The Angel Lord, dressed in white and with white hair, his face showing compassion, didn't put on any airs and simply sat directly opposite Henrik on the ground, at an equal level with Henrik, who had fallen to his knees.
This gave Henrik quite a start.
His back tensed, and the back of his head felt like it was plunged into Cold Water in the midst of winter, snapping him instantly into sharp focus.
"You sit, please sit here—"
In a flurry, he reached out with his sleeves and started meticulously wiping the stump of the tree he had just cut down. There wasn't any dust on the stump, but there were many splinters. He was wearing thick jeans and had tough skin, so naturally, he didn't care about that. But clearly, it wasn't something suitable for the Angel Lord to sit on.
Henrik soon felt a pang of regret—the splinters on the tree stump scratched his sleeve and cut his arm as he hurriedly wiped it. More importantly, his blood stained the stump.
