Feeling the formidable aura emanating from Donovan.
Hewitt almost uncontrollably bent down his waist.
That feeling was like facing a lion proclaiming its sovereignty, ceaselessly roaring.
He could hardly imagine that Donovan, severely injured and bedridden for years, still had such a fierce side.
As if venting out the anger within his body, Donovan's voice once again became weak.
"But... I am old after all..."
"Not to mention facing the enemy, it's hard for me to even stand up now..."
A long sigh filled with endless regret echoed in the bedroom.
Hewitt still dared not speak, continuing to busy himself with administering medicine.
Until half an hour later.
Hewitt wound Donovan in linen gauze and covered him with a quilt.
He spoke, "Master, the medicine has been changed, rest well, I'll come again next time."
Donovan, lying on his side, did not speak but responded with a sound.
"I know, leave."
Hewitt responded, carried the medicine chest, and retreated.
