Because he was an orphan, Peter Bolton never dared to get sick since he was a child, so he always worked hard to keep fit. After getting into college and finding his first part-time job as a home tutor, he paid even more attention to balanced nutrition and his health. So, although he looked tall and strong, there was hardly any fat on his body.

For an orphan, a tall and sturdy appearance could save him from a lot of bullying.

For a college student, well-developed and agile limbs could also help him avoid a lot of unnecessary trouble on his way back to campus after finishing his tutoring job.

This was also one of the reasons he hadn’t yet fallen prey to the wolf. Of course, it was also possible that the wolf behind him was deliberately “toying” with him, trying to wear out its prey’s strength so that when it launched the final attack, it could avoid a desperate counterattack.

Whatever the reason, the outcome seemed already set in stone.

After a mad dash of over three thousand meters, Peter Bolton couldn’t run anymore.

His legs felt as heavy as if they were filled with lead, the muscles in his waist were sore and aching, and sweat streamed down from his head, face, and arms like little rivers. Yet his eyes and throat were unbearably dry, as if two balls of fire were burning inside.

“Damn you, heavens, screw your ancestors—” With a hoarse cry of despair, Peter Bolton lunged toward a rock by the mountain path.

It was the largest cover he could find within the last five hundred meters. Three meters high, four meters wide, enough to ensure he wouldn’t be attacked from behind. Under the rock, a few stones that had fallen off due to weathering might even be dug out and used as weapons.

His choice proved to be extremely wise. As he pressed his back against the rock and, in a flash, grabbed a melon-sized stone, the wild wolf that had been relentlessly chasing him stopped in its tracks, wary.

Three thousand meters of sprinting had nearly drained all of Peter Bolton’s strength. For the wolf, it wasn’t easy either.

The arched wolf’s body was faintly trembling, and its heavy breathing from its gaping mouth sounded like a bellows. Its bright red tongue, ever since its four paws had stopped, hung out of its mouth. Drool or sweat dripped continuously along the edge of its tongue.

“Go, go!” Peter Bolton tried to wave his left hand, tightly gripping the stone, and at the same time quickly kicked at a few other stones nearby with his right foot.

Startled, the wolf quickly dodged to the side, its movements far less agile than before. However, noticing this detail, Peter Bolton felt no joy at all.

The pain from his right toe made him realize with cruel clarity that fate was toying with him again. Except for the stone in his hand, all the other stones around that could be used as weapons were much larger than what was exposed on the surface. Unless he had a shovel right now, there was no way he could dig them out to use as weapons, and the wolf across from him wouldn’t give him enough time to dig with his bare hands!

And if he had a shovel right now, would he be in such a sorry state?

After the initial panic, tension, and despair, at this moment, although Peter Bolton’s body was exhausted, his mental state was actually much better than before.

In other words, as an orphan, his nerves were much tougher than his peers’. He had basically accepted the reality of transmigrating, and had made up his mind to fight the wolf to the death.

“Anyway, if I lose, I’ll just end up in the wolf’s belly. No one will be sad for me, and no one will remember me!” While the wolf was still recovering its strength and hadn’t attacked yet, he shook his head with a bitter smile and stuffed his phone into his backpack.

This Huawei phone was something he’d saved up for four months to buy. It would be a real shame to smash it on the wolf’s head. And if he left it behind, maybe someone would find it in the future, and it could serve as proof that he once existed. Even though, since the day he was born, hardly anyone had cared about his existence.

A unique papery sensation came from his fingertips. It was the English version of volume seven of “A Song of Ice and Fire” in his backpack. Heaven help him, he’d been running so hard just now that he hadn’t even thought to throw away such a heavy book.

In fact, even if he had thought of it, he might not have been willing to part with it.

He’d spent half a month calling in favors to finally borrow this book from a returned overseas student this afternoon. The reason he borrowed the original version wasn’t because his English was so good, but because this book had only been released two months ago, and who knew how long it would be before the Chinese translation came out.

If Martin had stuck to his original plan, this volume shouldn’t have been called “Dreams of Spring,” but “The Age of the Direwolf.” In that instant, Peter Bolton was once again moved to tears.

If he’d known that borrowing “The Age of the Direwolf” would lead to an encounter with a wolf, he should have borrowed “The King’s Treasure.” Maybe, as soon as he transmigrated, he’d find a vault full of gold, then buy a huge estate, marry seventeen or eighteen wives, and live a shameless, debauched life from then on...

“Damn you, heavens!” he cursed through gritted teeth, stuffed his phone between the pages of the book, then quickly crouched down and grabbed a handful of stone shards, stuffing them into his backpack.