The ragged old man squatted on the birch pier in front of the dilapidated house, drank a sip of homemade soju, smoked a very strong toad tobacco, squinted his eyes, looked at the sunset that was about to fall into the Changbai Mountains, and said to a child who was about six or seven years old next to him who was playing with a black and white dog: "Fusheng, the beast that the Siberian tiger fears the most is not the black blind man with rough skin and thick meat, nor the 600-pound wild boar king, but the mountain guard dog who goes up the mountain." " Many years later, the old man lay down in an inconspicuous grave, the child who was not frozen to death by the smoke cannon on a snowy day, and who was not poked in the back by the villagers of Zhangjiazhai and died