How Is This Kid Even Less Like a Good Person Than the One Locked on the Rack?!

"That's the rule! It has to go through the official accounts!"

Old Huang let go and counted it out on his fingers.

"Seventy-five percent goes to the public account, twenty-five percent to ourselves. Of the public portion, the Heavenly Prison's accounts take sixty percent, and the rest has to be used to grease the palms of the court officials above. Who do you think gives you these comfortable days in prison? You buy your life with money!"

"Once enough money has been collected, the heat is right, and enough time has passed, the person will naturally be released."

Old Huang earnestly educated this greenhorn.

"So we have to worship people like that. They're the ones who feed and clothe us. If you offend them and cut off everyone's source of income, the brothers in Block C prison alone will tear you apart without anyone above needing to lift a finger."

Fang Mo listened in a daze, inwardly crying out, Well, damn.

So this Heavenly Prison was basically an upscale club and atonement center wearing a prison's skin? The whole industrial chain was a closed loop!

"What if they don't have money?" Fang Mo could not help asking.

Old Huang's footsteps halted.

Ahead, the light suddenly dimmed. The pleasant sandalwood fragrance vanished completely, replaced by a thick, pungent bloody smell mixed with the stench of filth and urine, crashing into their faces like something solid.

"No money?"

Before Old Huang could answer, an incomparably shrill scream exploded from the end of the passageway!

"Ah—!!!"

The sound was sharp and despairing, as though it would tear apart one's eardrums, reverberating back and forth through the long, narrow corridor.

Fang Mo felt his scalp explode as every hair on his body stood on end.

Yet he did not retreat. Instead, it felt as though an Invisible Big Hand had fiercely clenched his heart, which then began pounding violently.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

It was not fear.

It was excitement.

The excitement of a wild wolf that had starved for three days and three nights, suddenly catching the scent of blood.

Old Huang turned around and happened to see Fang Mo's eyes glinting faintly in the darkness.

He bared a mouthful of huge yellow teeth. On his formerly honest, simple face now hung a cruel smile that made one's blood run cold.

"No money?"

Old Huang pointed at the pitch-black entrance ahead.

"No money means you fill the gap with your life."

"Kid, that was the civil act just now. Next, I'll show you the martial act."

Old Huang straightened his Jailer Uniform, his back ramrod straight. The honest air around him vanished without a trace, replaced by a baleful aura that made hearts tremble.

"Today, I'll broaden your horizons and show you how the men of our Heavenly Prison make money!"

With that, he quickened his pace and strode toward the source of the screams.

Fang Mo licked his somewhat dry lips. The palm gripping the Water-Fire Cudgel was soaked in sweat.

Here it came!

The main event was finally here!

He followed closely behind Old Huang, passing through two heavy iron gates before arriving at a cell at the end of the corridor.

"Clang—"

Old Huang shoved open the cell door.

The cell was not small. Compared to Zhao Guangcai's mansion-like cell, its area was no less impressive.

Yet it seemed exceptionally crowded.

Not because the room was too small, but because the walls, floor, and even the beams were densely covered with all kinds of torture instruments.

Branding irons, finger clamps, tiger benches, skinning knives, bone-crushing hammers...

Some Fang Mo recognized; others he had never even seen before. Without exception, they were coated in a layer of dark brown blood crust, the traces left after countless layers of Fresh Blood had dried over one another.

At the center of the cell stood a Cross Stake.

A Humanoid Creature was tightly chained to it with iron chains as thick as an infant's arm.

The man's hair was disheveled, and not a patch of good flesh remained on his Whole Body. His prisoner uniform had long since become tattered Cloth Strips, soaked through with Fresh Blood and plastered to his body.

A jailer Fang Mo had never seen stood with his back to the door, holding a Fine Steel File half a foot long.

"Iron Bone Liu, your fucking bones sure are hard."

The jailer turned half his face. A savage scar stretched straight from the corner of his eye to his chin, writhing like a centipede with every movement of his mouth.

"Where did you hide that batch of Red Goods you stole? Spit it out!"

The jailer's voice was icy as he lightly traced the file over the exposed collarbone of the prisoner.

"I can still give you a quick death. Otherwise, heh heh..."

"Today, we'll see whether your bones are harder, or my file is harder!"

"Pah!"

Iron Bone Liu, locked to the rack, abruptly raised his head and spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm into the jailer's face.

"If you've got the guts... kill me!"

The jailer wiped the blood from his face without anger. He merely stuck out his tongue and licked the corner of his mouth, his eyes gleaming with bloodthirst.

"Good. You've got guts."

He suddenly raised his hand and viciously pressed the file against Iron Bone Liu's collarbone, then dragged it hard!

"Screeech—!!!"

A teeth-aching scraping sound rang out—the sound of a metal file grinding directly against Human Bone!

Blood spattered!

"Ahhhhhh—!!!"

Iron Bone Liu's body suddenly went taut. His eyeballs nearly bulged from their sockets as a roar like a broken bellows erupted from his throat.

Fang Mo stood at the doorway, staring fixedly at the scene.

His body trembled faintly.

His pupils contracted violently.

Deep within his mind, the silent Prison Suppressor seemed to sense something and suddenly shook with a thunderous roar!