*THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!*

　　Mortar shells hammered the three o'clock sector. Dirt clods and shredded turf geysered skyward—(later, this cratered ground became a golf course)—as Dong San-shao watched explosions rip earth just 100 meters away. Cold sweat slicked his brow.

　　"*Fuck me alive! Aiming to bury this old man!*" he snarled.

　　Clarity struck: The Japs had no clue where he hid.

　　This was blind, panicked bombardment. His pulse steadied. Then movement—Inoue Saburō (Gao Fuzhi) rising to inspect the blast zone.

　　Dong San-shao’s scope tracked him. Squeeze. The silenced round hissed. Gao Fuzhi, convinced the sniper was pulp, strode into the bullet’s path.

　　His scalp tore away mid-step. Brains and blood erupted like a dyer’s vat overturned—crimson and ivory splattering the air like perverse cherry blossoms.

　　Dong San-shao had learned his lesson. Never let bullet traces betray your position. By targeting skulls, he masked his firing angle—leaving the Japanese clueless about his direction.

　　From his command post, Colonel Sasaki witnessed Gao Fuzhi’s scalp torn away. The bombardment had missed its mark. Now even he couldn’t pinpoint the sniper. Poor Inoue Saburō—a brevet lieutenant for mere hours before Dong’s bullet ended him.

　　Dong tallied coldly: Seventeen rounds left. Eighteen enemies alive. His scalp crawled. One fucking bullet short.

　　The surviving Taiwanese conscripts cowered behind hillocks like frightened quail. Dong calmly scanned for fallback options—spotting a parallel hollow 200 meters away. If shelled, he’d roll into that depression.

　　Relief washed through him. Now he hungered for targets. Show yourselves, dog-fucked devils! This old man will send you home—one bullet per skull!

　　Seventeen bullets to kill eighteen Japanese soldiers. Near-impossible odds—especially with enemy mortars ready to blast him to hell at any moment. One slip, and Dong San-shao’s life would end. But he lacked battlefield experience; he acted on pure instinct, never once considering how to escape once his ammo ran dry. Was he fearless? No. He simply hadn’t thought that far. Had he grasped the danger, he’d never have risked this solo mission.

　　A newborn calf fears no tiger—this proverb fit Dong San-shao perfectly now.

　　The remaining eighteen Taiwanese conscripts refused to stay paralyzed forever. After ten minutes, one cautiously peered out. Dong San-shao’s trigger finger moved in chilling synchrony—the bullet tore off the man’s scalp mid-duck, striking within millimeters of his head withdrawing.

　　Silence reclaimed the hillocks. Five minutes later, all seventeen survivors charged blindly. Arisaka rifles fired wildly. Bullets whipped past Dong’s scalp—he felt the cold wind, ducked by instinct.

　　Cold-eyed, Dong worked his bolt. No need to aim—they were headless flies. Seventeen shots. Seventeen corpses fell.

　　As he chambered his last round, Colonel Sasaki spotted him through binoculars. Mortar shells screamed toward him. Dong rolled right—dirt and turf erupted where he’d lain moments before.

　　Sasaki tracked Dong’s movement relentlessly. Another barrage chased him. Realization struck Dong: The Japs had him pinned in their sights—every move watched.

　　"Fuck! At this rate, I’ll meet the Dong family ancestors for real!" Cold sweat gushed down Dong San-shao’s forehead. Gotta vanish from Jap sights—fast. Panic clawed at his throat.

　　As his mind raced, Sasaki ordered mortar sights adjusted. Shells screamed toward Dong. No time to hunt for cover—he rolled sideways like a madman. Simultaneously, the last surviving Taiwanese conscript charged him with an Arisaka rifle.

　　Dong’s desperate roll saved him—shells tore craters where he’d just lain. Spotting the charging soldier, Dong’s eyes darted. No fucking bullets left! Then—a rock the size of his fist. He hooked it with his toe, snatched it up.

