Moonlight poured down like quicksilver, slowly dispelling the shadows behind the main seat.
A middle-aged, golden-haired man in a dark green velvet robe stepped out calmly. The robe was embroidered with intricate patterns of mountains and rivers in silver thread, shimmering with a cold light in the moonlight.
The face was all too familiar to the four followers: it was none other than Baron Sylvan Duval.
Lawrence's face instantly turned deathly pale, then flushed an unnatural, feverish red.
He shot to his feet, drew his longsword, and roared hoarsely, "It's come to this! We might as well see it through to the end! With me..."
But before he could finish, he realized the other three followers were still kneeling where they were, motionless.
In this world of strict hierarchy, the concept of noble rule was deeply ingrained in people's hearts.
No matter how dissatisfied they were with the current Lord, they had never considered completely overthrowing the Duval Clan's rule.
