That Bowl of Cold Glutinous Rice

A bowl of cold glutinous rice, in exchange for the sentence "Does a Fujian boy deserve to touch the Wang family?" On the day when Lin Lei, a boy from Pingyang, was expelled from his clan, the pits on the ground beneath his feet were still covered with sweat from his father's knees. Wang Zhenhai, a powerful man in Lucheng, sat at the head of the table, nibbling on the frost-covered scorpions, laughing at his punch but not his accent. But the wind in Oujiang never believes in evil. In the undercurrent of the dragon boat race, Lin Lei used hard and soft short blows to choke the blood and win the flag; in the deep mountains of Ouqu, Yongjia, he used the Seven Tigers Fist to shatter medicine jars; even in the Nanyang arena, the Muay Thai champion's knee collision could not break his century-old Sipingma. What does "those with weak virtues cannot learn"? When Wang Zhenhai was holding the family tree of Yongchang Fort and shouting the rules, Lin Lei was sweeping the bench flowers into the table full of crabs. From winning plaques in ancestral halls to blocking street blessings, from pig noodle stalls to Hollywood shots, he only believes in one thing in his life: If you have a hard fist, you won't be afraid of a soft tongue. In the old house on the night of the winter solstice, my mother pushed hot glutinous rice balls over, and the half of the wooden plaque that had been smashed down was pressed at the bottom of the bowl. Lin Lei chewed the aroma of glutinous rice and said in Pingyang accent to the global live broadcast cameras: "Wang Zhenhai, you were a bowl of cold rice back then, but I am so hot now."