CHAPTER 21: DEATH TRAP HUNT (PART TWO)

　　San-shao’s mind blanked. A full Japanese platoon charged in—thirty rifles made resistance suicide. He froze mid-tree, scanning through scope-stippled leaves.

　　A Jap lieutenant entered—pureblood officer (per Hota’s command structure: Taiwanese grunts, Nippon brass). The lieutenant’s eyes bulged at the corpse pile. He scanned the courtyard—gaze freezing on the tree canopy for ten seconds. Kneeling, he examined wounds: identical forehead punctures—death shots by a sniper.

　　Crack! San-shao fired precisely as he stood.

　　The lieutenant’s skull erupted. He folded like wet cloth.

　　Soldiers erupted in terrified blindness—firing wildly. Rounds slashed through branches, slivers of air grazing San-shao’s sides but finding nothing.

　　San-shao ignored rounds whizzing past him. After dropping five more Japs, the survivors fled, boots pounding toward the alley.

　　He remained frozen on the branch—a hunter scenting danger. Yet unease gnawed at his gut. Master’s body... but descending now is suicide.

　　Through the scope, he scanned the perimeter—

　　Mortars!

　　Outside the courtyard, soldiers cranked bipods into position, tubes angled toward the tree and surrounding buildings.

　　San-shao plunged from the canopy—

　　Not into the kill zone, but the rear alley. As his boots hit packed earth, a woman’s whisper cut the gloom: "Follow. Now."

　　He whipped around. A figure hunched in the shadows fled deeper into the alley’s throat. Trust? Trap?

　　Mortar shells whistled overhead.

　　He sprinted after her.

　　The instant San-shao leapt away, a thunderous blast shattered the courtyard. He whipped around—flames roared over collapsed walls, chunks of debris hurtling skyward with mangled Jap corpses. Before he could blink, a second shell precisely obliterated the tree he’d just occupied, exploding its trunk into splintered shrapnel.

　　Cold sweat drenched his forehead. One heartbeat slower, and Yama’s gates would’ve swallowed me whole.

　　The woman hissed: “Hurry up, dà xiōngdì! Don’t just stand there!”

　　His thoughts raced to Tung Yao-ting, Chang Fa-tsai, and Little Sister Chang Han-chih—safe in the underground shelter beneath the rubble, but buried alive. Need to dig them out before they suffocate.

　　She led him through serpentine alleys fuzzed with emerald moss, the brick walls slick with damp. After five minutes of silent pursuit, they turned into another dead-end lane. He seized her arm: “Dà jiějie—just where are you leading me?”

　　She shoved open a decaying door, not turning: “If I were one of them, you’d already be hogtied in some dungeon.” Inside the gloom, she finally faced him. “Military Statistics Bureau. Pengze Station. We answer directly to Nanchang HQ.”

　　San-shao’s rifle snapped to his shoulder, his eyes scouring every shadowed corner.

　　“What division are you with?” Her voice sharpened. “Zhou Qiduo’s 53rd and Xue Weiying’s 167th all fled like rats. Why are you still here?”

　　He said nothing, his trigger finger tense and white-knuckled.

　　San-shao stared blankly. "Dà jiějie, three are trapped in the courtyard’s cellar! The Jap shelling—" He swallowed hard. "Can we save ’em?"

　　Zhou Tong’s eyes narrowed. "Why were you in that tree?" After his explanation, she shook her head: "Impossible now—streets swarm with devils. Nightfall or nothing." She studied his grime-caked uniform. "Fought on the walls this morning?"

　　"Would’ve still been brawlin’ with those bastards if not for their poison gas!"

　　A trace of approval crossed her face. "Zhou Tong—Pengze Station Deputy Director, Lieutenant Colonel."

　　He snapped a salute, eyes wide. "PFC Dong San-shao, 305th Regiment, 153rd Brigade, 74th Army!"

　　She’s… shockingly womanly, he thought, comparing her to the elegant but girlish Tung Yu-wan. Zhou Tong’s floral blouse and black culottes screamed peasant, not spymaster. As she walked ahead, his gaze kept snagging on her swaying hips—voluptuous curves that whispered his mother’s old saying: "Hips like these birth sons."

　　Her moon-round face dimpled. "But 53rd and 167th garrisoned Pengze. Why’s a 74th Army grunt here?"

　　A glint of suspicion hardened her eyes.

　　San-shao gritted his teeth, rehashing the story. Zhou Tong’s eyes narrowed. "So the cellar holds green recruits? But that rifle—and your sniping—scream veteran!"

　　"Damn right we’re fresh meat outta Wuhan!" He spat. "Only enlisted ’cause my young master threw a tantrum to join. Nearly died twice now." A ragged grin split his lips. "Lucky you showed under that tree, dà jiějie—er, Colonel—or I’d be fucking paste!"

　　Her suspicion hardened. "No live-fire training? Yet you handle a sniper rifle?"

　　"Want proof?" He snapped up his rifle. Before she could protest, phut—a silent shot punched through a sparrow mid-flight. The bird dropped.

　　Zhou Tong froze.

　　"Believe me now?" San-shao sneered. "Gifted this beauty by Commander Zhou himself. Sniper issue."

　　Her eyes flashed recognition. "Zhou Ziyu? 53rd Special Ops?"

　　"Forget that!" He grabbed her arm. "Three crammed in that hellhole! Goddamn it, save them!"

　　"Out!"

　　Five men in black fatigues materialized. Zhou Tong barked orders: "Disguise as beggars. Luoshi Street #26. Check for Japs. Extract three from the cellar if clear."

　　San-shao stepped forward. "I’m going!"

　　"Stay put," she commanded. "They’ll be brought here." The agents reappeared in tattered rags—filthy, barefoot, reeking of gutter sludge.

　　Alone, San-shao scanned the corridor: grapevines and ivy gripping stone walls, moss-crusted flagstones beyond. Zhou Tong broke his thoughts: "We’ll move you to Nanchang after. Find your 74th Army. Satisfied?"

　　The fuck you care so much? His knuckles whitened. Who even are you? Master’d handle this bullshit...

　　She read his face, smirking. "Wondering why we saved you?"

　　"Yeah," he admitted bluntly. "Why’d you pop under that tree anyway?"

　　Her gaze drilled into him. "If we’d fled Pengze yesterday..." A cold smile. "You’d be Jap bomb-gristle now. Answers enough?"

　　San-shao bristled. "Colonel—that ain’t a fuckin’ answer! Just more riddles!"