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Chandler’s father struggled to walk toward me. He leaned heavily on his cane, his trembling arm barely supported him. The deep wrinkles on his face weren’t just aging signs—they were layers of memories and time. For some, those wrinkles carried wisdom and insight; for others, they harbored greed and shamelessness.
However, something was clearly off with the Lord of Grassmere. It was as if someone had forcibly rewound the clock, shaking the pendulum back and forth.
He’s been drained.
The life that should’ve flowed naturally had been devoured by someone.
Chandler rushed forward to support the old man. "Father! You shouldn’t be up!"
"I heard that the one who could save us was coming. How could I remain lying down?" the old man replied.
The lord’s condition was even worse up close. He’d withered significantly, yet his eyes remained sharp, brimming with intelligence and determination.
Then, he introduced himself formally, using deferential speech while maintaining a low posture. “I’m Herbert Chandler. I may be lacking, but I’m the Lord of Grassmere.”
He is an interesting man.
Despite his title of lord and his rule over a major city, he wasn’t putting on an act. Bowing his head and using polite speech didn’t diminish...
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