Two hours passed.
The ground had long been stained red with blood; this was no watery swamp, but a swamp of blood.
The Young Master could initially withstand it—couldn't die, couldn't escape—so he could only endure, but ultimately, he couldn't hold on.
He began to beg for mercy.
Since there was a first time, there were several times.
He no longer knew how many times he had begged for mercy.
It became evident that no matter how noble one was, regardless of their bloodline or who their father was, none of that could decide whether they dared to endure such extreme pain and humiliation like a man.
With this pleading, the son's last dignity as the Sovereign Lord was thoroughly stripped.
Completely like an ant.
Begged as he had, the two hours had passed.
Qin Yu came down, hands behind her back, flute pinched between her fingers, her fingers fiddling back and forth.
