He was just thinking that he needed to learn to hold up a piece of the sky like his uncle.
But when he turned his head, he saw Rong Qing in such a state.
Rong Yinghui was just at a loss.
Extremely bewildered.
He had seen Rong Qing fall ill before.
Rong Qing had a unique constitution. Even though he had always taken care of himself, practicing martial arts from a young age to strengthen his body, he still carried a hint of frailty.
Sudden fevers were not new, but a fever that remained high without any sign of abating was indeed a first.
He remembered how it used to be—Rong Qing's dark eyes steady, a thin sweat on his forehead as he leaned against the headboard, a laptop on the small desk on the bed, usually filled with the affairs of the Rong Family. The tone of his voice as he arranged matters was especially firm, his plans laid out layer by layer, his rhythm never disrupted by illness.
