Fists rained down one after another, and Li Qirui's face quickly swelled to a purplish-black color. Several bloody teeth mixed with saliva rolled down from the corners of his mouth, and blood foam gushed out like a ruptured water bag.
The gauze on Cheng Muyun's hand was already soaked with blood, the dark red color dripping down between his fingers, landing on Li Qirui's face, and then splashing back onto the back of his own hand.
The burns he sustained while fighting the fire were torn even deeper by the repeated impacts, but he seemed completely numb—anger, like a raging fire, burned away his reason and severed the nerves that could perceive pain.
His burns were throbbing, and every movement felt like being pricked by countless needles, but he ignored all of that.
His eyes were terrifyingly empty, as if his soul had long since left him, leaving only mechanically waving fists and repetitive questions from his mouth.
Li Qirui's muffled pleas for mercy were like the buzzing of mosquitoes, unable to penetrate his ears at all.
Only the muffled thuds of fists hitting flesh and Cheng Muyun's suppressed breathing filled the ancestral hall. The incense flickered around them, making the bloodstains on the ground even more glaring.
It wasn't until Chen Hede grasped his wrist that Cheng Muyun raised his head in confusion, his eyes filled with unconcealed loneliness.
“Killing him like this is too easy,” Chen Hede said.
Cheng Muyun looked down and saw that Li Qirui had been beaten unconscious and his face was covered in blood.
Cheng Muyun shook his fist, which was already sore and numb, his knuckles turning an unnatural bluish-white. He called out the name in a hoarse voice: "Zhang Qi!"
Immediately, hurried footsteps sounded outside the door. Zhang Qi, gripping his gun, strode in. The metallic gleam of the gun shimmered in the dim light of the incense. He replied in a deep voice, "Young Marshal, everything is ready."
Everyone in the ancestral hall was stunned, their eyes all turning to the entrance.
Zhang Qi waved his hand, and several men dressed in black short-sleeved shirts carried in a huge wooden frame. The frame was about half a person tall, with a thick iron rod polished to a shine across the middle. Dozens of bundles of chopped firewood were stacked on top of it, and some cotton wadding for kindling was stuffed in the gaps between the firewood. It was clear that they had been prepared in advance.
Chen Hede's pupils suddenly contracted—it seemed that Cheng Muyun was going to tie Li Qirui to an iron rod and burn him alive.
What alarmed him even more was that the wooden frame did not stop when it was carried to the entrance of the ancestral hall.
Zhang Qi directed his men to move it directly to the open space outside the ancestral hall, right in the center of the circle formed by the sit-in protesters.
The sunlight slanted across the wooden frame, the thick iron rods gleamed coldly, and the grain of the dry firewood was clearly visible.
Chen Hede instantly understood Cheng Muyun's intention. The reporters who had come after hearing the news were waiting here, as were the protesters holding up signs and sitting in silence. Cheng Muyun wanted everyone to see with their own eyes what kind of fate those who betrayed him and became his enemies would suffer.
This is not a simple revenge; it is a bloody declaration, nailing the word "cost" to everyone's eyes in the most tragic way.
Li Qirui was tied to the frame, his hands were spread apart, and he was wrapped around an iron rod. When the temperature rose, he would be roasted alive by the scalding iron rod.
Cheng Muyun's men were making preparations, and no one in the ancestral hall stopped them.
Li Qirui deserves to die!
The wind outside the ancestral hall suddenly became hot and dry.
The sound of reporters' camera shutters was like a dense rain, clicking incessantly as their lenses greedily aimed at the menacing wooden frame, trying to freeze this cruel scene that was about to unfold into a blood-red footnote in printed text.
The workers sitting quietly whispered among themselves, their murmurs spreading like a tide. Some clenched their fists, while others instinctively took a half-step back, the fallen leaves crunching under their feet.
Zhang Qi carried the kerosene can over and poured the amber liquid onto the dry firewood. The air was instantly filled with a pungent smell, and even the wind carried a scorching, flammable odor.
At this moment, Cheng Muyun walked out of the ancestral hall holding a torch. The firelight danced on his face, making the fierceness in his eyes even more intense.
His gaze was like a knife chilled to the bone, scraping across the group of reporters and then sweeping over the group of workers.
The camera flash went off in his face, but he didn't even blink.
As the gaze swept over them, the workers stood up in unison, their backs ramrod straight, like rows of taut bowstrings.
“I’ve seen some of you,” Cheng Muyun’s voice was hoarse, as if it had been sanded, but it carried an undeniable force. “Three days ago, you stormed into the Cheng family’s gate with torches in hand. Now, I’m giving you a chance—” He paused, the torch swaying slightly in his hand, “Get out of here immediately.”
The murderous aura emanating from him was almost solidified, like a giant boulder pressing down on people, making it hard to breathe.
A commotion broke out in the crowd. Several workers exchanged glances, but ultimately couldn't resist the chill. They lowered their heads, hurriedly squeezed out of the crowd, and quickly disappeared around the street corner.
But most people didn't move. They stared intently at Cheng Muyun, their eyes filled with fear, but even more so with resentment and stubbornness.
Cheng Muyun looked at the motionless figures and suddenly chuckled softly, his laughter filled with deep sarcasm: "Good."
A single word, seemingly casual, yet fraught with deadly intent.
Holding a torch, Cheng Muyun walked step by step toward Li Qirui, who was tied to the wooden frame.
His steps were slow, each one landing on the tip of one's heart. The torchlight cast long shadows at his feet, like writhing fire snakes.
Li Qirui let out a hoarse moan as he struggled in vain, the ropes tightening painfully around his wrists.
Cheng Muyun didn't look at him, but stopped a few steps away from the wooden frame and suddenly threw the torch over.
When the flame touched the kerosene-soaked firewood, it instantly leaped up into a towering flame, the orange-red tongues of fire licking the air wildly, the crackling sound of burning tearing the silence apart.
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