And Zhou Jingwei sat the entire time, his golden-wire glasses concealing the light in his eyes, also making all of his emotions seem like they were behind a thin veil, not quite discernible.
Not until Zhou Bingquan stormed in from outside.
Leaning on his cane, his voice rebuking and settling accounts rang out before he even entered, "Can you still sit there comfortably!"
Zhou Jingwei slightly lifted his eyelids, his expression dull and indifferent.
Zhou Bingquan's footsteps were erratic, and it took considerable effort with the help of the servants to make it into the ancestral hall.
His face bore the color of illness, his already frail and aged figure now shuddering like leaves in the wind.
Aside from Zhou Jingwei, everyone present panicked.
As Zhou Bingquan looked at these worthless younger generations, for a moment, he did not know whether to be furious at their inability to measure up or to grieve that his own son had turned out so capable, so heartless and ruthless.
