When rotten grass mixed with the smell of blood entered his nose, Lin Mengxiao was kneeling in the rubble of the Han Iron Mine.
The ankles worn by the iron chains were soaked in muddy water, and his back suddenly received a heavy whip.
"Prison slaves should look like prison slaves." The soles of Su Yin's boots crushed her fingers on the ground, and the black iron wristbands glowed coldly in the moonlight. "I heard that you collected blood Ganoderma lucidum yesterday?"
