In the bitter cold of winter, Liaodong was already blanketed in a layer of white.
At Qilitun, east of Benxi City, Wang Sangu had used a manually-pulled sled to haul back a ten-zhang-long red pine tree to Qilitun early in the morning.
By then, Wang Sangu was drenched in sweat, but he and a few sturdy young men from the vicinity had then unloaded the red pine. They had split it into planks as thick as a finger and laid them outside a strangely shaped stone house to dry.
The stone house had a peculiar design, resembling a semi-circular stove, with a fierce fire burning inside and intense heat radiating from the outside.
After dealing with the red pine tree, Wang Sangu finally took a break.
It was exactly noon, and he had just settled his account with the foreman before he wiped off his sweat and, with a flush face, walked toward the large wooden house built at the center of Qilitun.
