In the twelfth month of the twelfth lunar month, Song Wuque, who was a member of the Song family in Kyushu, China, stood in a queue of three thousand young people at the third branch of Feixue Station. Wen Chou Chou wore a high hat with a feather fan, his eyes were blinded, and his voice was thin and bright, and he shouted, "Please be kind to the leader." The snowflakes shook three times, and the tip of my nose was red from the cold, so I didn't dare to exhale and rub my hands. Xiongba was about to take on a disciple, and I scratched the back of my neck to clear my memory: I was kicked out to live a good life, and I couldn't even sweep the floor slowly. The footsteps on the high platform were getting closer and closer, and I clenched my frozen fingers tightly - it didn't matter whether I clenched them or not, I wanted to survive today first. The wind blew the snow foam into my collar. I stood up straight and waited for the old man to speak.
