CHAPTER 11: URGENT INTELLIGENCE

　　San-Shao scanned the area, annoyed by Zhang's tone: "Young Master! No time for his bullshit! Where are we? What next?"

　　Yaoting nodded: "Zhang Facai—Nanjing veteran. You lead. Where to?"

　　Zhang studied the hills: Bald slopes. Red soil bleeding through grass like bloodstains.

　　"We transferred from Henan to De'an, Jiangxi. Zhou's route—should be near De'an. But where exactly? Dunno."

　　Yaoting: "Right—we're in Jiangxi."

　　San-Shao: "Fucking right? Safe path means Chinese troops nearby!"

　　Yaoting looked surprised, then smiled: "Makes sense. Need locals to confirm."

　　San-Shao scowled: "Who asks? Me again?"

　　Yaoting just watched him.

　　San-Shao sighed: "Always me for errands. Proves our bond, eh?"

　　Yaoting burst out laughing. Zhang chuckled in Sichuan dialect: "San-Shao's a natural! You're damn lucky, Yaoting!"

　　Yaoting’s laughter still hung in the air as San-Shao vanished into the distance. Ten minutes later, the young man came sprinting back, chest heaving. “Pengze County, Young Master!” he gasped between breaths. “Jiangxi territory! Town’s just an hour’s walk ahead.”

　　With no map in hand, Yaoting turned helplessly. Zhang Facai clapped his dusty trousers. “Pengze it is, then! County garrisons mean Nationalist troops—and maybe a hot meal.”

　　A shared grin flashed between Yaoting and San-Shao—that sudden, bright spark only youth could muster. They scrambled to their feet. “To Pengze! Find our army!”

　　As they swung onto the dirt path, Yaoting nudged San-Shao. “How’d you learn this was Pengze?”

　　“Old shepherd up the ridge,” San-Shao jerked his thumb backward. “Said ‘Pengze’s an hour west.’ Local folk don’t lie.”

　　Yaoting’s shoulders relaxed. He whistled a shaky tune toward the horizon. “Shao… if Commander Zhou had let us rest here yesterday…” He trailed off, then forced the words out: “…would those goddamn Japs never have found us?”

　　Before San-Shao could answer, Zhang Facai cut in sharply: “Zhou took the shortest path! Who’d guess devils here?” He scanned the treeless slopes, jaw tight. “Mark me—Pengze ain’t safe. Watch your step.”

　　None knew the truth:

　　Pengze sat in the shadow of Madang Fortress—the Japs’ next prize.

　　Captain Kawayami’s scout unit (106th Division, 111th Brigade’s 113th Regiment) had slithered through these hills days prior—mapping every gully for General Matsuura’s attack. That ‘safe path’ from De’an to Wuhan? Death’s corridor.

　　As the trio trudged toward Pengze’s promise, five shapes ghosted behind them—Jap spies in peasant rags.

　　Why were they alive?

　　The hunters were lost. Now the prey led them home.

　　June 23, 1938, morning: Dong trio reached Pengze County. Five trailing Japs slipped into town.

　　Gongs and drums echoed. San-Shao’s heart clenched—those sounds meant wedding or funeral feasts back home. Stealing treats for Miss Dong Yuwan... "Goddammit! When’ll those days return?" he thought.

　　Zhang Facai nudged Yaoting: "Feel it? Tailed since we hit Pengze."

　　Yaoting stiffened—Zhang grabbed his shoulder: "Don’t look! Play dumb. I bet they’re fucking Japs dressed as peasants!"

　　"SHIT! WHY WAKE NOW?!" Yaoting hissed. "Could’ve wasted them!"

　　Zhang spat: "Think they’re target dummies? They pack guns! We got fuck-all! Kill them with what?"

　　Yaoting growled: "Now what? These bastards following us mean trouble!"

　　Zhang Facai lowered his voice: "Find county officials. Warn them. Shut the gates. Trap these turtles in a jar!"

　　Yaoting chuckled: "Damn! You sly fox! I'll heed your advice from now on!"

　　Zhang smirked: "Naturally. I've eaten more salt than you two've eaten rice."

　　Yaoting turned to San-Shao (still craning his neck at the commotion): "Japs tailed us into town. Keep watching the show. Zhang and I report to officials—don’t wander off."

　　San-Shao stiffened. Fear flickered across his face.

　　"Scared of what?!" Yaoting snapped. "Grow a spine!"

　　"Just... hurry back." San-Shao mumbled.

　　Yaoting ignored him. With Zhang, he marched toward a building labeled:

　　PENGZE COUNTY

　　Anti-Japanese Military-Political Training Base

　　Madang Command Headquarters

　　Two sentries blocked them.

　　Yaoting: "What rank commands here?"

　　A sentry eyed Yaoting’s private insignia: "Motherfucker! Salute officers!"

　　Yaoting saw the corporal’s stripes. New recruit protocol kicked in. He stepped back, saluted: "Sir! Urgent military intelligence for the CO!"

　　The sentry barked: "Bastard! Think the CO sees anyone? SCRAM!"

　　Yaoting’s anger exploded:

　　"FUCKING JAP SCOUTS ARE INSIDE! YOU BLIND FUCKS!"

　　The rifle butts slammed into Yaoting’s shoulders. Zhang Facai leapt forward, voice cracking: "Same fucking army rations! Who gave you goddamn right to strike brothers?!"

　　Yaoting crouched, arms shielding his head. Noon sun glared. Sweat carved salty trails through the dust on their necks.

　　Nearby, San-Shao stood transfixed by a street performer’s monkey climbing a bamboo pole. When the hat passed for coins, he backed away like a scolded dog—empty pockets burning.

　　A girl’s war cry snapped his attention.

　　In the next ring, an old man tapped a brass gong while a girl, no older than Yuwan, swept a broadsword through blinding arcs—whisssh-CLANG!—whisssh-CLANG! Each cut sliced air with terrifying grace. Villagers gasped as the bronze blade kissed her throat and spun away.

　　“Drifters beg your kindness!” The old man’s gong shivered the heat. “Granddaughter risks bones for rice! Spare copper if her steel pleases!”

　　The girl’s braid whipped across shoulders stronger than Yuwan’s. When she pivoted, sweat-drenched blue-flowered blouse clung to angles Yuwan never had—wild river-reed leanness.

　　Coins rang in the bowl. Others gave only applause.

　　She paused before San-Shao, bowl extended. He smelled salt and iron on her. “Miss…” He rubbed his threadbare pockets. “Skill like phoenix dancing! Next market day—double coins!”

　　Almond eyes tilted like phoenix wings studied him. A calloused hand pushed the bowl away.

　　“Keep your promise, soldier.”

　　The whisper hung between them as she turned. Her lantern-silk trousers swished toward the next patron.