Those intimidating crimson eyes casually skimmed the paper laid before him before lifting to fixate on the young man standing across the table.

The depth of his red gaze seemed to emanate an indescribable force, an invisible weight that threatened to crush the man standing before him. Despite the figure's slouched shoulders and bowed head, there was an undeniable resilience, a straight-backed determination.

"And what is this?" The voice, though calm, carried an underlying threat, a subtle intimidation that lingered with each spoken word. Lysander had always found that voice unnerving; a lingering fear still clung to him.

Yet, amidst his weariness, indifference, and resolve, Lysander spoke without hesitation. His tone was gentle, a calm exterior that thinly veiled the resolute decision he had made.

"My resignation letter, your majesty."

A stifling silence enveloped the room, its oppressive grasp intensifying until it was disrupted by a subtle movement from the man seated at the table.

The young man kept his head lowered, avoiding any eye contact. The ominous, echoing footsteps ceased only when the man's shoes came into view, visible to Lysander's lowered gaze.

Suddenly, without warning, a powerful force seized Lysander's neck, lifting him off the ground. Instinctively, he attempted to grasp at the arm constricting him, a futile effort as his hands faltered, dropping back to his sides.

His world blurred, chest burning, and psychological tears welling up at the corners of his eyes. As he teetered on the edge of consciousness, Lysander began to accept that this might be the end.

Unexpectedly, the vice around his neck released, and he crashed to the ground with a resounding thud. Clutching his throat, he coughed painfully, the echoes reverberating in the room. Gasping for air, he pounded his chest a few times, trying to steady himself, all the while sensing the intense scrutiny from the man standing tall above him.

Though his legs were numb and his vision still unfocused, Lysander summoned every ounce of strength to push himself back up. Despite the lingering pain, he stood before the man, determined to maintain some semblance of composure.

His shoulders quivered, and his lower lip trembled, not out of fear, but due to the stabbing pain coursing through his chest.

'Not good. I must quickly resolve this situation and escape.'

Before Lysander could utter a word, the man who had recently gripped his throat walked back to the seat behind the table. With an air of calmness, he remarked,

"I seem to have allowed pests to infiltrate my palace, haven't I?"

The sharp sound of a drawn sword resonated in the room.

"And permitted them to wander freely. Lord Magnolia, enlighten me—where did you find the audacity to act so boldly in my presence? Did I, perhaps, appear too accommodating to you?"

The deep, composed voice carried an unmistakable undercurrent of disdain. Once the man returned to face Lysander, who was still bowed, he continued,

"Your Majesty, please allow me to clarify, as it seems a misunderstanding has arisen."

Lysander had not intentionally created this misunderstanding. He refrained from explaining further, well aware that this man preferred silence unless he granted permission. Unveiling more information might only provoke him, a risk Lysander couldn't afford to take.

"I must shamelessly request a chance to explain—"

The sword was discarded to the side of the room, its clang interrupting Lysander. The man settled onto a nearby sofa before speaking in an almost sarcastic tone, his mockery evident.

"Speak then. You have five minutes to explain yourself. Fail to convince me, and the Empire shall have no use for a Count Magnolia."

Without hesitation, Lysander produced three letters from the inner pocket of his overcoat, placing them in front of the Emperor on the side table where he sat. Swiftly and calmly, he clarified,

"The one on the far right contains my will, relinquishing the Magnolia county and most of its accumulated wealth to the imperial family. It details the county's assets and the tax revenues supporting it."

"The letter in the middle is the official contract, asserting rights of ownership over the land and title. Once His Majesty signs it, I will provide all necessary documents for the entire transfer process, along with crucial information about the property."

Staring at the far-left letter, Lysander hesitated for a moment before continuing,

"The last letter is a memorandum. If I'm ever seen conversing with the noble faction or divulging palace information outside these walls, I willingly accept the most severe penalty—the death penalty by burning in boiling oil."

"Furthermore, I'll fulfil my duties until the very end and present a capable secretary to take my place. Your Majesty may assess them and pass your judgment."

Having laid out the details, Lysander held his silence. Any additional words might be perceived as over-explaining or treating the Emperor as if he couldn't comprehend. Trusting that the Emperor grasped the essence of his actions, Lysander concluded. 

All his tireless efforts had been dedicated to preserving the Magnolia county, of which he was the last remaining descendant. The Emperor was well aware of this.

Becoming the Emperor's assistant was a strategic move to safeguard the family's honor and maintain stability. The position not only held prestige but also provided financial support crucial for the county's upkeep.

Without such a protective role, the house would face threats from numerous distant relatives aligned with the nobles' faction. Lysander's commitment to the Emperor was a calculated strategy to shield his family's legacy from potential harm.