Long Xiaotian jolted upright, only to be yanked nearly off his feet by a burst of pain. Rough iron shackles bound his wrists and ankles, their chains fastened to the stone wall behind him, chafing his skin raw. He looked down at himself. He wore a tattered hemp robe whose coarse fabric made his skin itch, and an unhealed scar crossed his chest. This clearly wasn't his original body.
His memories were like a broken film reel. The last image was A Kun's twisted grin, followed by an ear-splitting explosion.
“Am I dead?” he murmured, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper scraping wood.
“Dead?” The burly man sneered, prodding his face with the handle of a leather whip. “Not yet. Lord Batiatus's gladiator training camp is short on fresh stock. An inexperienced Oriental monkey like you might fetch a good price.”
Gladiator? Batiatus?
