Judging from the size, shape, and texture of the chunks of flesh… Albert guessed they were the shattered remains of the infant-faced fish.
Albert: "…"
So the one who should have been wishing for good luck wasn't Jameson after all—it was those little fish.
At this moment, Jameson bore no trace of his former calm, inscrutable composure. The man who had once seemed perpetually unruffled was now consumed by rage, resentment boiling over.
A deep, blood-red hue crept into his coldly gleaming ant eyes, as though his fury had reached its absolute peak—so intense it looked as if he wanted to tear the two of them apart on the spot.
Albert wasn't quite sure how to describe the Jameson standing before him now.
Perhaps… maybe… he was already insane.
Albert couldn't even tell how much human rationality remained in the male insect that was roaring at him.
