The whipping continued long after most men would have collapsed completely.
Again and again the lashes tore across Lucas's body, reopening wounds, shredding flesh already battered beyond recognition, yet despite the pain coursing through every nerve in his body, despite the suppressing ring choking his cultivation and the exhaustion threatening to pull him unconscious, he still refused to speak.
Not a single useful word.
Only rough breathing.
Grunts forced from him by unbearable pain.
And silence.
The interrogator watched all of it with growing frustration hidden beneath practiced calm, because the torture was no longer producing results, only endurance.
Finally, after another brutal strike failed to break him, the interrogator raised a hand.
The whipping stopped.
The room fell quiet except for the faint rattling of chains and Lucas's uneven breathing.
Blood dripped steadily from his torn body onto the floor beneath him.
