Bandits' Turf War

Go home.

What was so great about your shitty home?

Ji Jue truly could not understand—was his home some legendary paradise, where everyone kowtowed and sang his praises upon seeing him, every room packed with eighty-one wives and concubines, beauties if he wanted beauties, pretty boys if he wanted pretty boys, and mountains of gold and silver piled in the basement, enough to spend forever?

Fine, expecting that much was unrealistic, but was there at least someone waiting for him to come home and cook him a bowl of noodles or stew some pork trotter soup?

Besides, at a time like this, was he really the one who wanted Minkler to go home most?

In the end, he was still too bound by convention.

Ji Jue could not help but shake his head.

He glanced at the despondent Minkler and sighed softly. "Even now, you still haven't adjusted your way of thinking, have you?"

Even if he had sensed something and reacted, unfortunately, his self-awareness had completely failed to keep pace with the situation.

It was as though an invisible mental brand had been stamped onto his forehead.

No, rather...

He had been deliberately raised to be this way.

It was not that he lacked the potential to achieve great things. Rather, he was not permitted to have that potential at all.

As a member of the family, having such capabilities was already enough. Any more than that would instead make him a liability.

For the first half of his life, he had been a member of the family, a tool of the family. Even if he had selfish desires and ambitions, that was all they were. At most, he craved a little money, a little power, a little fame and status, yet he ultimately relied on the family.

So