Pan Zhengyong, a Chinese medicine doctor, fell into the cold winter of 1950. The Tukang was as cold as ice, and four sallow-looking children surrounded him. The youngest Nian'an's lips turned black from the fever. He died in the snow to save this child.
He tore up his cotton-padded jacket to paste up the window openings, used snow water to physically cool Nian'an, and clutched half a bag of moldy corn to try to survive.
When a baby in the village had a fit and Wang Daxian danced until his clothes were wet with sweat, he pushed the goddess away and drank skullcap soup to save his life; when spring farming began, he taught compost grafting, making the corn ears heavy and bending the stalks; when black bears destroyed the fields, he dug trenches and lit fire walls, which was a hundred times more effective than offering sacrifices.
The cakes handed over by Li Mingyu were still warm. When Er Zhuzhu was learning to write his name, his pen shook like chaff. The old hunter gave him the sharpest hunting knife. Pan Zhengyong looked at the vast forest sea, knowing that these hands could not only feel the pulse, but also cut a way out, making the fireworks of Panjiatun burn more and more brightly deep in the mountains.
