A gentle snore arose, and Arthur looked disdainfully at Maxwell, who had fallen asleep atop the round table. Perhaps he was too exhausted; under such a comfortable environment, he fell asleep directly. His body was still damp, unsure if it was drool or rainwater, pooling around him.
This historic round table had witnessed much, stained with blood and blade marks; it might have been the first time it was soaked with drool. Arthur could not stand it anymore and gestured for someone to take him away for a good rest.
The old fellow was like the Dead, being casually lifted, occasionally muttering meaningless dreams from his mouth.
"He loves all this."
Nikola watched Maxwell being carried away. The old fellow's hair was graying, wrinkles lined his face like dry tree bark. His age nearly qualified him as Nikola's grandfather, yet here he faced the wind, rain, and thunder alongside the young lads.
