yaoting once asked why he always struck fish while others missed. San-shao stayed silent—how explain instinct?

　　Small fish, not big ones. Aiming at their heads failed. The trick: strike where they’d swim next. Lead the target.

　　A cold chuckle escaped him. He shifted his aim—three centimeters ahead of the moving lieutenant’s head.

　　Crack.

　　Two seconds later, the bullet pierced the lieutenant’s temple.