It was 1944, the height of World War II. Zhang lay in a ditch near a forest, unsure of the country he was in. He had strayed from his brigade while marching when attacks suddenly erupted. His arm was bleeding profusely, slowly causing him to lose consciousness. He didn't want to die now, as it felt dishonorable, but he never quite fit in with Chinese customs. He always felt a sense of displacement, even now. He wasn't contemplating fighting or even getting up; he just laid there, feeling helpless and defeated.

And then he heard footsteps – an army's worth of feet stomping in the distance, yet he remained unnoticed. Desperately, he longed to cry out for help, but the harsh reality dawned on him; he was not among allies, but enemies. In the blink of an eye, he silently prayed that no one would detect his presence.