In a cheap carriage hired off the street, Hu Xinzhu lay slumped across his seat like a puppet that had fallen apart, rolling his eyes as he stared lifelessly at Granta opposite him. Clutching the gold coin that had just saved his old life, Granta looked at Hu Xinzhu with both awe and bewilderment.
"Your Excellency the Viscount!" The battered carriage had trundled slowly along the street for a full quarter of an hour before Granta finally spoke.
Hu Xinzhu's clothes were not extravagant, but they were silk nonetheless. His boots were stained with a little dust and mud, yet they too appeared to be made of fine lambskin. All in all, Hu Xinzhu's attire was proper and unremarkable—without a single flaw to pick at, but nothing especially striking either.
Granta was full of questions about Hu Xinzhu, who had suddenly appeared before him. He desperately wanted to know what was going on.
But Hu Xinzhu gave him no chance to ask. Shooting Granta a majestic glare, Hu Xinzhu said lazily, "First, tell me what exactly happened to you, your clansmen, and that precious son of yours."
Once the favored young minister before Emperor Ying Zheng of the Blood Qin Empire, Hu Xinzhu could indeed be as indolent as a boneless caterpillar when he was being lazy. But whenever he deliberately revealed a trace of his authority, that chilling majesty made Granta's whole body shudder. It was as though a vat of icy water had been poured over his head in the depths of winter. Granta trembled from head to toe, a chill seeping all the way into his marrow.
Staring at Hu Xinzhu in terror, Granta had struggled for decades in the business circles of the Gallic Empire and Vias. He had met quite a few important figures, yet