The study remained painted in shades of black, white, and gray.
The austere and solemn color scheme further heightened the already taut relationship between the opposing father and son, making the entire study seem as if it were encased in a thick layer of ice that could not be melted.
Han Zaijing looked across the desk at the twenty-seven-year-old man before him, his gaze landing on an old photograph on the desk.
The boy in the photo was somewhat frail, his eyebrows and eyes not yet fully expressive, but traces of his extraordinary good looks were already taking shape.
Han Zaijing was lost in memories.
Han Luoli, once a tender sapling, had grown into a towering tree: young and promising, wielding an iron fist, a legendary genius.
His son should have been his pride.
Only, from the depths of his heart, Han Zaijing had never considered Han Luoli a source of pride.
