The Dao Battle for Jinling

In the bitter winter of 1937, Nanjing fell. The setting sun, red as blood, drenched the shattered walls and ruins. Japanese boots trampled the splendid city of the Six Dynasties, while their savage acts of burning, killing, and looting spread through the streets. Cries of anguish mingled with the flames, turning the city into a living hell.

Deep in Mount Maoshan, Zhang Xuanqing, a Daoist priest who had once seen through the ways of the world, left his quiet temple to buy supplies and stumbled into this blood-soaked slaughterhouse. He watched children impaled on bayonets and old women collapse before burning homes. The ancient capital, once filled with incense, had become a place of slaughter. At that moment, his fist clenched beneath his robe until his knuckles went white, and the tranquil heart he had cultivated before the Three Pure Ones was consumed by flame. A monk should be compassionate. How could he stand by while the people suffered such devastation?