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A hobbling old man, a tattered canvas bag, a few shiny kitchen knives, a few melodious shouts, a strange and horrifying story. In this situation, of course there is wine. When some people die, everything about them ends, and when some people die, another story begins. Yan Fusheng is my friend. He is sitting across from me at the moment. After drinking ten glasses of wine from a three-cent wine glass, he tells his story...