"Je-rouch?" The young master's lips parted, his eyes wide with surprise, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly, but no sound escaping.
Jerouch's lips trembled, as he managed to utter, "Jashan...?" His voice was barely a whisper, his throat and mouth dry as he stared in utter disbelief at the figure before him.
Emotions churned inside him like a tumultuous storm, his heart racing, not out of fear, but due to the complexity of feelings he couldn't comprehend.
Jerouch's fists clenched so tightly that the blood seeped through his trembling fingers, leaving dark stains on his palms. The raw physical pain seemed trivial compared to the overwhelming turmoil inside him.
Among all the people he resented in the world, Jashan held the foremost position in his heart, a festering wound that never healed.
