Qin Jia had made Jing Ju King of Chu, but anyone with eyes could see what Jing Ju really was. Qin Jia practically held his life in his hands. Like Xiong Xin, Jing Ju was nothing more than a mascot.
It was just that this mascot had rather poor luck, endorsing a counterfeit, shoddy brand.
With Qin Jia, its backbone, gone, and most of its troops absent, Pengcheng was punched straight through by Xiang Yu and his six thousand men without either of Xiang An's two divisions even taking the field. Not only had they broken through the city, they had also captured the "King of Chu," Jing Ju, who had been moping in his "palace," and thrown him into the same prison as Qin Jia.
"What, weren't you pretty damn capable?" In the prison, Jing Ju leaned against the wall, listlessly tearing at the straw spread across the floor as he mocked Qin Jia. "Didn't you have all the power in your hands? Hm? And you still ended up like this?"
He was not especially angry. He simply wanted to disgust this so-called "Grand General," who had spent every day ordering him around.
If not for Chen Sheng, who had long since died who knew where, how could mud-legged peasants like you have possibly climbed over my head?
He was just a farmer, yet he called himself a Grand General. Jing Ju had made him king, only for him to lord it over him every day. Jing Ju had long found Qin Jia unbearable.
Heavy shackles bound Qin Jia's hands and feet.
He was a military man. Heroes emerged in troubled times, and ordinary restraints could not contain the strength of a warrior.
He raised his head, gave Jing Ju a gloomy look, and sighed.
"What's the fucking point