The manager Li Kai's voice was as shrill as a eunuch's, and the horsewhip in his hand slapped Lu Haoyu's back.
Burning pain.
Lu Haoyu climbed up from the horse manure pile, his whole body covered with the stench of dried manure.
He looked down at himself—shabby linen clothes, covered in dirt, and the word "prison" tattooed on his face was particularly dazzling in the morning light.
The deposed prince.
Three years ago he was still the lord of the East Palace, and he was worshiped by hundreds of officials and more than ten thousand people.
