Outside the Sima Mansion, the sound of the torrential thunderstorm began to subside.
Inside the main hall, standing before a wall decorated with landscape-themed curious stones, Sima Liang sat rigidly in his customary armchair, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white.
A moment later, his pale fingers went limp. His head lolled to the side, and his eyes, now devoid of luster, stared blankly ahead. Even in death, he could not fathom why the Confucianists, after ruining his son, would come to ruin him as well.
Chapter 130