Walking Drunkenly on the Long Wind for Thousands of Miles

The cold rain beats on the broken beams of the ruined temple. Wu Liang huddled in a pile of cold and wet hay, his clothes were in tatters, his body was covered with old and new scars, his straw sandals had long been worn out, and his bare feet were blue and blue from the cold. His stomach was empty, he hadn't had enough food in two days, and he held half a piece of dry wheat cake in his arms. A rusty short knife at his waist was all he relied on. No teacher, no support. The world is thousands of miles away, and the scenery belongs to famous heroes. For him, all he wants is to survive the cold night and survive tomorrow. He half-closed his eyes and listened to the sound of wind outside the temple. His fingertips were tightly clasped on the handle of the knife, and there was a faint edge in his eyes that refused to be extinguished.