In 1958, in the back courtyard of No. 95 Nanluo Alley in Beiping, Wu Tian sprang up from the bed, shock still lingering in his eyes. His parents had both died, leaving him two front rooms and over a thousand silver dollars. The whole courtyard was green with envy. Silly Zhu, Xu Damao, Qin Huairu, every last one of them had their eyes on this juicy prize. I drew a deep breath and clenched my fists. First, I would have Lingbao acknowledge me as its master, then settle the score.
