Zuozhi Guixiu burst onto the summit—nothing but empty cliff. No sniper. Fear coiled in his gut. Still hiding? He stayed shielded by his men.

　　Edging to the precipice, he scooped a rock and hurled it into the void. No echo.

　　"Baka! Did he fall?" he muttered.

　　He never knew: his final act in China had begun. His life ticked to its last seconds.

　　Two hundred meters behind, Dong San-shao knelt. His rifle sight locked on Zuozhi’s skull. The trigger squeezed—a silent shot.

　　In under a second, the bullet tore through Zuozhi’s brain. He staggered, **lost his footing—** and pitched backward over the edge.

　　Soldiers lunged to grab him. An accident! But as Zuozhi slid, their boots dislodged stones. One man stumbled—plunging after his commander. Together, they headed home.

　　Dong San-shao pressed flat against the summit, thorns biting his skin. I’ll survive. Death wasn’t an option. He’d use the scrub’s cover—kill two soldiers, slip through their line, and circle behind them.

　　Heaven favored him. At 300 meters, his silenced rifle cracked twice. Two Japanese soldiers dropped—one headshot, one through the heart. No sound but rustling grass as their bodies crumpled. The single-file line advanced, oblivious.

　　Heart hammering, Dong San-shao crouched lower. Soldiers brushed past him on both sides—close enough to smell their sweat. Only when their footsteps faded did he rise, shadowing them from behind.

　　Madness? He should’ve fled downhill. But these devils deserved to die—by his rifle. He’d hunt their commander first.

　　As the unit reached the summit 200 meters ahead, Dong San-shao’s scope swept the crowd. There—Zuozhi Guixiu, hiding among his men. A hunter’s grin spread across Dong San-shao’s face. Prey.

　　Zuozhi Guixiu remained oblivious to his impending death. His soldiers advanced through shoulder-high grass in a tight line—raking the hillside like farmers combing a rice paddy.

　　The Chinese sniper couldn’t escape this net. The lieutenant smirked, convinced his prey had already plunged to his death.

　　Dong San-shao’s silenced rifle spat death. A fountain of crimson erupted from Zuozhi’s skull—a grotesque cherry blossom carrying his final disbelief toward the distant shores of Japan.

　　A Taiwanese conscript followed him into the abyss.

　　The soldiers froze at the cliff’s edge. None recognized the sniper’s work. Confusion paralyzed them.

　　Chk-chk. Dong San-shao cycled his bolt. Four more shots cracked the air. Four soldiers collapsed like puppets with severed strings, brains pierced through the stem. They tumbled down the cliff face in macabre succession—limbs pinwheeling wildly in the updraft like discarded dolls.

　　No screams came from the falling soldiers. The silence jolted the Taiwanese conscripts into awareness—these men were dead before they fell. Corpses don’t shriek. Without Zuozhi’s command, they pivoted with drilled precision, rifles blazing toward their rear.

　　Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Gunfire shook the valley. Sparrows exploded from cliffs like panicked ashes. The soldiers fired blindly, terror thinning their ranks as bullets whipped past Dong San-shao’s ears. He pressed himself flatter against the earth.

　　Through the chaos, Dong San-shao returned fire toward muzzle flashes. Yet instead of seeking cover, the soldiers now sprayed bullets into the treetops. Idiots, he realized. They think I’m in the trees.

　　As footsteps descended, he slid right, scrambling up a thick oak. Through the canopy, he watched them cluster in nervous knots—abandoning their disciplined skirmish line.

　　A savage grin split his face. Like fish in a barrel.

　　Memories flashed: Young Master Dong Yaoting reloading for him at the Madang River. "Prepare multiple firing positions," the Master had coached. "Avoid their artillery."

　　Chik-chak. Chik-chak. Five bolt-cycles. Five shots cracked. Five crimson blooms flowered on soldier foreheads below.

　　*“Fuck your ancestors all to hell!” * Dong San-shao roared inwardly. *“This is too damn good!” *

　　Dong San-shao leapt from the tree just as mortar shells thump-thump-thumped into the grove. Ancient oaks shattered like kindling. Thorns and shale exploded skyward. He’d escaped by seconds—a direct hit would’ve liquefied his organs.

　　The bombardment sharpened his instincts. No more static positions. He moved in darting serpentine curves, firing while advancing—a skill forged hunting pheasants and river carp.

　　The Taiwanese soldiers panicked. Gunfire seemed to erupt from every direction. Multiple snipers? An ambush? As Dong San-shao weaved, his silenced rifle dropped a dozen more men. The summit grew quieter with each shot.

　　Survivors broke. They sprinted blindly through the brush—rabbits fleeing a hawk. Dong San-shao froze in the tall grass. Soldiers pounded past, boots stomping just thirty meters away, never spotting the hunter at their heels.

　　The Taiwanese conscripts—mountain warfare specialists—found themselves outmatched. Dong San-shao employed a hunter’s mantra: "Move when they freeze; freeze when they move." For over an hour, he stalked them across the summit. Soldiers fell one by one. He remained untouched.

　　Confusion crippled the Japanese. Dong San-shao fired once, shifted position, vanished. Machine gun barrages and mortar fire proved useless—their shells had exhausted in the first half-hour. Only two empty mortar tubes remained.

　　The machine gunners laid down covering fire while survivors fled downhill behind them—a desperate imitation of tank-infantry tactics.

　　Dong San-shao slipped left, letting the lead gunner pass. His silenced rifle cracked. The gunner dropped. His assistant seized the weapon—panicked, spraying blind fire—until another bullet erased his face.

　　Psychological terror now ruled. Soldiers broke, sprinting downhill in blind panic. Dong San-shao pursued, shifting from defense to offense. Five more fell to his shots.

　　He scaled a tree. Through his scope, fleeing soldiers looked close enough to touch. Bullets travel faster than legs.

　　Chik-chak. Crack.

　　Chik-chak. Crack.

　　A methodical execution. In thirty minutes, not a single Taiwanese conscript reached the base alive. Every one of his 100+ rounds had found its mark.

　　Dong San-shao descended. He didn’t check corpses. The machine guns were too heavy, but he couldn’t abandon such prizes. Grunting, he shouldered one heavy Type 96 and ran toward Hukou.