On the second floor of the Kaidao Sai Mansion, there is a secluded small room where the air seems to have frozen time. Every flicker of light, every ray of glow, every tiny echo amplifies thoughts of solitude and torment.
Louis Bonaparte sits in a slightly worn but still splendid armchair, with an old unfolded map on the table before him. His fingers wander unconsciously among the mountains and rivers on the map, yet his eyes fail to capture any geographical outline, only the intertwined shadows of past glory and present distress.
The fire in the fireplace occasionally leaps, casting a silhouette of his face, a distinct outline yet elusive in its inner emotions. Is it unwillingness? Acceptance? Or deep anxiety over an unknown fate?
Yes, he bears a proud surname that once reverberated across Europe.
