The mournful cries caught Li Jinghong's attention. His instincts told him something must have happened. He put his red wine glass on the table and hurried to the ancestral hall to have a look.
He didn't dare to rush over, only able to hide in the shadows.
In the fuzzy light and shadow, several men, like demons, kept beating Li Wenhao mercilessly.
Li Wenhao had been battered and bruised to the point where he couldn't even cry out for help, lying on the ground gasping for air, letting them beat him. Now, the pain had become so numbing he had no sensation left.
When those men saw Li Wenhao was on the verge of death, they finally stopped. If Li Wenhao died, they wouldn't be able to find Li Jingming—such an outcome would be counterproductive.
"I'm giving you one last chance. Are you going to talk or not?"
Li Wenhao, covered in blood, could barely even open his eyelids, "I... I really don't know... My son... is dead..."
