Charles Mcintosh didn’t eat much; he couldn’t really bring himself to eat. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes seed to conceal countless hidden thoughts.
After a long while, he stood up, his voice hoarse: "I’m going out for a smoke."
Charles pushed open the door and walked out; his figure was tall and desolate, with an indescribable loneliness.
Jasmine Yale stared at his back for a long ti.
"Master, when did Mr. Mcintosh return?" Jasmine asked softly.
"Probably during the night. When I ca for boxing practice in the morning, it was still dark, and he was just sitting there on the ground, silent, only smoking without caring if the ground was cold or not." The old man shook his head and sighed, "They’ve all grown up and have their own concerns now."
"Is Little Lilac still missing?"
"Yes, Charles has almost searched all of Lonton but couldn’t find her."
"Is Mr. Mcintosh still leaving?"
"He’s leaving. He said he would leave after a while and didn’t want to say much to . I just kept him company while he smoked." The old man reminisced, "When he was a boy, he was the closest to among all. Warr than Sylvan Cheney, willing to talk to about his thoughts. Now, he doesn’t want to say anything at all."
The old man took a sip of hot tea, his eyes cloudy with a faint glow.
"Between Little Lilac and Mr. Mcintosh... what kind of conflict did they have?" Jasmine asked.
The old man suddenly showed a pained expression, even with an agonizing gritting of teeth: "If you really want to point fingers, the fault lies with . Many years ago, why did I accept such a defiant, inhumane disciple!"
Jasmine’s heart trembled. She had never heard anyone ntion this before.
In the past, she had asked Sylvan Cheney, but he always used the excuse of not ddling in others’ private lives and never told her.
She always felt the conflict between Lilac Serval and Charles Mcintosh wouldn’t just be due to Lilac’s love for drinking and visiting nightclubs, as those habits can be changed. But so things, buried deep in mory or ingrained in one’s essence, are hard to change.
"Better not to ntion it, better not to ntion it." The old man was beside himself with anguish, his eyes bloodshot with redness, "Markie Usama, that beast! Beast!"
His fists pounded the table several tis, the sound echoing coldly in the empty room.
Jasmine’s heart also trembled.
Markie Usama? This na, she was hearing for the first ti.
Since the old man didn’t want to talk, she felt it was inappropriate to ask further.
She was an outsider.
She knew nothing about the past of the training ground.
The air fell silent again; outside, the sound of flowing rain could be heard, as if the rain had intensified.
Jasmine poured several rounds of tea for the old man. In his eyes, she saw anger, sternness, pain, and a hint of helplessness.
Not long after, perhaps after finishing a cigarette, Charles Mcintosh ca back in.
He picked up the coat from the rack and put it on.
This ti, Jasmine looked at him carefully.
In just a few months, he seed to have turned into a different person, extrely gaunt, as if he had aged five years.
Charles took an umbrella and stood at the door, glancing at them quietly, "I must take my leave."
"Charles, won’t you stay a while longer with Master?" The old man’s eyes were filled with cloudy emotions.
"I’ll keep you company next ti I have the chance." Charles replied indifferently, his face devoid of expression, "Jasmine, if you need anything, contact Frederick Owen, he’s reliable."
After saying that, without waiting for anyone to speak, he turned around, opened the door, held the umbrella up, stepped out with his long legs, and walked into the rain.
His steps were determined, yet lacked composure.
User Comments
0 comments from readers