Ding Ming Cultivation

As Lin Fan walked on the muddy mountain road to Heifeng Ridge, the hatchet on his waist was still bleeding. Last night, the lame gray wolf was nailed to the old locust tree at the entrance of the village. The wolf's eyes reflected the blood splashed on the handkerchief by his mother. He tightened his patchwork jacket and stuffed the last half of the rough bread into his arms - it was reserved for his bedridden sister. This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.