Not daring to get any closer to the wild wolf, he staggered backward, once again pressing his back against the rock. Then, forcing himself, he checked the wound on his thigh.

Because they weren’t some international brand, the denim of his jeans was astonishingly tough, actually blocking most of the wolf’s claw attack for him! The wound on his leg was mainly from the tearing of the wolf’s claw tips. It looked terrifying, but it wasn’t very deep—at least, it didn’t seem to have torn any major blood vessels beneath the skin.

“Ptui, ptui!” Peter Bolton spat twice directly onto the wound without hesitation, then tore off a piece of leaf and quickly smeared the spit evenly.

This was a trick he’d learned from fighting as a kid—when you couldn’t disinfect a wound in time, spit could at least cut the chance of infection in half. Although, admittedly, doing this was pretty disgusting.

The wolf didn’t feel disgusted, nor did it launch a second attack while Peter Bolton was tending to his wound. The beast, having just taken a hit from the “meteor hammer,” was still wary of the power of the backpack. Yet its craving for blood kept it from giving up. So, it squatted fifteen meters away, licking its injured right foreleg with hatred in its eyes.

“This beast needs to recover its strength!” Always watching the wolf from the corner of his eye, Peter Bolton quickly made a judgment in his mind. Having just suffered a big loss from underestimating his enemy, he didn’t dare hope the wolf would back down. He could only lean against the rock, try to steady his breathing, and move his arms, hoping to recover as much strength as possible before the wolf’s next attack.

One minute passed, and the wolf showed no sign of attacking.

Two minutes, and the wolf kept licking its injured foreleg.

Three minutes, and the wolf’s breathing gradually steadied, but its attention was still on its wounded leg, as if there was chocolate or MSG hidden in its fur.

Four minutes...

Five minutes...

Even longer, the wolf half-sat fifteen meters from the rock, holding up its right foreleg, licking it obsessively. There was no longer any fierceness in its eyes, and a faint snoring sound could even be heard from its throat.

“Asleep?” Peter Bolton frowned, unable to believe his eyes. Immediately, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end!

The story of the butcher and the wolf from Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio! The tale from his middle school textbook flashed back into his mind. “...one of the dogs sat in front. After a long time, its eyes seemed to close, looking very relaxed...”

Thank goodness I read that story! Ignoring the pain in his wound, Peter Bolton’s body sprang up like it was loaded with springs. In a few quick steps, he rushed to the wolf, swinging his backpack like a windmill in midair and smashing it down hard on the wolf’s head.

“Bang!” The sound of the wolf’s head colliding with the heavy object made his blood race!

That beast had overplayed its act and finally got what it deserved. Smashed, it rolled more than two meters to the left, legs in the air, wailing miserably.

“Die, die! Die!” Peter Bolton didn’t dare show the wolf a shred of mercy. He chased after it, continuing to swing the backpack down hard. A kilo of books, plus more than a kilo of broken stones, all wrapped in the canvas backpack, repeatedly pounded the wolf’s head and chest. “Bang, bang, bang, bang bang...”

“Ow ow ow, awoo, ow ow ow ow ow—” The wails were shrill and urgent, like a curse. The wolf tried several times to get up and fight back, but each time Peter Bolton smashed it back to the ground. Soon, blood gushed from the wolf’s nostrils, mouth, and eyes, quickly staining the autumn grass red. Both of the wolf’s forelegs were completely broken, shattered bones piercing through the skin, white showing through the red.

“Ow ow ow, awoo, ow...” The wails grew weaker and weaker, until they stopped abruptly.

“Die!” Fearing the wolf was only playing dead, Peter Bolton lifted his uninjured right leg and stomped hard on the wolf’s chest. “Crack!” The sound of bones breaking rang clearly in his ears, but he felt no relief. He suddenly turned around, swinging his backpack, and rushed back toward the rock he’d leaned on earlier.

A wolf slightly smaller than the first had just come around from behind the rock, its hind legs tensing as it leapt at his shoulder!

It was exactly the same move as before—if its front paws landed on Peter Bolton’s shoulders, its jaws could tear through his throat and arteries in one bite. However, what the wolf could never have imagined was that, in his desperate fight with the first wolf, Peter Bolton had already gained some experience.

He stopped abruptly, swung his backpack with his right hand, and used the momentum of his run to spin quickly. All the strength from his legs, waist, and arms gathered in the backpack. “Bang—”

The backpack struck the wolf right at the base of its left ear, sending the beast spinning half a circle in midair before it crashed heavily into the weeds. Peter Bolton chased after it without hesitation, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg and the dizziness in his head, swinging the backpack again and again. “Bang, bang, bang bang...”

“Ow ow ow—” “Bang!”

“Ow—” “Bang!”

“Ow ow—” “Bang bang!” “Huff, huff, huff...”

The wolf’s wails, the sound of heavy blows against flesh and bone, and his own heavy breathing all mingled together.

Under the intense rush of adrenaline, Peter Bolton’s limbs and body became exceptionally coordinated and agile. Almost every blow landed squarely on the wolf’s head and torso, no matter how the wolf rolled, dodged, or struggled—it was all in vain!