The man was almost laughing with rage.
Who exactly was forcing whose hand now?
Even with a sword held to his own throat, he couldn't stir the slightest emotion in her. Ning Tu Nan hadn't appeared herself; instead, she'd sent her only daughter to confront her maternal grandfather. He was almost certain that even if his old bones died here today, the result wouldn't be the gates opening. The Ning Clan's old and young would still be executed to the last, and rivers of blood would flow. At the thought, his right hand trembled uncontrollably around the sword. His heart was a tangled knot of sorrow, and all he could do was sigh.
When it came to ruthlessness, he truly couldn't compare to Ning Yan.
He'd never imagined that the child who had once nestled against his knee, lisping "Father," would one day drive him to this point. A country founded barely a dozen years ago—what kind of affection could it inspire? A high-ranking post and generous salary—what was there to cling to? Could they really make Ning Tu Nan abandon her kin and her clan, and send her own blood relatives to their deaths without a twinge of conscience? How cold-blooded, how heartless, how heartbreaking!
Look across a thousand years of chaos: nations fell and rose, rose and fell.
It happened so often it seemed cheap. How could it compare to one's own kin?
"Grandfather, please think this through."
His granddaughter's voice followed him like a ghost, like a shadow.
The man sighed. In that instant, his shoulders seemed to sag, as though some invisible force had drained him of all vitality. With all eyes upon him, he lowered the sword and sheathed it. Seeing this, the defending general finally let out the breath he'd been holding. If the