"Unfilial son!"
In the study, his father's roar shook heaven and earth.
The last time Tomond saw his father this enraged was when he was six years old.
Back then, he ran wildly through the fields with the daughter of the manager of the rural estate, laughing, throwing mud, and rolling in dirty clothes, thoroughly enjoying themselves, only to be caught by his returning father and his great-uncle.
He still remembered his father's livid face and the faint sneer between his great-uncle's brows.
And now, many years later, his father's body trembled as he pointed at him, grinding his teeth:
"The Maillots of the Razor, a legacy of a thousand years, now ruinated by your hands!"
A thousand-year legacy, ruined by my hands?
Ha.
Tomond felt like laughing.
Laughing uproariously.
"If the Maillot family could be destroyed so easily," he said expressionlessly, "then perhaps, it was destined to end?"
