Volume One, Chapter 10: Death Trap—The Ambush at Yang Village!

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A dark night with howling winds—a night for killing.
The forests of northwest Shanxi were as black as ink spilled across the land.
A dozen or so shadowy figures, like geckos clinging to the ridge’s darkness, moved silently.
Their movements were swift and coordinated, without a single extraneous sound, as if they were one with the night itself.
Leading them was Lieutenant Ryusuke Kuroshima, Yamamoto Kazuki’s trusted elite, captain of the special operations squad.
He gave a hand signal, and the entire squad halted instantly, dispersing behind nearby grass and rocks, raising their guns in vigilant guard.
Kuroshima brought out his night-vision binoculars, scanning the faint lights nestled in a distant mountain hollow.
That was the encampment of the Independent Regiment—Yang Village.
“The target lies within the brightest, most heavily guarded cluster of those lights,” Kuroshima whispered into his throat-operated radio, issuing orders.
“Our mission is to pinpoint the exact location of the ‘Ordnance Research Institute’ and map their firepower layout, providing Colonel Yamamoto with precise intelligence for the upcoming decapitation strike. No unnecessary engagement! Remember, we are ghosts, not bulls!”
“Yes, sir!” came the low, resolute replies.
This squad was handpicked from the entire North China expeditionary force—true battle-hardened warriors.
They were armed with silenced Nambu Type 14 pistols, German submachine guns, specialized jungle combat uniforms, and razor-sharp combat knives.
They were supremely confident in this infiltration reconnaissance.
In their eyes, the enemy’s sentries were mere shadows, nothing to fear.
The squad advanced cautiously in combat formation toward the outskirts of Yang Village.
The lead scout nimbly crossed a small stream, stepping onto soft sandy soil.
He sensed nothing unusual and continued his stealthy advance.
Everything seemed perfectly normal.
Kuroshima nodded in satisfaction, about to signal the team to follow,
When suddenly, a rear guard’s urgent alarm crackled through the radio: “Captain! Number Three’s feet!”
Kuroshima immediately raised his binoculars, focusing on the scout’s feet.
In the faint starlight, nothing appeared amiss.
“What is it?” he asked in a low voice.

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“Captain, I… my shoe sole turned purplish-red after stepping into some alkaline water!” The scout’s voice trembled with alarm and confusion.
He had just passed over a patch of wet ground, sprinkled with water mixed with wood ash—a common dust suppressant used by Independent Regiment soldiers at night.
But the moment his shoe sole touched the treated ground, a fierce chemical reaction erupted.
Purplish-red!
Though faint in the dark, any anomaly like this was deadly to specially trained operatives.
“Baka!” A chill ran down Kuroshima’s spine, a foreboding sense tightening his chest.
What was this? A mark? A trap?
He immediately ordered: “Everyone, be alert! Check your footing! Slow down and search carefully!”
Tension gripped the squad as they advanced like deminers, step by cautious step.
Beneath the forest floor lay a three-dimensional snare.
Another squad member, as he skirted a large tree, brushed against an almost invisible, spiderweb-thin wire with his arm, snapping it softly.
“Click.”
A faint sound came from the treetops.
The soldier looked up sharply just as a small bamboo contraption fell, shattering on the ground.
Once the bottle’s mouth opened, a colorless, odorless vapor swiftly evaporated into the air.
“What is this?” he wondered aloud, sniffing but detecting no scent.
Yet, not far away in a concealed post, a large yellow dog, mockingly called “Howling Skyhound” by the soldiers, suddenly stood up restlessly, growling low toward that direction.
The veteran guarding the post, Li Erniu, was a famed sharpshooter in the regiment and a key figure trained by Director Lin in defensive system maintenance.
Seeing the dog’s reaction, his grip tightened.
This was Director Lin’s “scent alarm” method!
Damn Japanese, they’ve really come close!
Without raising alarm, Li Erniu silently tugged a rope beside him.
That rope connected to a guard platoon stationed on a nearby high ground.
“Situation!” Upon seeing the signal, platoon leader Duan Peng instantly shook off sleepiness.
He roused all soldiers, seized their “Type Independent One” rifles, crouched low, and moved toward the designated interception point.

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Kuroshima’s squad remained unaware of what was unfolding.
They were still bewildered by the mysterious “red footprints,” painstakingly advancing with extreme caution.
As they entered a narrow mountain valley, the lead scout suddenly halted and made a “stop” gesture.
He crouched, using his knife to gently brush away loose dirt, revealing a taut tripwire stretched across the ground.
Kuroshima drew a sharp breath.
So the enemy had set booby traps?
Suddenly, it dawned on him—they had walked right into a carefully laid death trap.
“Retreat!” Without hesitation, Kuroshima gave the order, “Retrace your steps, quickly!”
They had been exposed; remaining meant certain death.
But it was already too late.
As they turned, a fierce roar erupted from the high ground on both sides of the valley—Duan Peng’s voice, laced with restrained fury:
“Open fire!”
“Rat-a-tat-tat-tat!”
The darkness was instantly torn apart by seven or eight blazing streams of gunfire.
The brutal roar of the “Lin-style” submachine guns echoed like the death god’s howl through the valley.
A relentless hail of bullets descended like an impenetrable net of death, engulfing the entire Japanese special forces squad.
“Take cover! Return fire!” Kuroshima shouted hoarsely, eyes wild with desperation.
He could never have imagined that these imperial elites, who prided themselves as ghosts of the night, would blunder headlong into a trap set by the Eighth Route Army in what they thought was their safest stealth approach.
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