Inside the wooden cabin, the light was dim. A single oil lamp flickered in a corner, twisting shadows into grotesque, menacing forms.
A man, blind in his left eye, stood in the center of the room. He gripped a blood-stained leather whip, and his face was a knot of brutal muscle.
Yang Jing could tell at a glance that the man's aura was impure. He was only a Martial Artist who had just reached the first stage, likely an ordinary leader in the River Gang.
Before him, a thick rope hung from a rafter, a young woman bound to its end.
She was thin and frail, her complexion sallow—a clear sign of long-term malnutrition.
Her hands were tied and pulled high above her head, leaving only her toes to barely touch the ground. The simple undergarment she wore had been whipped to shreds. Her exposed skin was a crisscrossing mess of lash marks, a mangled ruin of flesh. Blood dripped from her wounds, pooling on the floor in a small, dark red stain.
