Louis sat behind a long table, reviewing a document labeled "Site Selection for Alchemy Industrial Park."
The sound of shackles dragging across the carpet broke the silence.
Weir brought the man to the center of the study, pressing on his shoulder to stop him.
The silk robe that once symbolized regential authority was now tattered beyond recognition, its edges blackened by seawater and mud.
His boots had split open, with only half of the gold thread decoration remaining.
The only thing he held tightly in his arms was a gilded redwood box.
Even so, he still tried to straighten his back, chin slightly raised, his gaze slightly elevated—this was a posture trained through repetition.
"Louis Calvin." Lampard spoke, his voice hoarse, deliberately projecting authority, "In the name of the Emperor, I demand to be treated in a manner befitting my status."
Louis turned a page in the document, not looking at him: "You have two minutes; after that, I have another meeting."
