“Twenty laps. No dinner until you finish.”
When the iron-fisted King of Hell, Feng Ye, coldly gives the order to the stunning “beauty” on the sandbag, the whole camp assumes this pretty good-for-nothing, who got in through connections, won't last three days.
Shen Li lowers his delicate eyes and speaks softly. “Uncle Wang, I was wrong.”
But as he turns and steps onto the track, no one sees the fleeting, sly curve of his lips.
In public, he's the kingdom's number-one playboy, the “nepotism hire” who gives Uncle Wang, Feng Ye, the biggest headache:
He dodges training whenever he can and comes up with endless ways to slack off.
He can't take his eyes off sweat and muscles.
One kick, and he's quicker to his knees than anyone else.
But deep in those eyes, usually misted over with tears, a faint trace of mockery occasionally flickers.
Twenty laps? That's not even a warm-up.
