The chains stretched taut, pinning him firmly in place.
The originally dignified Confucian robe on his body was now tattered, revealing a large area of frightening purple-black depression on his chest.
That was the mark of broken ribs.
"Hoo~ Hoo~"
Each weak breath carried the noise of a broken bellows.
Facing this miserable sight, "Old Knife" was clearly long accustomed.
He stopped at the iron table three feet away, unbuckled a glossy leather tool bag from his waist, and slammed it onto the table.
"Criminal Kong Hui."
"Old Knife" spoke in a low, emotionless voice, "By order of questioning, are you willing to speak?"
Kong Hui's eyeballs moved slightly, a muffled and brief "huh" emanated from his throat, like gravel stuck in a blood-filled windpipe.
His cracked lips spread into a sneer.
"Oh..."
"Old Knife" nodded, bent down, and leisurely opened the glossy tool bag.
A thick waterproof oil cloth was uncovered, revealing an orderly array of fine steel tools inside:
