The wheelchair rolled across the polished marble floor with a steady creak.
Sir William Stonefield's withered fingers rested on the armrests like curled eagle claws. Blue-black blood vessels bulged beneath his pale skin like protruding tree roots.
He was already very old, yet he still carried a chilling aura of authority, like a natural-born predator.
"Do you see that, Chris? They're a pack of idiots blinded by greed!"
William said hoarsely, his voice seeming to squeeze out of an old, broken bellows.
The young man behind him had blond hair and blue eyes. He looked under thirty, handsome enough to seem like the leading man who had stepped out of a film.
The young man's gaze slowly swept over the figures sprawled limply across the seats. He watched as the bodyguards silently and efficiently dragged them out of the room. Expensive bracelets, necklaces, and cufflinks fell onto the thick, soft carpet, but no one cared, and no one bent down to pick them up.
William chuckled smugly twice, then let out several suppressed coughs. His chest heaved violently.
Chris immediately handed him a silk handkerchief. William took it and covered his mouth, his shoulders shaking for a moment. When he lowered it again, dark red stains had already spread across the cloth.
Without caring in the slightest, he tossed the handkerchief onto the floor and continued:
"My poor allies actually believed... believed that we could pull a living person's soul out of their body, then stuff it intact into the shells of these artificial creations? Hahaha..."
He laughed. The sound was dry and brief, thick with phlegm, yet strangely piercing.
"If it were me... even if I were so old I was about to fall apart, even if taking a breath was difficult, even if I were only one step