William Thompson turned his head to look, and by the light of the torches, he saw the situation in several other cells.

The cell he was in was at the back on the west side of the corridor, while most of the cells in the front on the east side held more than a dozen people, with fewer and fewer as you went further back.

This meant that his cell, with only three people, was considered relatively privileged.

However, perhaps the better the treatment, the harsher the punishment?

When the jailers led the official in, all the prisoners still lay weakly on the ground, none getting up to shout their grievances, appearing rather well-behaved.

The official, wearing black boots, walked unhurriedly down the corridor, only starting to glance into the cells on either side once he reached the inner section.

“Sir, these are the cells for death row inmates,” someone said.

“I’m not on death row,” Henry Clark suddenly interjected, leaning on the bars with a fawning smile. “Edward Brooks, when can I—”

“Shut up.” Edward Brooks quickly cut him off, then obsequiously said to the official, “Sir, this one’s a thief, quick with his hands and feet.”

When William Thompson heard that he was in a death row cell, he took note and observed the official’s demeanor.

The man appeared to be around thirty, with a stern expression and sharp eyes, looking quite capable. He carried an imposing air, as if he were a high-ranking official, but his clothes were only slightly better than those of the jailers.

The escorting Edward Brooks shone his torch into William Thompson’s cell, but not to look at William Thompson; instead, he illuminated Brian Carter, who had been sitting cross-legged, feigning sleep.

“Sir, look, that’s Brian Carter,” Edward Brooks said. “Last May, he had an affair with a woman, was caught by her husband, and killed the husband along with his father and brother. He was unarmed, while the three of them had kitchen knives and hatchets.”

Upon hearing this, Brian Carter opened his eyes and glanced at them, saying nothing. He seemed arrogant, but in fact shrank his neck a little.

The official swept his gaze over and said coolly, “Thin.”

With just that one word, he seemed to lose interest in Brian Carter and was about to turn away when his eyes suddenly narrowed and he asked, “What’s with the severed finger?”

Edward Brooks pointed at William Thompson and said, “This kid was just brought in yesterday. There was a fight at night, and he bit off someone’s finger.”

“Why not move them to another cell?”

Edward Brooks lowered his head, his eyes darting left and right, then leaned in to whisper a few words to the official, his voice very soft.

William Thompson had already focused his attention, closely watching his lips and listening to the faint sounds, vaguely catching the last few words, which seemed to be “won’t live more than two days.”

The official seemed to sneer, looked away, and walked toward the next cell.

The next cell was to the west of William Thompson’s. In the dim light, he had always thought it was empty, but now, as the jailer thrust the torch inside, he saw that there was actually someone in the neighboring cell.

“Hey, Matthew Cooper, get up!”

There was a clanking of chains, and a burly man sat up, clearly annoyed at having his sleep disturbed, growling menacingly from his throat.

In the firelight, the man’s chest was bare, covered in thick black hair, his build bear-like, and his face full of knife scars.

“Sir, look, this is Matthew Cooper. He likes to eat human flesh—cooked and ate eleven people in Lin’an Prefecture. He was captured two months ago, and even killed four officers in the process…”

Matthew Cooper seemed a bit slow-witted, staring at the torch for a while before turning to look at the jailers, his eyes flashing with ferocity.

William Thompson watched for a while, then glanced at Brian Carter.

At first, he had thought Brian Carter was a fierce brute, but compared to the neighbor Matthew Cooper, Brian Carter now seemed quite weak.

As for Henry Clark, he had already squatted at the other end of the cell, keeping far away from his western neighbor.

Meanwhile, the official walked up to Matthew Cooper’s cell and said, “My name is John Foster. Two months ago, I helped the Qiantang county yamen capture you.”

Matthew Cooper rasped, “Come here, and I’ll kill you.”

His Chinese was not very fluent.

John Foster said, “Do you want to live? Do something for me.”

William Thompson had quietly moved to the corner closest to them, silently observing John Foster’s expression.

John Foster still looked cold and stern. Letting a death row inmate do something in exchange for his life—such illegal dealings seemed perfectly ordinary to him.

Matthew Cooper said, “Why should I do anything for you damn Song people?”

John Foster replied, “Your brother is in my hands…”

William Thompson had only heard this much when Edward Brooks came over to his cell, pointed at him, and said, “Kid, move over there! The official is handling business—what are you doing here, making trouble? Useless thing.”

So William Thompson got up and went to the other side of the cell, sitting down next to Henry Clark.

Now, with more than ten paces between them, he could no longer hear the details.

He only vaguely heard Matthew Cooper say at the end, “Let me think about it.”

……

After this little episode, John Foster and the jailers left, and the cell quieted down again…

William Thompson sorted through the chaotic thoughts in his mind, feeling that something was off.

He pondered for a moment, then quietly asked Henry Clark, “When someone gets sick in here, are they always taken out to see a doctor?”

“Of course not,” Henry Clark replied. “Who do you think we are? How could we be so lucky?”