The misty night of the Jiangnan water towns was enough to intoxicate anyone, but the night in Nanjing always carried a bone-chilling coldness that raised goosebumps. No one wanted to stay; they only wanted to flee at once.
News of the Ghost Army facing the Japanese special forces had long spread throughout China, and many people wanted to witness the battle with their own eyes. But beneath the bayonets of the Japanese soldiers, Nanjing had long since become deserted. The silent empty city seemed all the more bleak.
Standing atop Nanjing's ancient city wall, which had endured for over a thousand years, Zhang Xuan's clothes snapped in the faintly cold evening breeze, making him especially conspicuous within the tranquil city.
"Is that Zhang Xuan?" In a teahouse in Nanjing, a young man sat upright on a long bench. His gaze pierced the deep darkness and settled on the figure atop the distant city wall, his eyes carrying a trace of disdain.
Beside the young man, a bald middle-aged man stood obediently to one side. Hearing the question, he hurriedly answered, "Young Master, that is Zhang Xuan."
The young man frowned slightly, lifted a cup of tea, and took a small sip. Somewhat surprised, he asked, "Where is the Ghost Army?"
"Young Master, I'm afraid he came alone," the bald middle-aged man explained quietly. "Other than Zhang Xuan, who has some ability, everyone else in the Ghost Army is just an ordinary person. There would be no point in them coming."
"So Zhang Xuan is a smart man after all?!" The young man sneered, the mockery on his face deepening.
At that moment, shadowy figures began emerging from every corner of Nanjing. In the blink of an eye, they gathered below the city wall. At their head stood Sunfire, Yoshida Shiro,