The wind from the Xingyuan carried the smell of rust, blowing across the stone surface of the execution platform and picking up a few dry fragments of the border guard's robes. Li Yin was nailed to the torture rack. The nerve chains running through his arms were glowing with cold light. The blood seeping from the joint between the skin and the metal slowly dripped along the lines of the chains. No one looked up at her. The crowd's shouts were like a tide, washing away the slogan "Death to the traitors" over and over again. There was no anger in the voice, only boredom - as if they were disposing of a long-decomposed corpse.
