Qidaolin: the Great Way to the Dingding

In the bloody dusk, the old man's fingers rubbed against the smoothed marks on the bow arm, and the vague Qin seal script was engraved on the wine gourd. The turbid wine dripped along the fingers and dripped onto the blood and soil of Tuyu. When he looked up, the setting sun was gnawing at the last corner of the sky. When he recalled his past life, all he could remember was: "When I was young, I used to bend my bow and shoot at wolves."