They… just wanted to live.
From their expressions and tone, one could feel desolation, self-mockery, and helplessness.
Earlier, in that room, beneath each painting hung inscriptions.
Without exception, their theme was: “Even if ten thousand sins fall upon me, I must still push the Zhao Clan forward.”
From a heart full of longing and devotion, willing to taint one’s character, to hide alive within a coffin… to living on, living on, until they no longer wished to die, until they feared death, until they forgot their original intention, and only thought of continuing to live.
This series of changes easily evoked a sigh:
They… had changed.
And they themselves thought so too.
Zhao Yi only felt like laughing.
To speak of “degeneration,” there must first be a premise—that you were good to begin with.
If there was no such premise, how could one call it degeneration?
Were they even worthy?
The so-called secret here was, in theory, only passed down between each generation’s Grand Elder.
If this secret was fixed, unchanging, then it would make sense.
It would be feasible, like a clan guarding a treasure, the fewer who knew, the safer.
But the problem was, this secret was not static.
The current Grand Elder was already seated in the armchair in the room.