Chapter 707: Torture in the Prison

“Master, Master Kong has fallen!”

Wang She’s knees buckled, and he crashed to the ground with a thud, forehead pressed against the icy floor tiles, his voice trembling with terror.

Zhao Qingxu slowly turned his head, the blank, pallid mask facing him, voice devoid of any discernible emotion:

“Are you afraid?”

Even within this secluded courtyard, even before his only trusted subordinate, the eerie mask remained firmly fixed to his face, unmoving.

His voice, too, seemed muffled by an invisible barrier, indistinct, genderless.

“I… I…”

Wang She trembled violently, wishing he could bury his head into the ground and never see that mask again.

To outsiders, he was the fearsome, ruthless Incense Master of the Iron Anchor Society—but before this demon, he could barely speak coherently.

A faint, almost inaudible scoff seemed to emanate from behind the mask.

Zhao Qingxu no longer looked at him; instead, he turned leisurely, picked up the celadon water jug on the table, and slowly poured water onto the peach tree bonsai.

The water trickled over the strange rocks, producing a delicate, tinkling sound.

“I remember—you weren’t always this pitiful.”

“You once charged into the Ministry of Justice’s prison with a chipped knife, knowing you couldn’t win, yet still carving a few cuts into me…”

“Where did that reckless, death-defying ferocity go?”

The fire’s already at your door—why dredge up old history now?!

Wang She seethed inwardly, but dared not show a flicker of impatience, only stammered: “I… I don’t know.”

Zhao Qingxu sighed, set down the jug. “People, once they gain something, fear losing it—until even their bones grow soft.”

Wang She’s mind grew even more confused, utterly unable to fathom the depth of these words; he gritted his teeth and asked:

“M…Master, what exactly… are you getting at?”

Zhao Qingxu finally turned fully toward him, the smooth, icy surface of the mask facing Wang She, his voice instantly chilling: “All these years, I’ve elevated you, granted you power, taught you martial arts—all because I valued your reckless courage!”

He paused, and an invisible pressure surged abruptly:

“You know very well—I never make losing investments.”

“You!”

Wang She’s mind screamed an alarm—as if an ice pick had pierced his spine!

Every doubt instantly crystallized into raw terror.

Almost instinctively, before he could even adjust his kneeling posture, he exploded forward with a burst of force, launching himself like a bolt from a crossbow.

He was no ordinary man—having been forcibly boosted by Zhao Qingxu’s dark arts, he had at least reached Golden Core.

His lunge was swift as a hare darting, a hawk diving—lightning-fast.

Just as he lost his balance, he performed a kite flip, twisting to face the courtyard gate.

Civilians still lived nearby; imperial troops patrolled the streets beyond.

If he could just escape, he might still live.

Yet as his right hand neared the door—less than half a foot away—he froze.

An indescribable, bone-deep cold surged through his entire body.

Thud—!

His body collapsed like a puppet with severed strings, crashing lifelessly onto the cold ground.

He tried to struggle—but not a single finger would move.

Every muscle and tendon felt bound by invisible chains, leaving only his torso convulsing violently like a sieve in a storm.

Then came an even more horrifying sight:

His skin rippled like boiling water, erupting in vast patches of red, raised hives.

These hives spread and swelled as if alive, their surfaces turning blood-red and translucent, revealing clear, twisted patterns of ancient square-hole copper coins—soon crawling over his entire body.

Swish—!

The crisp snap of a folding fan opening echoed from behind him.

Zhao Qingxu leisurely unfurled the fan—the massive, blood-red character “ Qian ” glowed like dripping blood in the dim courtyard.

“Everything has a price.”

“What I gave you—now, with interest, I reclaim it…”

Wang She could no longer hear any words; the bone-deep itching and soul-rending agony flooded his mind like a tidal wave.

In a haze, he saw the blue robe slowly approaching, then crouching down.

Then, his vision darkened.

That cold, lifeless, pallid mask had sealed itself perfectly over his face…

…………

The Xuan Sacrifice Prison, Cell Jia, the largest death row chamber.

This was the Enforcement Hall’s designated facility for detaining and interrogating high-profile prisoners.

The air was thick enough to squeeze water from—mingling the stench of decades-old blood seeped into the stone walls, the bitter tang of cheap healing herbs, and a deeper, more insidious odor—like the rot of ancient tombs—making one gag.

Torches crackled along the walls as a black-clad clerk with a scarred face walked forward, head bowed.

He was called “Old Knife,” thirty years in the trade of torture, a registered “Living Yama” in the capital’s Six Gates and Commandant’s Office.

No prisoner under his hands had ever kept a secret, no confession left unsigned.

But today’s case was different.

The heavy prison door slid open with a grating clang, the iron chains dragging with a piercing screech.

“Old Knife” stepped inside, his boots pressing against the icy stone tiles without a sound.

He silently scanned the surroundings.

The walls were cast from cold iron, inscribed with talismanic runes, the grooves filled with congealed, blackened cinnabar.

This was the “Soul-Annihilating Talisman”—once the prisoner died, his soul scattered into nothingness.

Even sorcerers capable of wandering as spirits had no chance to haunt.

Kong Hui was bound tightly to a heavy iron cross-frame.

The master of the Song Dynasty now looked like a demon.

His arms twisted grotesquely, the bones shattered by Huo Yin’s punch, crudely splinted with filthy linen and wooden boards.

Blood crusts and pus clung to the fabric, reeking foully.

Two Guanchuan wounds beneath his collarbones, each the thickness of a thumb, threaded through with iron chains that stretched to an iron ring in the corner.

The chains were taut, pinning him immobile.

The once dignified Confucian robe was now a ragged ruin, exposing a vast, terrifying purple-black depression across his chest.

The mark of broken ribs.

“Huh~ huh~”

Each weak breath rattled like a broken bellows.

Facing this horror, “Old Knife” was clearly accustomed.

He stopped three feet from the iron table, unslung a glossy leather tool bag from his waist, and dropped it onto the table with a clatter.

“Prisoner Kong Hui.”

“Old Knife” spoke softly, emotionless: “By imperial order, I question you. Will you speak?”

Kong Hui’s eyes flickered slightly; his throat emitted a faint, choked “Huh”—as if bloodied gravel clogged his windpipe.

He cracked his dry lips into a mocking grin.

“Oh…”

“Old Knife” nodded, leaned forward, and slowly opened the glossy tool bag.

A thick layer of waterproof oilcloth was lifted, revealing neatly arranged steel tools:

Unusual hook needles, thin as willow leaves, edges gleaming coldly; several hollow tubes of varying lengths, mouths polished into jagged canine-like teeth; flat blades with precise engraved markings; rows of silver needles—the longest nearly finger-length, the shortest finer than cowhair…

“Old Knife” traced his fingers over them—but only took from the corner of the bag a small ink-black jade bowl.

Inside: thick, paste-like sludge, radiating a pungent yin aura, oozing yellow-black oily fluid.

“This is called ‘Yellow Spring Mud.’”

“Old Knife” spoke calmly: “Harvested from the deepest, most impure depths of the ‘Corpse-Nourishing Pool,’ blended with ash from the ‘Corpse-Sealing Talisman’ in the Yunji Qiqian, mixed with cinnabar and black dog’s blood—rumored to have been crafted by Han palace witch-doctors…”

“‘Yellow Spring Mud Seal the Orifices’?”

Before he could finish, Kong Hui interrupted, sneering: “During the Jingkang era, the Jin used this method to torture the Xuan Sect’s Protectors who refused to submit.”