Ronan watched the approaching silhouette.
Underneath the wet, seaweed-like black hair was a rather handsome face.
His gaze was exceptionally clean.
No murderous intent, no resentment, no disdain or contempt, and no sense of superiority.
Just a trace of weariness accumulated over countless years.
"It's been a long time since I've seen a young person as outstanding as you."
The man walked up to Ronan and spoke.
His voice was magnetic, his eyes gentle and tranquil, as if he were a traveler emerging from the morning mist, adorned with morning dew, and with lingering vestiges of night and starlight.
"What is your name?"
He inquired of Ronan.
Ronan looked at him, supporting himself with his hands, slowly getting up from the ground.
"Misha."
Ronan answered, a grotesquely displaced and penetrating wound on his chest, off-center from his heart, was granulating and slowly healing.
He breathed evenly for a while, and his complexion seemed less ghastly.
"Misha."
