After the graceful flourish of his movement, the nimble figure came to a halt, sheathed his sword, and walked up to the shrine to place the weapon upon it with respect.
Turning around, a valorous face appeared before Roger.
The skin was pale, excessively so, but not in the Western manner of paleness, rather like the creamy luster of fine jade, with black hair cut short at the ear, a small nose slightly upturned, and rosy lips pressed tightly together.
The sun had already set, and the sky outside was dimming, yet in the room, Roger could still see the flawlessness of that face, lit by bright eyes.
Pitch black and lively.
Upon seeing this delicate face, Roger felt his mood lift and could not help but smile.
To tell the truth, during the past half-year he had been traveling between Armenia and Europe, seen too many Western faces, and now, seeing an Asian face with black hair and black eyes fully matching his aesthetic standards felt incredibly familiar.