"Hey, what do you think I should do?"
The powerless wail sounded particularly abrupt in the silent space, carrying an almost petulant tone, disrupting the slow-flowing tranquility of the air.
The owner of the voice, the young knight with striking white hair, was currently slumped in a rather ancient-looking armchair without any regard for appearance.
However, his posture was more akin to "slipping," his whole body slowly sliding downward, nearly shrinking beneath the chair.
His brows were tightly furrowed, his face written with "distress," and his usually sly gray eyes had lost their sparkle at this moment.
What to do?
"Don't ask me."
Ophidia's response was calm and unperturbed, carrying even a hint of irritation at being disturbed.
She didn't even lift her eyelids, her gaze steadily fixed on the heavy book in her hand, as if it contained a captivating story.
