Zhao Xu walked farther and farther away from Qian Wei, but the moment he passed through the palace gates, a gust of wind and rain struck him. His legs went weak, and he nearly fell to his knees.
"Master!" The coachman hurried forward to support Zhao Xu.
Zhao Xu was no longer young. His temples had long since turned gray, but as Grand Chancellor, great power had always sustained his vigor and spirit, lending him an air of solemn composure.
Now that he relaxed, he seemed to age several years at once. The coachman was so alarmed that he hurriedly helped him into the carriage. Zhao Xu let out a despondent sigh, sat down inside, and said, "I'm fine. Let's go home. Mister Xue is here to look after me as well."
"Yes!" The coachman gave a shout, and the ox cart began to move. Mule hooves splashed through the mud outside, while Mister Xue, a middle-aged man within, hurriedly handed over a damp towel that had been covering a Silver Vase.
Zhao Xu took it, wiped his face, then pressed it over his face and exhaled heavily.
Zhao Xu had spoken lightly before Qian Wei, but after following the Emperor for so many years and receiving such imperial favor and trust, talent alone had not been enough for him to rise to the position of Grand Chancellor.
What he had done today had indeed wounded the Emperor's heart.
Setting aside the troubles this might sow in the future, could his own heart truly feel at ease?
Zhao Xu's expression was bitter, yet he could only swallow this bitter fruit. He set down the towel, and only then did it seem as if he had shed every disguise. He leaned back and sighed.
"Master, how did it go?" Mister Xue