“Ha ha, dead, all dead, ha, dead, dead!” Brian Clark screamed in a frenzy, his mind unhinged. He had gone mad, dropped the knife, and ran off, howling and getting farther and farther away.

　　Sss! Sss! Sss!

　　Chaotic but continuous strange, loud noises accompanied by crazed howls of “Sakege!”

　　“So noisy!” William Thompson slowly opened his eyes, a chill running through his body.

　　It seemed to be early morning. Through the thin mist, William Thompson was startled to find himself alone in the mountains. In the distance, long, sharp shrieks kept ringing out, like something slicing through the air, and occasionally there were violent explosions.

　　What the heck, starting a rebellion at the crack of dawn?

　　He listened carefully for a long time, and finally realized that the harsh howling was actually in Japanese.

　　Looking around, the leaves were golden and falling—it was deep autumn. But he was sure it had been summer.

　　Filming a Japanese war movie?!

　　So, where was this?

　　Only now did William Thompson remember that before he lost consciousness, he had been at the Wanshou Mountain Cemetery, just finished paying respects at Han Xiuying’s grave and was heading home, when Brian Clark suddenly jumped out from behind and stabbed him with a knife.

　　Brian Clark? With a knife?

　　William Thompson broke out in a cold sweat. Could he already be dead? But that was impossible—there was light, he was breathing, he was completely unharmed. He remembered his last thought: “Wormhole!”

　　A spatial distortion had sucked him here. So, where was this place? What was that strange buzzing sound in the air, and what were those Japanese soldiers screaming about so hysterically at dawn?! What a bizarre place.

　　William Thompson didn’t notice two figures quietly emerging from the bushes behind him.

　　The strange, drawn-out noises were getting closer and closer to where William Thompson was.

　　Suddenly, several strange sounds rushed rapidly toward William Thompson.

　　William Thompson froze. A hand suddenly pressed him down from behind, and a low voice sounded in his ear: “Get down, don’t move!”

　　There was a terrifying crackling of branches all around, sparks burst from the rocks, and several holes appeared in the tree trunks. A few small objects bounced rapidly across the stones and came to a stop. Those were what had just sliced through the air.

　　William Thompson finally saw clearly what the small objects that fell to the ground were—rifle bullets. The heat from the bullets made the grass sizzle, and the color quickly turned an unnatural dark green. He recalled from military books: less than 7mm caliber, looked a lot like the standard Japanese Type 38 rifle bullets.

　　He finally understood what the strange sounds were—gunfire, real gunfire. The “bang” was the sound of the gunpowder exploding, and the “sss” was the bullet tearing through the air. Although William Thompson had read many military books, he had never experienced real gunfights. The gunshots in movies and TV were just blanks, with no bullets slicing through the air, not much different from firecrackers. No wonder William Thompson couldn’t tell the difference.

　　William Thompson turned his head and saw the person who had pushed him down—a teenager, thin, about seventeen or eighteen, hair messy, wearing plain, patched coarse cloth clothes, eyes bright and sharp. Beside him was another boy.

　　Not Japanese, but typical Chinese country boys—rough, dark skin, closely cropped hair, dressed in dark coarse cloth jackets.

Section Seven

　　“Who are you? What’s going on?” William Thompson asked, a bit confused. His gaze shifted to the boy’s side, where there was an old-style rifle. He recognized it as a Chinese copy of a German Mauser—the Hanyang rifle, 1.25 meters long, weighing 4 kilograms. He also remembered that the predecessor of the modern Yamaha Motorcycle Company in China was the Hanyang Arsenal. This antique was really ancient. What was going on? Kids carrying guns? What kind of world was this? Wasn’t anyone in charge? Where were the police? Why were the Japanese running around with Type 38 rifles again? Was China at war with Japan again? Impossible. Why bring out these old relics? Even if they were filming a movie, there was no need to use real weapons.

　　William Thompson’s mind was a mess. He really couldn’t figure out what was happening.

　　“What are you doing here? Are you Chinese?” The older boy sized him up, as if trying to confirm something. There was a maturity in his eyes that didn’t match his age, and he spoke with a strong Hebei accent.

　　The older boy seemed to think William Thompson was a refugee hiding in the mountains.

　　“Me?! Of course I’m Chinese. You think I’m Japanese? I’m a student at Huaming Middle School in X City.” William Thompson truthfully stated his identity.

　　“A middle school student? Then why are you here? Don’t you know there’s a war on?” The older boy’s tone softened a bit, with a hint of respect—like being a student was a special status.

　　William Thompson was a bit dazed. “How would I know? I just opened my eyes and found myself here. I remember I was just at the Wanshou Mountain Cemetery.” Was China really fighting the Japanese again? The Japanese were so fierce they’d invaded the Chinese mountains? And with these outdated weapons? Highly suspicious. Maybe some leftover Japanese imperialists were trying to relive the glory of the Imperial Army, and the Chinese people had taken old guns from the military museum to fight back?

　　“Let’s go, we need to get out of here. It’s not safe.” The boy pulled him into the bushes, while the other boy kept a wary grip on his gun, watching the surroundings and keeping guard.