A ragged old man squatted on a birch stump in front of a dilapidated house, took a sip of homemade liquor, puffed on a harsh green toad pipe, squinted his eyes, and gazed at the setting sun about to sink behind the Changbai Mountains. He said to a child, about six or seven years old, who was playing with a black and a white mutt by his side, “Jason, the animal that the Siberian tiger fears most isn’t the thick-skinned black bear, nor the 600-jin wild boar king, but the mountain-guarding dog that’s gone up the mountain.”

　　Many years later, the old man lay in an inconspicuous grave mound. The child who hadn’t frozen to death in a blizzard, nor died from the villagers’ scornful looks in Zhangjia Village, finally walked out of the mountains and came to the city. Like a mad dog let loose from the wild, he bit, he knelt, he bowed his head—so he found glory.

　　His grandfather was like an old turtle, dying nameless. His brother was like a hungry eagle, fighting in the north. His father was like a lean tiger, facing east toward Jieshi.

　　Could he, nicknamed Brian Brooks, carve out a life of glory?