At the factory entrance, two men were smoking, occasionally glancing outside. They seemed to be either lookouts or guards.
Inside, the place was brightly lit.
From time to time, there were sounds of shouting and questioning, along with other noises. Just by the sounds, you could tell there were more than a few people. Inside, there were people, and a lot of them—at least nearly a hundred—standing in different positions. And most of them were armed.
At the far end of the factory, a man was hanging, covered in bruises and wounds.
His upper body was bare, his back and chest lacerated, with blood oozing out and dripping onto the ground. However, surprisingly, his expression was indifferent; he didn't even frown, as if the injuries weren't on him. Perhaps he had become numb to pain, or he was already used to being hurt, accustomed to this kind of beating and interrogation.
This man was Ling.
A burly man was hitting him with a long stick.
