"Just catching up? Then why are your lips red?"
Isolde walked over angrily, pinched his chin, and said furiously, "You're truly rotten to the core now.
You'll flirt with anything, fragrant or foul.
A thirty-six-year-old woman, and you still won't let her go?
Tell me, how many older women have you seduced in the Marquess's manor?"
This time, however, Sylas was unusually calm.
He just looked at Isolde.
Even though his mouth hurt from being squeezed, he managed a faint smile. "Not many, actually. None."
"None?" Isolde wasn't really picking a fight; she was just making an excuse.
She raised an eyebrow and sneered, "So rational now?
Then tell me, if I give the Memory Orb of you and Jade to Victoria, what would she do?"
"..." Sylas's lips moved, but he made no sound.
Isolde continued to provoke him: "If I give the Memory Orb to Alaric in the dungeon, what would she think?
Seeing her seemingly good colleague actually sleeping with her son...
Tsk tsk, I bet her expression would be priceless."
"..."
"Pfft..." After a long silence, Sylas finally couldn't help but laugh.
Still the dungeon?
My mother and sister were never caught by you!
Isolde, you're so pathetic. Is this all you've got?
Isolde was baffled by his laugh. She frowned, "What are you laughing at? Don't you care anymore?"
Sylas twisted his chin, breaking free from her grip.
His expression was extremely calm, his tone as bland as water, completely unlike his current flamboyant appearance.
He said softly, "The Empress of Aethelred... is she only capable of seizing hold over people and threatening them?
If this is all you can do, then such a large nation must be beyond your control."
"Huh???" Isolde could hardly believe her ears.
Was Sylas... had he gone mad? He dared speak to her in that tone!
Has your backbone hardened, or just your...?
She couldn't even get angry, just sneered, "Looking for trouble, are you? Are you that desperate?
Do you find life too dull, so you're seeking some excitement?
I must say, you've succeeded. I'm feeling very motivated now."
She gripped Sylas's neck, squeezing slightly, making it hard for him to breathe.
Isolde's lips pressed against his ear, "You know, have we returned to the very beginning?
But now, you're just damaged goods. What right do you have to be aloof anymore?"
Sylas was, naturally, in utter despair.
So, though his body trembled, his tone remained quite even.
He turned his head slightly, his lips almost touching Isolde's.
He felt no fear anymore. "Isolde."
"Huh?! You dare call me by name?"
"Heheh, ptooey!"
...
"Say it! Say you were wrong! Say it!"
"...Isolde, Queen of a fallen realm!"
Slap! Slap!
The sounds of blows were incessant.
"Say it! You were wrong!!"
"Tyrant..."
The slaps continued.
Isolde felt she was going mad.
Sylas was mad too.
He was knocked unconscious, healed, and interrogated, over and over.
The flower pavilion was as warm as spring.
For the next three or four days, Sylas was never properly dressed.
Finally, he fell ill.
No matter how much spiritual energy Isolde transferred to him, he lay listlessly in bed, his breathing faint.
His face was deathly pale, his thin lips bloodless.
But his eyes held the relief of release.
He had given his essence to Isolde; he had kept none for himself.
His body, already weak, finally understood why men were meant to guard their chastity.
As that vital life force left his body, he felt as if his spine had been pulled out.
Life was fading rapidly.
This time, he would finally get his wish and die.
Isolde, infuriated by his stubbornness, had felt not a shred of pity these past few days.
The Servant's Chain was the safety net; it wouldn't let him die.
But now, seeing him like this, she panicked.
What was happening?
Was the Servant's Chain not working?
Had she actually... taken his essence?
Isolde's pretty face flushed.
She recalled the brutality of the past few days, thought it over, and was sure she hadn't.
Had she?
But even if she had, shouldn't the Servant's Chain have prevented it?
She had no time for anger.
She hurriedly got out of bed to check his pulse.
The pulse was weak.
It indicated he had no vital energy left, that his lamp was dry, completely different from a few days ago.
He was on the brink of death.
"No, no, no, it can't be..." Isolde was terrified.
She cupped Sylas's face and asked nervously, "What's wrong?
Did you... did you give me your essence?
Didn't we agree to wait until you were well, to study the Servant's Chain properly?
Are you insane?"
"Tyrant..." Sylas's eyelids slowly closed. His final words were still these word.
"You! You... don't close your eyes!" Isolde hurriedly dressed herself and opened the door of the flower pavilion.
The fresh outside air rushed in.
Isolde had no time to breathe the crisp winter air.
She shouted, "Someone, summon the royal physicians!"
...
The palace bustled into activity.
Even deep into the night, the palace staff was thrown into chaos.
In the Hall of Serenity, a frail young man lay on the bed.
Sylas was as thin as a sheet of paper.
Now, he truly wasn't much different from a piece of paper.
The royal physicians from the Academy of Medicine held ancient texts, frantically flipping through them.
Some whispered anxiously by the bedroom door, discussing the condition.
But everyone's eyes were filled with panic and fear.
The young man in the Hall of Serenity was undoubtedly dying!
This was the way of the matriarchal world.
A physically weak man, after surrendering his essence, would inevitably leave his Lady Sovereign with child.
Thus, he would have fulfilled his duty to continue the lineage and could then die.
Such was the natural order.
Even a miracle physician would be powerless now.
This wasn't an illness; it was the law of life, aging, sickness, and death.
But no one dared tell this to the already furious Empress.
The physicians looked at the Empress standing at the entrance of the Hall of Serenity, praying she would sheathe the sword in her hand.
Isolde stood at the door, holding her sword.
A large pool of dark blood was beside her.
She had already beheaded three physicians on the spot.
The bodies had been carried away by guards.
But no one dared say a word.
Her Majesty the Empress had fallen into a state of madness.
She was only killing individuals, not ordering the extermination of their clans.
The winter wind was bitterly cold.
Isolde stood at the door, unmoved by any persuasion.
Palace maids draped a thick cloak over her, but she tossed it aside.
As if the physical cold could soothe her tormented heart.
Time passed.
The physicians ultimately could find no solution.
The highest-ranking physician could only steel herself and approach Isolde.
She knelt on the bloodstains of her colleagues and kowtowed solemnly.
"Your Majesty, your subject has failed."