Donglin Mountain, stretching for dozens of miles, is high and steep, with strange rocks everywhere.
It was the cold winter of the 37th year after the founding of the People's Republic of China. The wind was cold and the sky was covered with ice and snow. The forest that was originally full of strange trees had long since turned into a bald forest. Only the evergreen pine trees still stood tall under the pressure of the snow, and became even taller and taller. The needles became greener, adding some colors that were not bright but full of vitality to the white world.
Han Changchun was sitting in the carriage. The cotton coat, which was more than half a finger thick, made him look bloated. He had his hands tucked into his sleeves. The big fur collar made of fox fur stood up high, almost covering his entire head. Even so, the biting cold wind mixed with snowflakes still scraped his face like a knife, turning his originally ruddy face blood red.
He shuddered, pulled out one hand, took out the wine flask he had carried with him for many years, and took a big sip. Wine is a good thing, especially in such cold weather, a kind of wine called Shaodaozi is even better. As the name suggests, the wine burns the intestines and scrapes the stomach, and it is hot and hot, which also warms Han Changchun's whole body.
He shook his head helplessly, thinking back to the days when he only wore a single layer of clothing even in the coldest weather, with tendons like steel and bones like iron. Once, also in the twelfth lunar month, he was shirtless, holding a saber, and beheaded 57 Japanese invaders in a row. How majestic and heroic, but now, at the age of over 70, he can no longer muster the courage of the past, and his body is even worse than it was then. If a person often thinks of the past, it means that he is getting old. Han Changchun smiled bitterly and sighed: It seems that I have indeed grown old.
Another overwhelming gust of wind blew by, and Han Changchun coldly pulled the reins of the carriage. His originally turbid eyes suddenly became clear, and a piercing light flashed across his eyes.
He tilted his head slightly and sniffed. There was a hint of fishy smell mixed in with the fresh fragrance of the new snow. It was very faint and ordinary people could not detect its presence at all. But it could not be hidden from his nose. Han Changchun knew very well that it was the scent of wolves, and not just one or two.
Wolves! Han Changchun's heart moved, knowing that he was surprisingly "lucky" to encounter the most troublesome and terrifying animal in the ice and snow.
Touching the saber at his waist that was almost as old as he was, his blood suddenly accelerated and boiled instantly, and a long-lost fighting spirit rose in his heart again.
The fighting spirit came quickly and went away even faster. The skinny hand that was holding the knife handle slowly loosened its grip, shook its head, took another sip of wine, and said to himself, "It's almost New Year's Day, don't ask me to start a killing spree." His words seemed to be spoken to the wolf as well as to himself.
He grabbed the reins again, shook his arms, and shouted, "Hold!"
The two old horses threw their eight hooves and galloped forward quickly. They seemed to sense the presence of wolves nearby. Horses are much more sensitive to danger than humans.
After running forward for a while, the strong wind did not subside, but became stronger and stronger. Snowflakes the size of fingernails were flying all over the sky, making it difficult to see things more than ten meters away.
Without waiting for Han Changchun's order, the two old horses stopped at the same time, their heads swaying from side to side, their eyes filled with fear, and they pawed the ground with their front hooves from time to time, their noses snorting.