Old Huandao: Qiu

In the dim starless and moonless night, Zhao Bing, lying on the thatch, touched his left ankle. Cold wind kept coming through the holes in the ruined temple, and Zhao Bing still felt a burning pain in his left ankle. Zhao Bing smiled, happy that he had not forgotten it. Fortunately, I didn't forget it. Zhao Bing followed the scar on his left ankle and searched for strokes. Hatred. This is the word engraved on Zhao Bing's left ankle, carved with a ring knife in another straw bedding. The wind blows the thatch, and the knife keeps ringing. Zhao Bing smiled. "Don't worry, it's coming soon." Zhao Bing comforted the bloodthirsty knife. The knife kept ringing. "Don't rush..." The knife kept ringing. It won't stop, Zhao Bing knows. This knife won't stop ringing. Unless it is made to eat the blood of its enemy. Zhao Bing lay down and peered into the cloudy night sky from the hole on the roof of the temple. "Don't worry..." Zhao Bing whispered. "Almost..." Zhao Bing murmured. The knife kept ringing. This is what Zhao Bing said to himself. The scar on my left ankle hurts again.