My name is Wu Jiuluan. Right now, I’m watching my adoptive father fall into a pool of blood.
The Northern Di cavalry’s hoofbeats sound like a drum announcing our deaths, pounding against the battered gate of the Taoist temple. The old man grips his rusty woodcutting knife and shields me with his body. His hunched back is straight as a rod.
“Jiuluan, hide!” he growls. His voice is hoarse, but his resolve is unquestionable.
