Jarcob sat in silence, staring absent-mindedly out the window. There was a pensive look in his eyes, and on his body, there were a lot of wounds. He wasn’t severely injured, but no one could say that he was in a good condition either. His hands were clenched into tight fists, his recent defeat left him both angry and frustrated. The insults and the scorns were infuriating, but he also couldn’t deny that part of them was true. He should have been able to beat one of them, but his attack ended up missing its target.