The night was thick and dark, shrouding Grass Temple Village in fear and despair. Ten-year-old Lin Jingyu huddled in a pile of straw in his family's thatched hut, his body trembling uncontrollably. His eyes were wide open, fixed on the rickety wooden door. Every scream from outside felt like a heavy hammer blow to his heart. His mother held him and Zhang Xiaofan tightly behind her, her hands icy cold, yet trying to convey warmth and strength. His father stood guard at the door, a machete in hand, his figure thin but resolute. Lin Jingyu could hear his father's rapid breathing, a sound filled with tension.
