In the courtyard, Father Cheng's butchering knife had been whetted to a gleaming shine on the grindstone. A ladle of clear water splashed over it, followed by a quick wipe with a strip of cloth, and the blade was clear enough to reflect a person's silhouette.
Cheng Dazhuang expertly bled the runted shoat. Perhaps because it had been tormented too severely in life, the piglet closed its eyes in resignation before the end, offering little struggle.
Father Cheng changed into a pair of dirt-resistant, dark brown coarse cloth trousers, stained with years of unwashed blood and grease, the cuffs frayed white. The knife in his hand flashed with a cold light.
Chapter 62