It was the Chief Steward Lin Ze, who had served three Emperors and was rumored to have lived for over two centuries as the head of the council.
He remained stooped, yet steady like an ancient tree.
Arens' lips trembled, his voice fractured into breaths like the cold wind: "All of you, leave..."
The doctors turned pale, hurriedly retreating as if pardoned.
The heavy door slowly closed behind them, the vibrations echoing in the depths of the bedchamber.
In the end, the vast room was left with only two people—the dying Regent King, and the old man who had always stood in the deepest shadows of imperial power.
Arens could feel the cold seeping from his limbs, climbing to his chest like a tide.
Knowing he would not last the day, he mustered his final strength to grasp Lin Ze's wrist.
The grip was feeble, yet it was like clutching a useless straw while drowning.
"Lin Ze..." Arens' muddied pupils trembled slightly, "I tried my best... really... will Father... blame me..."
