Closed Estate

George suddenly froze. If he had not seen wrong, this man was at least about the same age as him. Judging from that scruffy, unshaven appearance, he might even have been older.

And he had called him uncle?!

It was not just George who was stunned; Jordan and Duru also looked over in startled suspicion.

"Who are you? I don't have a junior as old as you." George still did not lower his sword. Its tip even advanced another step.

"Uncle George, you are still as lively and vigorous as ever," Angel continued.

This time, however, George's expression abruptly changed. He heard a voice utterly different from before—clear and pleasant, like a babbling brook, like a gentle mountain mist. In an instant, it carried him back several years, as though someone had once called to him in precisely that accent.

Yet in his memories, that person had been a little runt who loved drinking milk.

But the person before him was slovenly, dressed in crumpled clothes, with a sallow complexion—nothing like the person in his memory.

"Who exactly are you?" George frowned and eyed Angel suspiciously.

Angel smiled faintly. Flowing light suddenly spilled around him, as though a mirror had shattered, splitting into countless fractures. Between light and shadow, everything seemed dreamlike and ethereal.

Under everyone's astonished gazes, the mirror surface completely shattered.

A handsome man appeared before them, dressed in an elegant black formal suit, wearing a short-brimmed hat, with a jet-black cloak lined in blood red draped over his shoulders.

The exquisite black formed a stark contrast with his fair skin.

Angel removed his hat, revealing a head of soft, gleaming golden short hair. He bowed with a smile. "Uncle George, I hope you have been well."

George sucked in a cold breath. Looking into those azure eyes,