A few youths with dragon tattoos and tiger patterns, sporting various colored hair, were shoving an old man with white hair.
The elderly man was as thin as a stick, stooped over like a dried shrimp. He didn't speak, nor did he resist. He was like a solitary, desolate leaf, withered and sorrowful.
Seventy-five years ago, at just eighteen, he had killed a Japanese soldier with the brash courage of youth.
Sixty years ago, he had joined the Volunteer Army, striding mightily and proudly across the Yalu River to confront the powerful American imperialists. He had drawn his sword resolutely, fighting in the icy, snowy wilderness, risking his life and shedding his blood.
Forty years ago, on the bloodied front lines of the Laoshan battles, he had struck terror into the hearts of the Vietnamese enemies. A bullet had grazed his heart, nearly claiming his life. Even now, on rainy, overcast days, the wound would throb with pain.
