1937 - Foshan

The headquarters had finally grown quiet.

Reports were stacked neatly across Hiroyuki Miura’s desk, maps of Foshan spread beneath the dim light of a single lamp. Outside, soldiers moved through the compound with the distant rhythm of boots against stone, but inside his office there was only silence.

Miura sat back in his chair, one hand resting against his chin as he reviewed a list of names gathered from local martial arts schools. His attention lingered on a few of them before he set the paper aside.

Reaching for his teacup, he took a slow sip and glanced toward the window overlooking the occupied city. Foshan frustrated him. It refused to bend completely. Even now, beneath hunger and fear, there remained people unwilling to surrender their pride.

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

Perhaps that was why he found the city so interesting.

The sound of footsteps approached the office door.

Without looking away from the window, Miura spoke calmly.

“Enter.”