The vast mountains lay empty, with withered grass sprawled weakly across the ground, powerless against the increasingly cold mountain winds. Some tufts were even lifted by the wind, swirling away to unknown distances. The plateau sky remained as blue as ever, with drifting white clouds, but there was little sign of life. On an inconspicuous ridge, a horse-drawn cart had stopped. The skinny old horse snorted and panted heavily, while several burlap sacks were piled on the cart strapped to its back. A young man, holding a horsewhip, squatted behind the cart, tying his shoelaces.

The young man looked about eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a clean military uniform and cap. His face was darkened by the plateau’s ultraviolet rays, but it couldn’t hide his handsome features. His thick, sword-like eyebrows and straight nose gave him a maturity beyond his years. The whole person exuded confidence, and his lively eyes revealed a shrewd and clever spirit. The combination of strength and gentleness made people trust him and feel a sense of closeness.

The young man had no idea he was being targeted by a sniper, nor did he realize that squatting down to tie his shoelaces had created an illusion for the sniper. He had unknowingly walked to the edge of death and back. After receiving the order to retreat, the sniper abandoned the kill and left. The young man finished tying his shoelaces and stood up. At about 1.76 meters tall, he was quite sturdy, and the military uniform looked sharp and imposing on him.

“Old Mark, let’s go! When we get back, I’ll give you a good bath and brush your beautiful coat. If we don’t head back now, we’ll have to sleep out in the wild. This damned weather won’t show either of us any mercy.” The young man waved the horsewhip in his hand, joking as he spoke. The whip didn’t land on the horse; instead, the cold wind slipped in through his sleeves.

Feeling a chill, the young man tightened his clothes and walked on ahead with the cart. Perhaps sensing the drop in temperature, Old Mark picked up the pace, and the young man had to jog to keep up. His body started to warm up. The young man laughed, “Old Mark, you really are a good brother. You know I’m cold—thanks! I’ll find you a mare for company when we get back.” As he spoke, he looked up at the sky. The clouds were growing heavy, and it looked like a downpour was imminent.

On the plateau during the rainy season, rain comes suddenly and leaves just as quickly. The young man wasn’t afraid of getting wet, but he worried the rain would soak the supplies on the cart. Thinking of his comrades at the outpost, he felt a warmth in his heart. He’d been at the outpost for nearly half a year, and the care and camaraderie of his fellow soldiers gave him a sense of home.

“This damned, thieving sky,” the young man cursed, urging Old Mark to hurry up.

“Awooo—!”

A wolf’s howl shattered the silence of the wild mountains. The young man was startled and looked in the direction of the sound. On a nearby slope stood a lone wolf—a hungry one. At dusk, with a storm approaching, a starving wolf desperate for food was the most dangerous kind.

Hiss! Old Mark let out a roar and stopped, but didn’t panic. Instead, he turned his head to look at the young man. The young man stepped forward, stroking Old Mark’s neck to calm him, saying, “Old Mark, our luck’s really bad today—first a storm, now a hungry wolf, and it’s getting dark. You keep going, I’ll handle the wolf.” Though he spoke lightly, his eyes were grave. Wild wolves were tough, and hungry ones even more so. To survive, a starving wolf would even bite off its own hind leg for food—let alone when prey was right in front of it.

Chapter 3: Hot-Blooded Andrew Clark

Old Mark seemed to understand the young man’s words and continued on. Old Mark knew the way, so there was no worry about getting lost. The young man tossed the horsewhip onto the cart and pulled a machete from beneath the burlap sacks. The blade was over two feet long and eight inches wide, with a slightly thick spine and a gentle curve. The handle was wrapped in red cloth, and it had no sheath.

With the machete in hand, the young man’s demeanor changed. Gone was the approachable, boy-next-door air—replaced by a touch of steely resolve and coldness. His eyes narrowed to sharp points, staring coldly at the wolf. He gripped the machete tightly in one hand, veins bulging on the back of his hand, his body slightly crouched, ready for battle.

Only those who have faced them know the cruelty and madness of a starving wolf. A well-fed wolf isn’t picky about food and won’t usually attack humans, but a starving wolf has no such restraint. For survival, it will do anything. Perhaps provoked by the young man’s challenge, the starving wolf charged forward in a frenzy.

Seeing the wolf’s speed and movement, the young man’s expression grew even more serious. This was an experienced wolf, running at a steady, straight pace—shortening the distance and time needed to attack. It didn’t seem to be using its full strength, which meant it wasn’t yet exhausted by hunger.

The young man didn’t move, conserving his energy and watching the charging wolf coldly. His eyes flashed with sharp light, and he subtly shifted the machete so the blade faced forward. As the wolf drew closer, the young man still didn’t move. Facing a starving wolf, panic would only hasten death. Clearly, he had plenty of experience fighting such wolves.

In the blink of an eye, the wolf was upon him. When it was five or six meters away, it suddenly leapt, its large body soaring high, jaws wide open, and its sharp front claws glinting in the dusk.

The leaping wolf had no way to change direction in midair. This was the moment the young man had been waiting for. Facing the ferocious, charging wolf, he stood as still as a mountain, then moved as swiftly as a rabbit. With a shout of “Kill—!” he suddenly pushed off with his foot, not retreating but advancing, counterattacking the wolf.