　　Sasaki gave no breather. Another barrage chased Dong’s tumbling body. "Fuck your ancestors eighteen generations back!" Dong roared, cartwheeling downhill—shells biting at his heels—until he splashed into a lakeside pond.

　　Sasaki’s view vanished. The hillside blocked his sight; shells fell blind. But seeing his last soldier sprint downhill, he knew: The sniper’s down there.

　　He summoned twenty fresh troops. "Double-time downhill! Waste that Zhina sniper!"

　　The Taiwanese conscript waded into knee-deep water, rifle leveled. Dong stood waist-deep, rock gripped. The soldier sneered—knowing Dong was disarmed, trapped.

　　"Chinese brother!" he shouted, firing warning shots. "Surrender! The Imperial Japanese Army spares your life!"

　　Dong spat lake water: "Fuck your ancestors to hell! You’re Chinese blood—yet suck Jap boots?! Traitor scum! You piss on your forebears’ graves!"

　　The Japanese devils ignored Third Master Dong’s venomous curses. Sneering coldly, they leveled their Arisaka rifles and advanced step by step.

　　At roughly twenty meters, one soldier halted. Bullets from his Arisaka flew towards the spot where Third Master Dong hid, only to plunge harmlessly into the lake. Third Master Dong was concealed in the reeds at the lake's edge, his body standing in the water.

　　Twenty meters. Third Master Dong smirked coldly. He seized the split second after the devil soldier's burst of fire, just as the bolt was worked. A stone flew like lightning from his right hand. That Japanese soldier never dreamed that in those scant seconds, his life began its final countdown.

　　Third Master Dong’s stone struck true, smashing into the crown of the devil soldier’s skull. A torrent of blood jetted skyward. The soldier shrieked, then slowly toppled. His Arisaka clattered onto the lakeshore.

　　Third Master Dong knew his own handiwork. He was certain this Taiwanese devil soldier was dead. He pushed out from the reeds –

　　and froze in shock.

　　Twenty more soldiers in Japanese uniforms were sprinting furiously towards the lake.

　　Terror seized Third Master Dong utterly now. No bullets meant his sniper rifle was worthless. He thought of grabbing the dead devil’s Arisaka to use against the oncoming troops. But before his hand could move, bullets screamed past him. A chill gust whipped across his face. He plunged beneath the surface, his body slowly sinking deep into the water.

　　Third Master Dong was young, after all. Though his frame had shot up, his mind wasn't yet fully grown. He believed sinking underwater hid him from the devils. It felt, somehow, like lying to himself.

　　Among these twenty Japanese soldiers was a Junior Officer. He crouched, examining the soldier whose skull Third Master Dong’s stone had shattered. He understood: the Chinian sniper by the lake had run out of bullets. Why else use such crude weaponry?

　　Still, he scanned the small lake with extreme care. The sun beat down with punishing force, heat haze rising from the earth. Not a ripple stirred from the Chinian soldier hidden below.

　　Third Master Dong’s heart hung suspended. He shut his eyes in despair.

　　The first image was Young Mistress Dong Yuwan. She gazed at him, smiling radiantly, her delicate white hand slipping into his clothes, pinching the soft flesh of his waist…

　　Not really painful, Miss, he chuckled aloud.

　　Dong Yuwan laughed softly, silent. Third Master Dong stared at her delicate form, the fullness of her bosom.

　　“Miss, I care for you,” he said. “The day the Young Master went to formalize his betrothal, I knew I cared deeply. I’d die for you willingly! But… but I have to leave first this time. I won’t be able to wait for you!”

　　Then came Young Master Dong Yaoting.

　　“Young Master, take care of yourself, you hear? I can’t protect you anymore!”

　　After him, it was Zhou Tong. Zhou Tong’s high, firm breasts swam before his eyes. Though he’d felt them pressed against him, he’d never truly savored those wonders.

　　“Damn it, I never even got to be a proper man! This is fucking unfair!” Third Master Dong cursed bitterly in his heart.

　　Third Master Dong didn’t know:

　　Death was about to brush past him in that moment.