When Zhao Chun woke up, his back hurt terribly. He remembered being knocked out by a single blow to the back of the head. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he had to face the fact—he wasn't strong enough.
His eyes could barely open, and even then, a piece of black cloth covered them, so he couldn't see the situation around him. His hands and feet were tied with ropes, and his body lay in a twisted position on the ground.
He could sense there was nobody else in the room, and it seemed quite spacious, as even speaking faintly echoed. The floor was icy cold—not sandy, but the sort of chill that clings to places long devoid of human presence. Struggling hard, he managed to sit up little by little with great effort.
After taking a few deep breaths, he leaned against the wall behind him. His body felt weak—he'd already drained some strength getting himself upright.
His fair face was smeared with grime, and it had even rubbed against some grit, leaving his whole cheek burning hot.
