In an era where a simple scar could affect one's reputation as a human being, the Duke of the South, Jackson had long accepted he would never be accepted more than just a war mongrel. Other than offering his body to fight for the Imperial Family and the Empire, and spending the rest of his life on the precarious battlefield, he believed his life would've been otherwise meaningless.
But for the first time, someone looked at him without any trace of disgust. It was also neither a look of fear nor pity. It was something else; something he could never properly articulate because it was something he had never looked at before.
