The ruts are deep.
Each one was like a whip, hitting Lu Yuan's spine hard.
The prison car bumped on the bluestone road, and its wooden axles made an overwhelmed "creak" sound. This sound, mixed with the curses of the people around him, penetrated into his ears.
He was wearing a gray prison uniform, and the coarse linen material was hard and harsh, causing burning pain to his neck and wrists. The wooden shackle around his neck was as heavy as a hill, weighing him down so much that he could hardly breathe.
The air was filled with a rusty smell of blood, mixed with the sour smell of rotting vegetable leaves and the smell of crowds of sweat. This smell filled his chest.
He is a traitor. A detailed work of collaboration with the enemy.
This identity was like a branding iron, burning on his forehead and in the eyes of everyone who looked at him.
