In the center of their loose circle was a figure in a specially made wheelchair.
The man's hair was almost completely white, plastered sparsely to his scalp. His face was a roadmap of deep wrinkles and age spots. His once-imposing frame was now hunched in the wheelchair, draped in an oversized, plain-colored lab coat.
It was Quentin.
Ten years ago, he had been the Legendary Knight in the prime of his life, full of vigor—much like Blackstone Fortress itself had been twenty years prior. Compared to that image, the old man before him now seemed to have been drained of all his Essence, as decrepit as any common man in his sixties or seventies.
Murphy's steps faltered for a moment.
The reason Quentin had become like this was not complicated.
After Murphy's ascension and Elizabeth's implementation of new policies, the old power structure had been completely shattered.
